Pen and Paper Translations

“Use me.”

A short line indeed.

But the clear, ringing voice that delivered it caused everyone’s ears to prick up in that instant.

Wait, what was that?

All those in the room felt it right after hearing that single-sentence line.

They were, in their own ways, all veterans of this industry—judges, certainly, and even the applicant Kim Jeong-ryul, who prided himself on having knocked around the scene for quite a while.

But—

“Don’t pick anyone else. Use me, so you can make it up there.”

Those thoughts they’d held instantly evaporated with the next line.

His bright, steady gaze met theirs.

Yet within those eyes raged a fierce storm, pulling Kim Jeong-ryul into the vortex.

It felt as though something was being forcibly restrained—a precarious tension that might burst at any moment, even while seeming eager to comply with whatever was said.

That dangerous balancing act between two extremes.

---

 “Mr. Lee Rowoon? That really is you, right?”

Still caught up in the scene without realizing it, Kim Jeong-ryul snapped out of his trance, startled. It was because the previously listless director—slumped like wilted vegetables—suddenly perked up and shouted, eyes shining.

“Director! We’re in the middle of an audition, so shh! Shh!”

“No, wait, I just need a word—”

“Director, what is up with you today? This is so unlike you. Sorry, everyone; please keep going.”

A staff member intervened, restraining the overexcited director.

‘What on earth’s gotten into him?’

Or maybe it wasn’t the director who was acting strange—it was Lee Rowoon?

Kim Jeong-ryul’s head was in overdrive.

“Y-you… you’re saying something really weird.”

Coming to his senses, Kim Jeong-ryul realized he had just stumbled over his own first line.

‘Damn it. That was close!’

Fortunately, he recovered quickly enough that it didn’t look like a mistake. He passed it off as if he were pausing for emotional emphasis. The nervous confusion that had nearly slipped out became part of his performance instead.

He saved face perfectly, but inside, his thoughts still whirled:

‘Who the heck is this guy?’

Kim Jeong-ryul had assumed he knew Lee Rowoon.

He had reason to believe that, after all—there was a time when Rowoon had stolen a role from him.

[Um, Assistant Director? My name’s not on the list…?]

[Ah, sorry. But that part is going to someone else. Look, we’ll work together next time, all right? I’m busy now, we’ll talk later.]

[Wait—Director? Director!…]

Even recalling it now, it was an outrageous memory.

Sure, it was only a small part, but for Kim Jeong-ryul, each and every role mattered for building his career. Bit by bit, you accumulate roles and contacts, eventually landing bigger parts. On top of that, the role he’d missed had actually been a fairly significant side character—making it all the more disappointing.

Well, fine.

In truth, that sort of thing happens all the time. It’s unfair and dirty, but one can stomach it. The problem came after Lee Rowoon took that role. His acting was so abysmal that they slashed his lines, then slashed his screen time over and over, until he ended up with a mere one-shot cameo of a character.

‘I could have done that role so much better…!’

He’d decided Rowoon must be one of those shallow people, dabbling in acting just for vanity. Someone who looked pretty but had zero acting ability—basically a glamorous mannequin. His face wasn’t even used effectively, making him a worthless dead weight.

That was Kim Jeong-ryul’s impression of Lee Rowoon. It never changed, even as he followed Rowoon’s subsequent (disastrous) steps.

At least, it never changed until this very moment.

---

“Why can’t you do it? You only approached me to use me in the first place.”

Where on earth was he getting that surge of emotion?

‘Who is this person?’

The man standing before him couldn’t possibly be the same Lee Rowoon. He had never shown this kind of three-dimensional, instantly captivating acting. The old Rowoon was bland and flat.

Yet now:

He seemed to be trying to smile casually, but his face twitched with discomfort.

He acted as though he’d comply with anything, but—

“So why can’t you?”

—he inevitably sank under the weight of his own roiling emotions, his heavy gaze growing despondent.

Kim Jeong-ryul prided himself on his acting skill and had always been sensitive to others’ talents. He’d despised the incompetent Rowoon—who paid for roles and then ruined them—more than anything. But now…

“Seriously… if you’re genuinely asking, that’s just cruel.”

Kim Jeong-ryul swallowed.

He had paused one beat too late on his line again.

‘Get a grip, Kim Jeong-ryul! Don’t let him sweep you away!’

He’d underestimated him—and that was the problem. No one could’ve predicted that this living mannequin would deliver lines like that. And the crazy thing? His pretty face wasn’t even what stood out. Right now, Kim Jeong-ryul didn’t see Lee Rowoon at all. He saw someone else: a man betrayed by love, steeped in sorrow, eyes full of pleading.

He failed to realize he was already getting pulled in. That realization alone might have doubled his confusion.

“W-why am I hesitating? D-do you seriously not get it? You’re scaring me right now…”

He almost botched his line this time.

‘Damn it! I nearly mixed it up with the next piece of dialogue!’

