People have a thing called a “sense.”
And when you’re standing on a sheet of thin ice, even someone who lacks it suddenly grows antennae.
“Director, is it all right if I answer?”
Everyone present understood why Rowoon was stepping forward himself.
Director Kim shot him an anxious glance but soon nodded—he knew that if he spoke it would look like a director shielding his actor.
“Hello. I’m Lee Rowoon, playing Chae Yujeong. I may be inexperienced, but I think I can clear up the reporter’s question for the director. May I have your name?”
“I’m Joo Dongi from K‑Magazine.”
“Yes—Reporter Joo. First, thank you for your interest in Gwiro. I believe I understand what worries you, but…”
Rowoon beamed—a bright, shadow‑free smile with not a hint of hesitation.
“Isn’t there already someone up here who’s entertaining just to look at?”
Right on cue, Kang Chaheon’s face filled the giant screen.
The polite business smile he had worn since entering now brimmed with amusement.
“Ah, yes—Mr. Kang Chaheon’s mere presence chases away worries; some people call him a human good‑luck charm!” the MC quipped, drawing low chuckles from the press seats.
“Of course, not only Mr. Chaheon but many of our seniors give wonderful performances you won’t want to miss.”
Now the screen showed veteran actors like Koo Il‑hwan, all wearing pleased smiles.
“There’s no explosive action or disaster here, and precisely because of that you can focus wholly on the story. In real life our cars rarely blow up and buildings seldom collapse—but things between people do happen. That makes the film easier to relate to, easier to immerse in.”
Rowoon ended with another bright smile.
The original owner’s sharp features had once seemed edgy, but months of change had softened the impression: with no expression he still looked aloof, yet when he smiled he was transformed.
A bit too angelic, maybe, but no one spits at a smiling face.
Seeing the audience quiet, he drove the nail in.
“Even so, I understand your concern—especially when a cast includes actors with no track record. So…”
The reporter had danced around the issue; Rowoon would not. He had to speak plainly for his bomb to carry weight.
“I’d like to make a pledge.”
“A pledge? Oh, this is getting interesting! What pledge, Rowoon‑ssi?”
The MC, momentarily startled by the unscripted remark, caught the ball smoothly.
“One million in one week.”
Murmurs rippled through the hall—the bold words clashed with his gentle smile.
Rowoon continued, one sentence stirring the room:
“I predict one million cumulative admissions within the first week. If we fail, I’ll forfeit my entire fee.”
“Your fee? Mr. Rowoon, looks like you’ve drawn your sword!”
One million: not impossible, yet far from easy. Plenty of films never touch that figure in their whole run—especially a picture shadowed by outside controversy. Reporters’ fingers flew across keyboards.
“So you’re saying there’s no need to worry if people just watch it for themselves?”
“Not because I’m in it—because it’s truly a good film. No viewer will regret it.”
Rowoon recalled the rough‑cut screening he’d attended. Final polish remained, but the flow was clear.
It can’t fail. This will work.
He saw a pale gold now, soon to blaze into brilliant gold.
“Ah, Mr. Kang Chaheon—your hand’s up. Go ahead!”
“I’d like to join that pledge.”
“What—! Chaheon‑ssi is jumping in!”
The hall, already stirred by Rowoon’s surprise bomb, now crackled with excitement.
“As some of you know, I have many shortcomings.”
“Come now—if you’re lacking, who counts as perfect?”
“I appreciate the compliment, but I’m merciless toward bad acting.”
Light laughter spread; fans knew his blunt honesty, admired as professional candor.
“If I name the most memorable partners I’ve worked with, Mr. Rowoon is one of them.”
“Isn’t that because you just filmed Gwiro together?”
“Busted?”
More laughter.
“I understand your worries, but they aren’t necessary. So I’ll join his pledge.”
“You mean you’ll forfeit your fee as well?”
“Yes. Borrowing Mr. Rowoon’s words, I’m the ‘fun to watch’ guy. If you watch and find no fun, it’s my fault, and I’ll give the money back. However…”
Chaheon paused meaningfully.
“Betting only on failure is dull; let’s bet on success, too.”
“Ooh, now we’re curious—what’s your success pledge?”
“If we hit Mr. Rowoon’s number, I’ll start with an open free‑hug event.”
Tap‑tap‑tap‑tap! Keyboards hammered even harder.
After that explosive hook, the remaining questions stayed relatively calm and conventional—one powerful moment sticks better than a hundred long explanations.
That should do it.
Rowoon had shed his old image and seized public attention. With such juicy bait, petty spin would fall flat. Chaheon’s unexpected alliance was all the better.
Once the tide turned, the conference flowed smoothly; seasoned actors made full use of the chance. By the end, Director Kim’s face glowed crimson.
“Even if the film tanks, I’ll see that you get your fees—don’t worry, okay?”
Backstage, his eyes even glistened.
“Director, relax. We backed them because we know they won’t fail—don’t be the only one who doubts.”
What had begun like a tribunal ended warm; the actors looked refreshed.
“How did you improvise that? Thanks to Rowoon, we locked every headline.”
“Their eyes popped when he threw down that pledge—hilarious.”
“Can I join the free hugs?”
“Oh, stop. Let the kids have their fun.”
No one seemed to fear failure.
After the after‑party, as the venue emptied, Rowoon stood in the night chill. Chaheon approached.
“What’s with the face after a clean finish?”
Was he picking a fight? Rowoon answered honestly: “Nerves.”
“Nerves? You pledged a million in front of everyone; now you get nerves?”
“Well…”
Try standing on the photo line while the whole nation hates you. The memory of countless reporters still gave him tremors.
But running wasn’t an option; he’d been given a second chance and wouldn’t wreck it with regret. Fear remained, so he devised a trick—layering thought over thought, convincing himself he couldn’t fail. A kind of self‑hypnosis.
“So why’d you butt in?” he asked, steering away from the past he couldn’t reveal. “I have nothing to lose, but you—if things go south, it’s trouble.”
High atop the pyramid, Chaheon had lovers and haters alike. Why risk it?
“Didn’t you want to blow the story up?”
“Well, yes…”
“Then do it right. For real buzz, go this far.”
“I guess it will help, thanks to you…”
But why was he doing it?
Chaheon flicked out a sentence.
“If I thought it would flop, I’d never have started.”
“Sorry?”
“Either I’d drag you offstage or I’d leave. One or the other.”
Rowoon realized he meant the table‑read day.
“So I’m not the only one who thinks this film will succeed,” Chaheon murmured, then added softly, “Good job.”
“Pardon? What did you say—?”
A gust stole the words.
“Forget it,” Chaheon said, and walked away without lingering.
“…Honestly—an unfathomable guy.”
Still, the stunt had nailed the buzz. Rowoon’s pledge alone might have looked cocky; with Chaheon on board, the mood flipped entirely.
They say Chaheon’s fandom fights like a hundred to one…
Rowoon pictured the ripple they’d cause—huge, surely. And once again, his intuition proved right.
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