“Director…?”
<Yes. Ah, I must have startled you by calling so suddenly.>
He certainly was startled, but Rowoon answered calmly.
“Not at all, it’s fine. But may I ask why you called…?”
<I already spoke with Hyeonseung about it—did you hear anything from him?>
He mentioned the name of the company president that Rowoon vaguely remembered.
“He only told me I’d been cast. Is there a problem…?”
Rowoon couldn’t imagine what issue might prompt a personal call from the director, and a sense of dread crept over him.
“Don’t tell me they’re canceling…”
<No, there’s no real problem. I just felt I ought to say thanks.>
Somehow, his ominous opening made Rowoon uneasy.
<I heard you originally rejected this script, calling it doomed.>
Sure enough, his misgivings were coming true.
“Did I…? I’m not sure—I don’t really remember. It might have just been something I said offhand.”
Yet again, the previous owner’s baggage was choking him. Could the director be on the verge of retracting the offer?
And at the same time, he recalled the president’s words:
“Do your best, even though sets aren’t the easiest.”
The memory only made him more anxious.
<No, it’s understandable. Like I said, I’m calling to say thanks. After all, you must have reconsidered the script’s potential if you decided to audition, right?>
He didn’t seem to need an answer, continuing on.
<Oh, and… After seeing you that day, I’ve been thinking a lot, and I want to tweak your character a bit. I was hoping to get your okay.>
Wait—
No way!
Rowoon knew this feeling all too well. It was reminiscent of:
- “I’m sorry, but that schedule’s no longer happening…”
- “We can’t work with you now that your group has tanked our brand image…”
- “We’re the ones taking the loss! You should be grateful we’re not enforcing the penalty…”
Back when Garion was mired in endless bad press, events and schedules were canceled left and right. They couldn’t offer any real explanation, so they just took the brunt of every accusation. He vividly remembered how awful that felt.
No, don’t tell me—!
He tensed, his throat tight, and blurted:
“Are you canceling the casting…?”
<I’d like to expand your role a bit…>
They both spoke at once.
“…What?”
<Pardon?>
A tiny pause lingered. Rowoon broke the silence first:
“You’re not canceling? You mean you’re going to increase the character’s screen time?”
<Unless… you’d rather cancel? That’d be a problem…>
“No, no! Absolutely not. I definitely don’t want to cancel.”
He hurried to refute the idea.
Turns out it was just in my head.
He mentally breathed a sigh of relief, remembering how his previous life had conditioned him to expect the worst.
“I’d be grateful if you added more to the part.”
<I’m glad you’re okay with it. I was worried it might be asking too much—I assumed you’d be busy.>
Luckily—or unluckily—he wasn’t busy at all.
<I’ve got some ideas that came to mind after seeing you. Basically…>
He explained passionately. Partway through, Rowoon thought:
“So he wants to expand the character’s backstory?”
Essentially, the plan was to flesh out that role, give it more importance, and let Rowoon appear more often.
<If that works for you, I’d like to proceed.>
It was definitely a good thing for Rowoon—he actually wanted to stick closer to the director, so more screen time meant a double win. And as if on cue:
[Starlight (Requester) clutches their chest, overwhelmed!]
[Starlight (Requester) confesses they can’t express how moved they are!]
Clearly, the quest’s Requester was watching, bursting with joy.
After hanging up, Rowoon noticed a new sensation stirring in him.
This is… satisfaction?
It wasn’t merely that things were looking good for the quest.
It felt like he’d been rewarded for his efforts, a sense of recognition he hadn’t felt in a long time.
Back in his past life, after Garion’s downfall, he’d known only frustration and despair. No matter how he tried, all he got were sneers and scorn, so his efforts felt meaningless.
Turns out this quest isn’t just helping the director.
It wasn’t just the Starlight or Director Kim Seong-ha who benefited from this quest. Rowoon, too, was discovering a new world and reclaiming an old sense of fulfillment.
Floating on that happiness, he fell asleep that night—and dreamed.
A dream of talking warmly to someone, a dream that felt too lifelike to be just a dream.
“Headstone? Is that you?”
He’d spent three days and nights in Headstone’s training realm, so that was his first guess.
“…?”
No answer. And unlike before, nobody dragged him into living their life—yet somehow, the dream played out on its own, with two people conversing in a friendly way. Rowoon couldn’t tell who they were or what their relationship was, but the gratitude and warmth they shared was obvious.
Strangely, my body feels heavy…
He realized the dream’s “owner” was physically unwell. Even though he wasn’t controlling this dream, he felt shortness of breath and heavy limbs. His heart sometimes felt pierced by sharp pain, at times so severe it was nearly unbearable. Death clearly lurked nearby, yet he sensed no particular fear in the dream’s owner—only happiness.
Oh… he’s smiling.
Whenever that hazy-faced other person appeared, he felt joy. His lungs constricted, his throat rasped, but the dreamer was delighted. Meanwhile, he felt his consciousness drifting. The dream was ending. As it disintegrated, a voice like an echo reached him:
[…you never know, maybe you’ll become a hugely famous author…]
It faded like a reverberation, a voice Rowoon found familiar.
Waking fully, he realized that the protagonist of this dream was none other than the quest’s Requester.
Time passed peacefully.
“People really do need some downtime.”
After surmounting that huge obstacle—the audition—Rowoon found himself at ease.
