“Scene 41, ready—action!”
A crisp clap of the slate rang out with the assistant director’s cue.
Fwoo…
Rowoon drew in a deep breath. The instant he opened his eyes again—
everything disappeared.
The line of cameras.
The lights set up everywhere to illuminate the classroom.
Even the hundreds of eyes fixed on him.
A set overflowing with things the screen can never capture.
But—
“We have to turn in the permission slip today.”
The moment his eyes reopened, he was no longer Lee Rowoon; he was Chae Yu‑jeong.
Lines he had read, practiced and memorized dozens of times every single day flowed out as naturally as breathing.
Almost without thinking, the next words surfaced—no, the reply meant for Lee Seojun, who sat there wearing a sullen look.
“What?”
“The field‑trip permission slip. Everyone else already turned it in—you’re the only one who hasn’t.”
Lee Seojun, who had been slumped over his desk, lifted his head.
His expression looked as though he were staring at something curious.
Whether that was because the class pariah had spoken to him, or for another reason, no one could say.
A delicate stand‑off unfolded as they stared at one another.
The silence was finally broken by Seojun’s single, flat statement:
“Don’t have one.”
“What?”
“I said I don’t have it. Can’t hand in what I don’t have.”
The words were plain enough, yet somehow they sounded like a challenge.
Perhaps it was the way his taller‑than‑average height and broad frame loomed over others—or the permanent fatigue‑etched furrow between his brows.
“If you just forgot it, I’ll tell homeroom. Bring it tomorrow.”
“Ah, seriously.”
Seojun muttered as if chewing the words, then sprang to his feet.
Classmates who had been eavesdropping with bated breath flinched.
They leaned their torsos outward, ready to bolt if things went south.
Only one thing remained utterly still—Chae Yu‑jeong, facing Seojun.
Click! Thunk!
Seojun glanced between Yu‑jeong and the classmates who had shrunk away, then raked a rough hand through his hair.
His footsteps, heading out of the classroom, were harsh.
Only after he vanished completely did the atmosphere—held down by all that wary silence—begin to thaw.
“Whew, thought they were gonna fight.”
“Dude, you were totally scared.”
“Says you! Like you weren’t?”
“C’mon, just one look from Seojun and the room feels murderous.”
“At this point he should just drop out. What’s he even doing here?”
The kids who’d watched the face‑off from up close started in on the gossip.
“Hey, class president—Seojun’s obviously not going on the field trip. Can’t we just let it go?”
“Why?”
“Well, he skips school all the time. A trip won’t be any different, right? He might even ruin the mood…”
No one welcomed Lee Seojun, the perpetual outsider.
Just like now. All he had done was speak a few lines and stand up. There’d been no swearing, no violence—yet everyone tore him down while simultaneously fearing him.
“He’s still our classmate.”
“Don’t say scary stuff like that. How is he a friend? Seriously, you’re weird. If it were me, I’d just mark him absent and move on.”
“Woo Beom, has Seojun ever bullied you?”
The boy who had been badmouthing Seojun clamped his mouth shut.
Rolling his eyes as if gauging the mood, he muttered, “Well, not exactly, but… you know the vibe.”
“Right. He’s not even from around here. People say he transferred because of a big gang fight in middle school…”
Unverifiable rumors popped up everywhere, wearing the mask of hearsay.
Chae Yu‑jeong, standing with a hard‑to‑read expression, looked back at them—his face changing as if nothing had happened, a faint smile now in place.
“I’m going to talk to the teacher.”
“Cut!”
Director Kim’s voice echoed through the set.
A film has to present a complete story within limited time; every shot touches the core.
This one was no exception.
If Seojun’s home revealed his harsh circumstances, then this scene shows, in a nutshell, what kind of person Lee Seojun is.
Instead of direct dialogue, it relied on non‑verbal cues: eyes, expressions, body language.
Though the protagonist’s traits dominated the scene, Seojun had hardly any lines; the bit‑part classmates did most of the talking.
Even so—
“Wow, Kang Chaheon’s acting is insane…”
“Only a few lines, but that gaze—my god.”
“The tension was unreal.”
Seojun’s heavy stare broadcast exactly who the story revolved around. That striking first impression was precisely what Director Kim wanted.