He could easily be failed on the spot. On an actual shoot, as long as you don’t break the flow, you can ad-lib a little for emotional continuity. But this was an audition, specifically designed to weed people out, and in a limited timeframe. They had maybe ten or fifteen minutes to read and understand the scene, the character, the context, the emotion—everything. Even if you’d rehearsed the assigned script, a lot of people wash out here.

With all his experience in countless auditions, Kim Jeong-ryul knew this well.

That was precisely why he’d chosen Lee Rowoon—assuming Rowoon would butcher his lines, letting Kim Jeong-ryul carry the scene while also humiliating Rowoon.

But now he had no clue where it had gone wrong.

---

 “You… you’re only making it harder for yourself… more…”

At last, Kim Jeong-ryul’s brain overloaded, effectively shutting down. The lines he’d barely managed to juggle came out awkwardly stuttered. This was no deliberate emotional pause, but a transparent slip-up.

‘No… no, I can’t let this end like this…!’

Regardless, the audition continued. Kim Jeong-ryul had no time to collect his scattered wits.

“Excuse me, could we see some impromptu acting?”

The director, who’d been sitting there bug-eyed—restrained by staff—suddenly dove into the audition with a burst of energy, as though he’d never been slumping at all.

“Director, you’re putting extra pressure on the applicants if you change things last minute…”

One of the staff tried to stop him, but he was already fired up.

A message blinked in Rowoon’s field of vision:

[Starlight (Requester) clasps trembling hands in joy!]

So that was it—the quest’s target was definitely the director. Rowoon had guessed as much from the watchers’ reaction right when he entered the hall. The quest title had been a clue, too.
He hadn’t let himself be sure because his life was on the line, but the director’s high spirits showed that Rowoon’s performance wasn’t half bad.

With the director almost certain to be the quest target, and his current enthusiasm an asset for completing it, Rowoon thought back on all the training he’d done with Headstone in those dream sessions. No way he’d let this chance slip.

“Sure, I can do it.”

The moment Rowoon agreed, Director Kim Seong-ha’s face lit up like a floodlight.

 “Let’s see you chatting casually like a pair of high-school friends,” he said, words tumbling out with excitement. Rowoon nodded.

“All right. Should I come up with dialogue myself, or is there a specific setting or story you want us to use?”

“No, no! I want you, Mr. Lee Rowoon, to just… do whatever comes to mind.”

It felt like they’d veered away from the original audition plan. But the director, having found his “diamond in the rough,” was already gone with excitement. Rowoon was oblivious to how unusual this was. The only one struggling to accept reality was Kim Jeong-ryul, whose eyes lost focus as he tried to process all this.

‘Friends talking, huh…’

It was a vague, minimal directive. But Rowoon quickly pictured someone in his mind.

He inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and steadied his breathing.

When he opened them again, the anguished young man from before—who had tugged so hard at everyone’s heart—was gone. In his place stood a teenager brimming with attitude and discontent.

“You’re here again?”

As if it were noon on a hot, sunny day, Rowoon’s character paused mid-step. He’d found some uninvited visitor in the spot he frequented.

“Seriously, why here? There are so many places you could go—go somewhere else, man!”

They clearly weren’t close. They were in the same class and sometimes lumped together socially, so they knew each other’s faces, but they’d barely talked before. The most they’d exchanged had been a few words in these last few days.

“You’re not even answering me now?”

He grumbled softly, sidling closer to his silent counterpart.

“What’re you doing? Writing something again?”

The “other person” looked annoyed.

“Fine, fine, I’ll move so I’m not blocking your light.”

What a nasty attitude, he seemed to say under his breath. But as he shifted aside, he felt that other person’s eyes on him. They traded a few crabby remarks, and with that, Rowoon fully embodied a moody high-school boy. The two had one thing in common: they both went out of their way to find a secluded spot during lunch.

Rowoon mimed picking up a notebook out of thin air.

“But what about you? Not eating lunch again, and just sitting here? I was gonna take a nap, you know—oh, yeah, you said you were writing something.”

He flipped imaginary pages as though skimming them.

“…So is that fun? You’re writing in class all the time, right? Hey… can I read it?”

Although there was no reply, Rowoon’s subtle changes in expression and small gestures suggested how that invisible partner might be responding.

Then, after a moment, Rowoon’s eyes opened wide, jaw dropping as if startled.

“Whoa—this is really good? I’m serious. Hey, what do I gain by flattering you? It’s awesome, so I’m just saying so.”

His indignant tone implied the other person accused him of lying. Rowoon carried on, unruffled.

“So you want to be a writer? …It actually fits you perfectly. Like, seriously.”

Just staying afloat day by day was exhausting. Yet right next to him was someone who clung to hope—that intrigued him, maybe even enough to make friends. Rowoon’s face showed this clearly in a brief pause. Then he let out a small laugh and spoke again:

“Should I get your autograph now or what? You might be a famous writer someday, right? Might as well get it early.”

Anyone watching could sense it: these two, once distant, were now friends.

When Rowoon “came back” from the scene and opened his eyes, Director Kim Seong-ha stood in front of him—face turning red from excitement, confusion, or both.

“Mr. Lee Rowoon…? Just now, that… where did you hear those lines?”

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