Pen and Paper Translations

Cheonghwa—a being of the heavens who spent every last ounce of his power to save Rowoon.

Because of that, he himself now hovered on the brink of dissolution, yet he had chosen Rowoon’s life over his own.

Didn’t Cheonghwa know what would happen?

No—most likely, he did.

Even so, Cheonghwa made his choice.

“What? Humans drink water this bitter? Ugh—what is this poison?”

He might spout such random lines and look more like a cute pet than a lofty celestial, but—

Without Cheonghwa, I could never have come back to life like this.

Life was not all he had given Rowoon.

He had handed him a chance.

A chance to set right a life stuffed full of regret.

A chance to discover joys he had never known during that wheel‑spinning, colorless existence.

Once, Rowoon’s world felt like a cramped closet closing in; now it had grown wide and vivid.

…So that’s what you were brooding over? Y‑y‑you’re saying that moved you—m‑moved me…!

Somehow Cheonghwa had appeared—a fat droplet from which tiny bubbles popped like popcorn. And then—

Starlight 39 is so touched by your kind heart that it sheds tears!
Starlight 98 wipes damp eyes with a sleeve!
Starlight (the requester) watches you, eyes glistening!

The same “Observers” who showed up with popcorn whenever Rowoon acted now chimed in with dinging messages.

That’s a little embarrassing…

But Chaheon’s words had clarified what was hazy.

Cheonghwa might not be family, yet he was surely a precious pillar.

“Thank you.”

“…Hm? For what?”

“I think I get what you were trying to tell me.”

Rowoon looked lighter; Chaheon’s face, in contrast, grew puzzled.

“…You understood already?”

He stared at Rowoon as though studying something strange, then said:

“All right—prove it.”

Chaheon set up the borrowed camera, and a little later—

“…It’s real.”

After replaying both the earlier take and the new one, he scowled.

“What is it? Bad?”

“No—better. Way better than before.”

Until that moment Rowoon had been imitating, more or less; but imitation alone cannot sell a scene whose heartbeat is raw emotion—especially opposite Kang Chaheon.

True. Just a minute ago it still felt like surface play—now it’s different.

A moment ago Seojun’s willingness to quit school felt alien; now Rowoon understood why Seojun had no other choice.

If the world that supported Rowoon were about to collapse, he too might cling as desperately.

It was not a one‑sided sacrifice. Because of the great love and support received, Rowoon could give back in equal measure.

“This is really fascinating.”

Please don’t tell me by “this” you mean me?

Of course he did.

“Actors who can’t swallow even when the spoon’s in their mouths litter this industry,” Chaheon began out of nowhere.

“No matter how finely you chew it for them, they never get it.”

Why was he looking straight at Rowoon while saying that?

Ugh—was that about me? (Well, technically about the original.)

“The worse ones don’t even know what they lack. They learn one trick, think they know it all, refuse to listen. But sometimes—rarely—you get these mutants. They spring up, grow on their own, and turn into monsters that amaze everyone… they’re really rare.”

Rowoon’s eyes darted.

So he wasn’t talking about the original?

As if reading that thought, Chaheon’s sharp gaze locked on him.

“You’re not Lee Rowoon, are you?”

---

Rowoon had heard those words before—the very first time they met. He’d been flustered then, even stammered.

This time was different.

“What do you think I am, then?”

Having heard it once, he was immune.

“Dunno. My leading theory is you were abducted by aliens and modified.”

“…?”

Out came that crazy line—delivered dead serious.

“Your family dotes on you, so you’re no secret twin. And from what you said earlier, you clearly haven’t been showered only in love…”

He muttered, inspecting Rowoon from every angle.

“No one’s wearing his skin like a mask…”

“Excuse me?”

“No birthmark swapped,” he added, giving Rowoon’s flawless—despite weeks of night shoots—skin a glance.

“The Lee Rowoon I know wouldn’t be like this.”

“Maybe he turned over a new leaf?”

“People don’t change.”

“Fine, then just for you: I’m not Lee Rowoon. I’m another Rowoon who moved into his body.”

Why not toss the truth if he wouldn’t believe it anyway?

“Oh, really? Actually, that makes more sense.”

What…?

“You bought that?”

“Why not? An alien soul beats the idea that that jerk reformed and started acting like this.”

…

Should he feel pleased or not?

On one hand, it meant he’d shaken off the original’s awful reputation; on the other, the only person who half‑believed the possession story was Kang Chaheon.

Well, a win’s a win.

And besides, Chaheon—first impressions aside—wasn’t bad. He’d listened to Rowoon’s worries without mockery and offered genuine help.

“Enough chatter—let’s run it again. You’ve got the feeling now; better lock it in.”

“I kinda like the ‘other soul’ theory.”

“Great, great—roll the camera.”

Chaheon chuckled, hit “record” once more, and Rowoon wondered how much the take had changed in those few minutes.

Everyone looked on approvingly, each wearing a parent‑proud smile.

“The kids work hardest.”

“Yeah—let’s keep up, too.”

“Man, it’s been ages since a set felt this good.”

Plenty of high‑paid actors phoned it in with sloppy performances, but these passionate youngsters treated the film in earnest—that alone warmed the whole crew.

Two days later, the final school‑set shoot loomed.

---

“Cut!”

Director Kim’s shout, the slate’s crisp clack.

So the past‑timeline ends here.

The ultimate scene—honed through endless rehearsal—closed at last.

Blood‑veined‑eyed Seojun bit his lip and left the roof; Yu‑jeong watched, unable to urge or let go, then turned away. A single white cloud drifted free in the sky—and the frame faded out.

“Perfect. Nothing to scrap. We’ll keep this whole take and just reshoot Seojun’s exit from another angle.”

Eyes shining, the director issued orders, thrilled beyond measure.

Rowoon, having shed Yu‑jeong’s tangled expression, stepped off set with a sigh of mixed relief and regret.

Bittersweet.

His principal filming was over. A few pickups remained, but they belonged mostly to Chaheon and Saero; the focus would shift to the present‑timeline team.

“Aw, is this the last we see of Rowoon?”

The present‑day actors—down here even though they weren’t shooting—offered congratulations tinged with sadness.

“I’ll still come around, provided nobody kicks me out.”

The shoots were done, but the commission was not.

“Kick you out? Who’d complain about an actor coming to set?”

“Director Kim was moping already; he’ll be thrilled.”

Hearts poured out in snack form—armfuls pressed into Rowoon’s hands. He accepted every bit of their affectionate kindness.

So much has changed.

In barely more than a month, so much in Rowoon’s world had shifted—most of all, people’s eyes.

At first, except for the director, nobody welcomed me.

But gradually he felt goodwill, favor, friendliness.

People who once spoke only for business now greeted him warmly. Even the extras who’d raised his manager’s blood pressure became polite.

And the change will keep spreading.

For now it was confined to this set, but Rowoon believed it would ripple wider and farther.

Most of all—discovering that effort brings full reward filled him with pride and happiness.

I came just to fulfill a request…

Yet Rowoon felt he was the one who gained the most:

the newfound joy of acting,

the tangible growth each time he tried,

and the open recognition of everyone around him.

No matter how often it happened, that swelling emotion never felt ordinary.

And so, at last, Rowoon could set one cautious yet courageous foot forward toward the wider world.

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