“Did you hear that from somewhere? Did someone tell you?”
The director stared at Rowoon with eyes ablaze, shining with some unknown intensity—whether exhilaration or fear was unclear.
[You never know, maybe he’ll become a hugely famous author someday. Maybe I should get his autograph in advance?]
One specific memory flickered in Director Kim Seong-ha’s mind.
He recalled hearing that exact notion somewhere, from someone dear to him.
“Impossible. Nobody else knows about that. It’s something only that kid and I knew…”
He mumbled in a daze.
In his extreme excitement, the director muttered cryptic words:
“Unless… did he directly tell you? But that’s impossible. The timeline wouldn’t match up if he were still alive. Then where did you hear that story? I never told anyone…”
He jumped from shock to suspicion to denial, all while muttering to himself in confusion.
Meanwhile, Rowoon slowly emerged from his state of immersion.
This feels strange.
A moment ago, he’d been chatting happily with someone right next to him—or so it seemed. But once the director spoke, he “woke up,” and there was no one there.
This isn’t even one of Headstone’s dream sessions, but it felt like a dream.
Maybe it was thanks to that hyper-focused training, more intense than “the Room of Spirit and Time.” Even though it wasn’t a dream, he felt like he’d just returned from a dreamlike experience.
The bright midday sun was gone, as was the friend who’d been laughing awkwardly.
Nothing remained.
He was back in the audition hall.
“Er… I apologize, Mr. Lee Rowoon. I got a bit carried away…”
At last, the dazed Director Kim Seong-ha seemed to snap out of it. He looked like he’d come to a firm decision.
“The acting you just showed me—truly excellent. But I have to ask, how exactly did you interpret it…? Is it all right if I ask?”
His eyes still gleamed, his face flushed, and there was a note of anticipation in his voice.
“I mean, of all choices… Why did you incorporate a notebook, specifically? I’m really curious.”
He’d given no lines or direction—only the scenario: “A casual conversation between friends.”
Yet something about Rowoon’s performance triggered such a strong reaction.
“It’s because I read your synopsis and let my imagination build on top of it,” Rowoon began.
“You mean the synopsis for Guiro?” the director asked.
“Yes.”
Rowoon nodded, then explained his reasoning.
“First, the main character in the synopsis grew up in hardship. That’s stated outright. Likely, if his dream wasn’t profitable, his family opposed it. He would have been restless, possibly drifting. In my own view, that could mean he didn’t do well in school—he was that sort of rebellious youth.”
If someone’s harassed by all life’s other burdens, it’s hard to focus on classes. That suggested a mental picture of the protagonist: Dozing off in school to make up lost sleep… spending class time writing instead.
“He probably stood out from ‘normal’ students.”
It followed naturally that the protagonist was isolated. The friend Rowoon portrayed was the same. Two people in somewhat similar circumstances, growing close in a natural progression.
They share so much in common, they’d become friends quickly.
Reading a synopsis is about spotting the subtext between the lines—those hidden clues between sentences. Figuring out what might be buried, how to unearth it, which method to use… The outcome depends on how thoroughly you prepare.
That’s exactly what Rowoon had done.
“In the synopsis, the main character’s friend exists, but he’s a supporting role. He’s only mentioned briefly. However, he appears at a crucial turning point, helping the protagonist realize something important.
(Protagonist), while sorting through his belongings, finds an old letter from a friend. Remembering his childhood dream, he…
“It’s just a short mention, but it’s enough to glean certain facts,” Rowoon continued.
“The protagonist hasn’t seen that friend in a very long time—why? If they were close, wouldn’t they have kept in touch after moving away? Maybe there was a bigger reason they couldn’t meet at all, like illness or something else?
“And why a letter? Why not a text, message, or email? Unless it took place some time ago, or maybe the letter itself symbolizes a divide between past and present?
“There must also be a reason the friend becomes the trigger for the protagonist’s self-realization. If the friend ended up failing to achieve his own dream, then that failure might reflect the protagonist’s own alternate path. Maybe the reason they haven’t seen each other ties into that failure?”
Branch after branch of thought sprouted, drawing Rowoon deeper into the story.
“It felt like glimpsing another life,” he said, describing how he fleshed out a secondary character into a living, breathing figure with a personal narrative.
Rowoon summarized his mental process in a concise way for the director.
“Was that too off-track?” he asked.
He’d added many details that didn’t explicitly appear in the script. But Kim Seong-ha was the story’s author, so there was a possibility his interpretation might differ.
“Not at all,” the director replied, voice trembling with something close to rapture. “In fact…”
His expression was flushed, with an almost manic glow in his eyes.
“I could swear you peered right inside my head. It’s exactly what I imagined—what I knew. Yes!”
He praised Rowoon wholeheartedly. The other judges murmured in surprise at the director’s enthusiasm.
“There’s still something else I’m curious about. Why did you choose to play the friend, instead of the protagonist?”
“I didn’t think I was protagonist material.”
“I disagree somewhat. Don’t you think Mr. Lee Rowoon could handle the main role?”
“Uh—!”
That unexpected noise came from Kim Jeong-ryul, who’d been all but cowering in his seat.
“S-sorry, I just swallowed wrong…”
He apologized hastily when everyone looked his way. He seemed oddly pale, with sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, but no one paid much attention.
The main character, Rowoon thought. It wasn’t that he’d never considered it. Usually, directors spend the most time on their leads, who appear from start to finish.
But he’d refused because:
“My acting’s not at that level yet.”
Yes, he’d rolled around for three days with Headstone, discovering the joy of acting and soaking it up like a sponge—but it was still just baby steps. He had a long journey ahead.
At least for now, I think the director liked what he saw, Rowoon thought. Though I’m not sure why…
It was a stroke of luck for Rowoon.
That didn’t mean he’d never want the lead role. The hero generally stays closest to the director. Still…
The friend role feels right. I was drawn to it from the start, and my ‘judging eye’ told me so, Rowoon said to himself.
That “judging eye” was a special ability he’d acquired—an advance reward from the quest’s “Requester.”
He’d never expected to gain such an odd power, but it was indeed otherworldly. Cheong-Hwa was mysterious enough; this was another step beyond.
Whoa, I can see colors?
판별안 (the “judging eye”) was an unusual skill—it literally shows me which choice will yield the best outcome through color. In other words, it helped him pick the most favorable path. That made his decisions easy.
When the script glowed golden around the friend role, Rowoon started researching the main role only to see the glow fade, replaced by dark auras. Going back to the friend role restored the golden radiance.
So that’s how it works—simple and obvious.
Hence, Rowoon spoke confidently:
“I’m not just being humble. I simply feel every person has a role that fits them best. The main character’s role doesn’t suit me. In my judgment, the part that lets me shine—er, rather, the part I can bring out most effectively—is the friend role.”
“You mean the character will shine, not you personally?”
“Yes.”
No one else should take that role; he had to do it. That was the only way the project would succeed—or so Rowoon’s new ability indicated.
He didn’t know why, just that there had to be a reason he’d landed this request and fixated on that role.
Maybe I’ll find out in time, he mused.
“Perfect, Mr. Lee Rowoon. I want to work with you, absolutely. If possible, in that role you prefer.”
As Kim Seong-ha spoke, golden motes of light flickered around him and then vanished—like a sign that Rowoon had indeed chosen correctly.
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