With that background, with that attitude—he’s tailor‑made for people to misunderstand him.
Whether “people” meant the audience or the classmates inside the film.
But that perception will flip soon enough.
As the story advances, the truth that emerges shatters every prejudice that first impression created—exactly as the director intended.
Rowoon found Kim Seong‑ha both shrewd and impressive.
Not only did he craft a flawless narrative, he wove in a personal message, unwavering from scene to scene:
Are you sure the “truth” you know is real?
Could you be trapped by prejudice?
By letting viewers feel their own bias crumble, that message lands all the harder.
Even more amazing—the director’s personal theme meshes perfectly with the film’s central motif.
Take his biography away and the movie still stands whole.
And beyond all that…
So this is what it feels like.
All those rehearsals—imagining over and over how to act—had finally become reality.
A strange sense of liberation washed over him.
Is this why Hobeom stuck with acting?
Rowoon remembered their youngest member, who’d abandoned idol life without regret after the others kept messing up. Now, he suddenly understood the feeling.
The instant he became Chae Yu‑jeong in front of the camera, every regret, every worry vanished—like being reborn as someone else.
Fun.
A smile tugged at Rowoon’s lips as he stepped off camera.
The set remained hushed, yet he didn’t notice; he was busy savoring that brand‑new sensation.
The whispers, faint and off to the side, never reached him.
“What is even up with that kid?”
“Hey, don’t say ‘that kid.’ If the director hears, you’re dead.”
“Seriously, it’s like a spirit possessed him. He went toe‑to‑toe with Kang Chaheon and didn’t get overshadowed. How?”
“When his expression flipped near the end—I thought I saw wrong. The way his whole vibe changed as he shifted his body—so natural.”
“Director’s been bragging that he ‘devoured’ the table read.”
“I thought that was just talk.”
“Since when does Director Kim exaggerate? Look—his grin’s about to split his face.”
A staffer nudged the person beside him.
Their eyes all slid toward the director.
Sure enough, Kim Seong‑ha was grinning from ear to ear, eyes wide—looking half‑deranged.
He’d just finished reviewing the take.
“Oh, that’s good. So good. Yes, that’s it. Ah‑haha…”
The director even let out an unidentifiable giggle, sending staff scuttling backward mid‑conversation.
“Rowoon.”
“Yes, Director?”
Rowoon had come over to monitor playback.
“Don’t you dare forget me, okay?”
“…Pardon?”
“I mean, when this hits Cannes and the Oscars, you’d better remember who found you. Promise.”
Baffled, Rowoon offered his pinkie.
“Hah… What have I discovered? My flawless eye almost scares me.”
“…?”
“Rowoon, you’re going to make it big—maybe faster than even I thought.”
He sounded a bit unhinged, yet utterly earnest. And he wasn’t wrong: Rowoon’s skills had grown. Since he’d begun haunting the set, every day had been an aggressive sponge‑up of knowledge.
A performance doesn’t have to be flamboyant to leave a mark.
If it can seize the audience’s attention in an instant—if the air itself feels charged— that, too, is unforgettable.
The brief eye contact between Kang Chaheon and Lee Rowoon—the electric hush of that moment—left viewers’ mouths dry.
They might clash any second… or spark some nameless chemistry…
Don’t have it.
When Chaheon tossed out that lazy line, some staff only then remembered to breathe.
“I swear it’s the truth—don’t you trust me?”
“Oh, I believe you.”
Rowoon gave a sheepish grin—clearly unconvinced.
Director Kim, having watched cold‑burning Yu‑jeong melt away into Rowoon’s clear smile, studied him.
The more Rowoon absorbed from set life, the more the director learned about him.
The kid’s confidence is downright nonexistent. What kind of gas‑lighting directors did he meet to beat him down like this?
There had to be reasons his old filmography was so dismal.
Poor thing. His eyes sparkle this much when he acts…
A single scene could steal countless hearts, yet he had no faith in himself.
Unacceptable.
Director Kim resolved to nurture this precious, newly sprouted talent into full bloom—though he suspected Rowoon might blossom even without his help.
Either way, he was already looking forward to that day.
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