Come to think of it, since I died and came back, I’ve never really rested.
Including his final months before dying, he’d been on edge for years. Now, after that frantic first week post-revival, he finally got a breather. With life-or-death matters temporarily settled, even the presence of those watchers, Cheong-Hwa, and random quest arrivals seemed less overwhelming.
I’ve kind of gotten used to it somehow…
Humans adapt, after all.
Of course:
[Starlight #52 discreetly wishes to contact you!]
[Starlight #23 smacks them down, telling them to stop being sneaky!]
There were always watchers lurking, so it wasn’t all calm.
I wonder if I can accept multiple quests at once, as long as they don’t clash with or derail each other.
Requests were strictly the Starlights’ domain. Anything impossible was presumably filtered out by them. Though Rowoon wasn’t sure what quests might come his way, he found the uncertainty intriguing; each mission would expand his world further.
I’ll ask Cheong-Hwa sometime.
These days, Cheong-Hwa had discovered the internet.
[Wow, what is this marvelous thing? I was asleep for so long, and now the world’s completely changed!]
In the form of a water droplet, he deftly navigated the computer, marveling at everything he found. Sometimes he’d casually ask:
[“That place overseas—Toyiki or Suhsa or something? I hear they have top-notch hot springs. Would you like to go?”]
Evidently, whatever Cheong-Hwa was, it had a deep fondness for water. But Rowoon had no reason or time to travel abroad, so Cheong-Hwa started pestering the other celestial beings about it instead. Rowoon doubted he’d get a clear explanation—too many taboos and mysteries. So he turned his attention elsewhere:
Namely, his manager.
“Calm down, Hyung.”
For a while, the manager seemed as edgy as Rowoon was serene.
“…I’m perfectly fine.”
“Hyung, it’s obvious you’re not.”
“W-what? No, I’m telling you, I’m fine.”
Rowoon wondered:
Did he really think no one would notice?
It was too obvious to ignore. The manager normally gave Rowoon plenty of space—partly because the “old Rowoon” wanted it that way, but also because the manager saw no point in pestering him. When Rowoon had no schedule, the manager rarely stuck around, so him camping out at Rowoon’s place was unusual. He’d stare blankly, sigh under his breath… Overall, his giant, bear-like presence in the same room made it impossible to ignore his mood.
“Are you worried about something?”
Given how supportive the manager had been, Rowoon wanted to return the favor.
“Aw, it’s nothing. Really. Nothing’s happened—yet. I swear.”
That crucial word, “yet,” stood out.
So there is something.
In these moments, pressing too hard was unwise, so Rowoon said nothing further. A manager like his wouldn’t open up unless he chose to.
“You look like you don’t believe me, but I’m serious—there’s nothing. Didn’t you just say I only show up when something’s happened? …Actually, that’s not far off the mark.”
He gave a long sigh—surrender, basically.
“All right, it’s nothing big. I’m just feeling jumpy lately.”
“Jumpy? But we passed the audition. Isn’t that a good thing?”
“That’s just it… things are too quiet.”
“Huh?”
So basically, he’s worried I’ll get into trouble again?
Once again, it was a remnant of the old occupant’s misdeeds.
How long will I have to deal with that baggage?
Probably for a while, unless something major happened to flip his reputation. He’d just have to endure it.
“You know I’m not actually suspecting you, right?”
“Don’t worry, Hyung. I get it—it’s only natural.”
In his previous life, Rowoon had felt similarly about his bandmates who kept messing up, so he couldn’t blame the manager for being nervous— it’s like a built-in radar.
“No, really, I’m not suspicious. I can see you’ve turned over a new leaf— you’re being so diligent.”
It was true. The calm was unusual, but not shocking. They’d finished an audition; production wouldn’t start overnight. As a ten-year veteran, the manager knew how preproduction involved rewrites, approvals, contract negotiations, set-building, location scouting, storyboarding—none of which happened instantly. So a few days after the audition, it was normal for everything to be quiet.
Then why am I still uneasy?
Manager Park Hyung-woo mulled it over. Rowoon had changed almost overnight, like someone swapped his soul. Amnesia or not, the transformation was dramatic, and the manager liked this new Rowoon. Sometimes he’d wake in the night, anxious that it might all be a dream. But Rowoon truly had changed. Even now:
“Hyung, your face looks awful. Why not rest? If anything happens, I’ll let you know. It’s not like Director Kim is about to fire me or something, right?”
Before, if the manager had shown up looking this grim, the old Rowoon would have snarled: “Get that gloomy face away from me, jerk!” or something even harsher. Now, he was calmly comforting the manager.
Yeah… maybe it’s all in my head.
The old Rowoon was most dangerous when he got quiet—he’d vanish without warning and cause some bizarre scandal. But the new Rowoon was calm, responsible, even landing a role by auditioning on his own. Manager Park Hyung-woo tried to persuade himself that Rowoon wasn’t going to cause trouble.
However…
“…What?”
Misfortune strikes when you least expect it. Though Rowoon hadn’t stirred up any drama, an issue had just emerged concerning him.
[Is the entertainment world’s moral laxity okay?]
[Criminals back in showbiz? Problem Child + Problem Child = Another fiasco?]
[Helping each other behind closed doors… “Kim Seong-ha’s comeback looming?”]
Malicious, aggressive articles had suddenly appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.
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