A strange emotion—a mix of pride and joy—swelled inside him.
Perhaps this was what growth felt like for someone who had once been holed up in a tiny room, tortured by an uncertain future, regret, and pain.
Star light (the requester) wipes away proud tears as it looks at you!
A message popped up—one he had grown used to by now.
Come to think of it, that person has an awfully tender heart.
Along with Cheonghwa, the requester could be called one of his benefactors.
Rowoon remembered how, no matter how hard he tried, his voice had once echoed uselessly inside a box, sinking alone.
Alive, yet not truly living.
Suppressing everything else simply because it was “necessary.”
Why did that hollow past keep surfacing now?
When goodwill returns as goodwill—when kindness comes back as kindness—that’s truly beautiful.
A fact sometimes forgotten for many reasons, yet undeniable.
Recalling it made everything here shine.
Even—
“What?”
—even Kang Chaheon, whose resting face was a flat line, seemed to glow.
Were those actual rays around him?
Receiving pure, unfiltered kindness from others, Rowoon blurted:
“You know, Mr. Chaheon… you’re really handsome.”
“What?”
One of Chaheon’s brows rose.
He never put on that pleasant “service” smile for Rowoon—though objectively, his Hollywood‑approved face washandsome.
Sure, my first impression of him was marred by that fight, but still…
“…Aren’t you embarrassed?”
“Pardon?”
He was just stating a fact—why ask him why he was stating a fact?
“Don’t you hear that all the time?”
“…I do, but—”
Rowoon had expected a shameless “I know,” yet Chaheon reacted oddly, muttering that he had to touch up his makeup and walking off.
What’s with him…?
The past‑timeline schedule had been hardcore.
Even staff had groaned that it was too brutal, but Rowoon’s steady diligence clearly paid off.
“Wherever I go, they’re praising you, Rowoon. This hyung is so proud!”
His manager, the emotional one who wept at the drop of a hat, was at it again.
“I asked the actors I befriended—they all talk about you lately. Director Kim is the one who misses you most, though.”
Those “actors” were the extras—schoolmates in the past, various bit parts in the present.
“Didn’t you call them ignoramuses before?”
“Only when they trashed you without knowing anything. After all you did for them—springing for meals out of your own pocket—they’d never bad‑mouth you now.”
Extras usually get a meal allowance when shoots run long; Director Kim, being fair, treated everyone equally. Rowoon had simply added a bit from his own wallet.
If the schedule is tight, you have to keep people well fed to ward off complaints.
Fatigue causes quality to drop, takes after takes to pile up, and delays the whole schedule. Rowoon, determined to make <Gwiro> a hit and restore Kim to the industry spotlight, could not allow that.
Besides—being hungry is miserable.
He still remembered surviving for days on a single pack of ramen.
Hunger kills efficiency; he’d learned that firsthand. So he made sure to supply healthy snacks and even tonic foods—and now the goodwill boomeranged back.
Spreading kindness really does return in force.
Rowoon savored this positive side of the world once more.
The image‑rehab project is clearly a success.
Only halfway there, perhaps, but beginnings are half the battle.
Word travels fast in this small scene; whether people believe it is another matter—but that can be proven over time. The successful start alone was hugely encouraging, and a satisfied smile spread across his face.
Though past‑timeline shooting had ended, Rowoon still visited the set—there was so much to learn, and he liked the on‑set energy. Everyone took the work seriously; the pleasant heat of that diligence seemed to reach him.
“Here again?”
“Yep—still lots to learn. Why are you here again, Mr. Chaehon?”
“My scenes aren’t done.”
“I heard the elders’ parts got bumped first because all the schedules shifted for location…”
“Gotta keep the vibe intact.”
Chaheon’s remaining scenes were much later—but shoots never go perfectly in order. Rowoon nodded, then glanced sideways—and once again locked eyes with a small black lens.
“Ah, thought I wouldn’t get caught this time…”
It was the making‑film PA who’d been filming behind-the-scenes from day one. Kim had planned that before they started.
Audiences love this stuff nowadays; drop it when the movie opens and reactions willll be great.
Kim also had ulterior motives: Kang Chaheon almost never revealed private moments. Footage of him off‑duty would explode online.
But why does the camera keep finding me?
The focus should be Chaheon, yet Rowoon kept meeting that little handy‑cam’s gaze.
“Told you—he’d spot it again! Pay up, everyone.”
Nearby actors collected their bets, elbowing each other—even the sound and lighting directors slipped in coins, and the assistant director joined the pot.
“…Why is Mr. Chaehon getting a share?”
“I bet on you spotting it too.”
“…”
Unlike that first day, when the camera operator begged Rowoon to “just act natural,” now everyone treated his odd habit as normal.
“How does he sniff them out so perfectly?”
“He’s a ghost detector.”
“Remember when he spotted the hidden camera last time? That PA almost fainted.”
They pressed snacks into his hands again, praising him like a child.
Work is fun here, they kept saying. Other productions, they heard, were nothing like this: tension, NGs, late nights. But Gwiro had contagious passion—no foul moods with Rowoon’s bright eyes watching every take. Cast visited each other’s shoots, staff fed off the energy; harmony was inevitable.
“Director Kim’s eye is something else—where’d he dig up that gem?”
“Let’s do our best—don’t shame the kid!”
Rowoon, oblivious to their chatter, was approached by the BTS PA (production assistant).
“I’m pitching this to the director as a mini‑segment.”
“…Huh?”
“Find the Camera!—how’s that for a title?”
Beaming, the PA waited; Rowoon could only nod.
Occupational hazard…
Actors need only note camera moves in advance; once rolling, they forget the lens. But idols must snap to whichever cam is cued—companies drill that in. Rowoon decided to take the positive: a quirk that helped the project.
With cast and crew firing on all cylinders, Gwiro progressed at breakneck speed; synergy reigned. In that time Rowoon even shot a few extra scenes. Between actors who fed him treats and shared life stories, and veterans offering know‑how, time flew. All filming wrapped, and release day loomed.
“Don’t freak out— you haven’t done anything wrong, so there’s no reason to freak!”
Leading up to release, several events were scheduled; the press conference—one hour away—was first.
The voice chanting like a mantra belonged to the manager.
“Inhale deep! No trembling! You did nothing wrong! Stand tall!”
The press conference targeted journalists and industry figures, unlike a general premiere.
And the original had terrible relations with reporters…
Amazing how a nobody managed that. Now Rowoon had to bear the debt.
“Hyung, calm down. I’m really fine.”
“…Am I shaking right now?”
“Yes. Your voice keeps vibrating.”
“Kh… ahem…”
“I mean it—I’m okay, so don’t worry.”
He wasn’t just saying so. Yes, questions tipped like knives would fly, but—
I can’t just run because I’m scared.
The more fear he showed, the more the sharks would bite.
“Stand by—ten minutes to entrance!”
A staffer called time.
Beyond that door lay a world of unknowns.
Very soon now.
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