Someone to invite…
Gwiro meant a lot to Rowoon in several ways.
It was the first test handed to him in this second life he had been granted, and the precious lesson that effort really did bear fruit.
The good people and good ties he found along the way were part of that harvest as well.It was no longer a job that could be written off as a mere “request.”
Even with a second chance, some things don’t change, do they…
In his previous life he had lived in a cramped room—little more than a box—always straining to prove he was “useful.”
Now he was in a spacious house and, with only a little work, received sweet recognition from everyone around him, yet—
…family.
In the former life and now, for whatever reason, his luck with family seemed equally nonexistent.
Two people who had led utterly opposite lives, and yet when it came to having no one to invite, they were exactly the same.
Hardly a pleasant coincidence. His mouth tasted bitter.
Right… you can’t just invite random people you don’t even know. If that makes anyone suspicious, I’m the one in trouble…
Besides, the body’s original family didn’t seem especially interested in him.
If they cared, surely they would have reached out by now.
Oh, that reminds me—maybe I could do a giveaway? This is the perfect chance.
Rowoon recalled the rumor he’d heard a few days ago.
Didn’t they say the preview screening was swamped, and the drawing was a mess…?
After the press conference Kim arranged the date for a VIP screening.
Normally a press conference and screening sit back‑to‑back, but for Gwiro they were deliberately separated: the presser would absorb the negative fire, leaving the screening to focus attention on the film alone.
The tactic worked—except Kim overlooked how crazily the conference had inflamed interest.
What if half the seats are empty? That would be so embarrassing.
He had split the hall: half industry reps, half general audience. Rowoon remembered Kim mumbling exactly that.
Yet rumor had it more people swarmed the draw than they’d ever expected—the director looked genuinely flustered.
Which suited Rowoon fine. That spike in interest was precisely why he’d kicked the hornet’s nest.
The request needs a safe landing, after all.
Early buzz was nothing but a good sign.
“Hyung… would it be all right if I give my screening tickets away as an event?”
“You want to raffle them off?”
“Yes. I don’t really have anyone to invite…”
Knowing Rowoon’s situation, the manager said that was a great idea.
With permission in hand, Rowoon opened his personal SNS for the first time in months—and blinked.
“…Huh?”
Why had the follower count gone up?
When he wiped all his posts it had been five million.
It’ll drop, he’d thought—naturally.
But the number staring back was—
“Five hundred‑seventy…?”
What even was that? Why follow a blank account?
Only one explanation seemed plausible:
Did the click‑bait work that well?
Granted, the film was bound to hit; maybe this many people piling on wasn’t impossible.
More followers meant more reach for the giveaway—good for publicity.
Tap tap tap—his fingers flew, crafting a careful post and hashtags.
“This shouldn’t be so nerve‑racking…”
The “0” beside the heart icon flipped to a “1.”
Rowoon exhaled. It was his first direct talk with fans—something he’d never done even before death, since his old agency forbade SNS.
After the group fell apart he’d been too scared to show his face at all.
Compared to that…
He recognized how much he had changed.
The old choking terror that came whenever he thought of fans was gone.
A second chance, he realized, hadn’t only given him life.
It had given him hope that things could truly get better.
The stage is set—please, let the results be good.
No need to get greedy yet, he told himself, recalling countless sleepless nights of practice.
Even if success didn’t come instantly, hard work would see the film triumph eventually—that he believed.
And a moment later—
“…Uh?”
His phone went berserk, buzzing nonstop as likes poured in faster than the screen could update.
A little stone he’d tossed was racing across the online pond.
In the end? To skip straight to the outcome—
Turns out a phone really can drain to zero just on notification vibration.
Rowoon sat stunned. Getting that much SNS reaction was shock number one; realizing five‑point‑seven million followers was an immense crowd was shock number two.
He’d used a basic zero‑dollar “filial‑duty” handset in the past life; this bleeding‑edge social whirl was pure culture shock.
The world is huge and I know so little of it.
A pang of regret—but he refused to dwell on regrets now.
At any rate, the phone’s death owed a second debt: someone else had poured gasoline on the already‑raging fire.
The culprit? Kang Chaheon.
K_chacha_h
At first Rowoon thought he’d misread—why would Chaheon comment? Must be a fake account.
But the bright blue check said otherwise.
Wasn’t he famous for avoiding SNS?
Yet here was Kang Chaheon’s very first comment—on his post.
If that didn’t explode, nothing would.
Problem was, before Rowoon could even read what it said, the phone died!
“Ch‑charger…”
He grabbed a cable and plugged in, but the device rebooted only to black out again. Repeat. Repeat.
Could he even hold the giveaway now?
Thankfully, disaster was averted.
The manager arrived to pick him up, found Rowoon staring blankly at a dead phone, and took charge.
“You called out ‘Hyung…’ in that creepy low tone—I thought something awful happened!”
Relieved, the manager flashed a triumphant grin and thrust his tablet forward.
“Look—already in the news!”
“Actor Lee Rowoon’s Instagram Making Waves: A Heart‑warming Ticket Giveaway.”
“What… is this?”
“Your post from last night. Spread through all the forums; reporters gobbled it up. With Gwiro hot, they’ll print anything.”
Scrolling showed not one article but several.
Click‑driven web pieces equaled money; interest this broad was a metric in itself.
“Nice, right? Reactions are great,” the manager said, praising Rowoon’s shy, thoughtful wording and fan‑care concept.
“With the screening draw already a bloodbath, your ‘seasoning’ was perfect timing.”
“And when did you get so buddy‑buddy with Kang Chaheon? He’s not exactly a sociable guy.”
“…We’re not close.”
More like under observation by him.
“Not close? Then why’d he leave a comment on your Insta?”
Good question indeed.
Still, the situation could hardly become better. Even this trivial mishap was making headlines.
The scent of success—sweet as honey—was already in the air, and no one called it premature.
Today’s schedule proved that. Director Kim and the cast had gathered to shoot YouTube promo clips: simple hellos had ballooned into multiple segments, behind‑the‑scenes Q&A, even a mini acting showcase—avenge the press‑conference frustration!
Kim’s energized orders, the crew’s dark circle‑ringed eyes yet beaming smiles—almost scary.
Rowoon walked the studio first, a routine now, when the door opened—
and Kang Chaheon entered, greeting the director, collecting cue sheets—
and then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, headed straight to Rowoon’s side.
Why is he coming over here?
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