No—he shouldn’t be heading this way because of me, right?
“Curb your delusions of grandeur and reclaim a healthy life!” —a slogan from who‑knows‑where flashed through Rowoon’s mind.
…But still!
Was this a new kind of harassment?
Rowoon had come to realize that, after working scenes together, Kang Chaheon was actually a decent guy—but did Chaheon see him that way?
First impressions were still vivid: they had been… intense.
Then why did he leave that comment?
The comment Rowoon finally read after the manager blocked all the notifications:
K_chacha_h: Wasn’t the very first invitation supposed to be mine?
When had they ever made such a promise?
Was Chaheon teasing him? Yet he didn’t seem the sort to bother with petty cruelty.
Rowoon decided to ask directly.
“Um… that comment—what was it about?”
“Comment? Ah, Instagram.” Chaheon stroked his chin. “Why? Wasn’t it helpful? You looked like you were working hard, so I just threw in a little covering fire.”
“It was helpful… but…”
Helpful? It was more like dropping a bomb in the middle of everything: The Kang Chaheon wanting that ticket—instant premium label, instant detonation.
“Then that’s fine. What’s the problem?”
“Don’t you dislike me?”
Rowoon recalled that brutally strong first meeting.
“Hate you? Who ever said that?”
“…Huh?”
“I didn’t say I hated you. Who told you I did?”
“Uh—you did. Right to my face. Don’t you remember?”
Chaheon folded his arms, staring straight into Rowoon as if piercing him.
“I did, yeah. But you’re not the guy I hated, are you?”
The guy meant the body’s original owner.
He really believes that?
Of course Rowoon had said several times he was a different soul, and Chaheon had seemed to take it in stride, but—
“Was that a lie?”
“It wasn’t, but…”
“Then what’s wrong?”
Did he really not understand? Did he truly accept all those words at face value?
“You act well. Maybe a bit timid, but your personality’s fine.”
Was that a compliment?
“At first I did keep an eye on you,” Chaheon went on.
“No matter how good an actor is, sooner or later the real self leaks through. But you…”
He scanned Rowoon top to bottom.
“If you’d fooled me, you’d have left Korea long ago. That guy never shut up about wanting Hollywood.”
Typical of the original: ability zero, ambition full.
“So, I don’t see any reason to hate you. Unless… would you prefer I did?”
“N‑no, not at all.”
“Then we’re good. Problem solved.” A tone that said why sweat pointless stuff?
I feel like I’ve been railroaded somehow.
Still, it was certainly better not to be loathed by a world‑renowned star.
Fine—good is good, Rowoon told himself.
Actors were gathering on the set the crew had prepared.
“Look at this place—completely different class.”
“Tell me about it. Compared to the read‑through room…”
“Our director must’ve had a serious grudge to settle, huh?”
Even Kim, who normally stayed behind the main camera, took a seat inside the studio.
They had a full day of dense shooting ahead, plus a making‑film team in the corner—evidence of how fiercely Kim had prepared.
“Just look at today’s schedule—it might be tougher than filming the movie.”
“But we’ve got to row while the tide’s in.”
Since the channel opened at the press conference had already gained subscribers, the actors were eager.
The list of shots was long, but filming was fun.
If only I were more articulate, Rowoon thought, stumbling now and then.
Shooting as actor Lee Rowoon rather than Chae Yujeong felt strange.
But whenever he flubbed, the crew let it slide—Kim had asked for maximum naturalness and a tight schedule allowed no retakes.
Problem was, every other actor was a veteran; Rowoon was not.
Is it really okay to leave it like this? Even if it’s just YouTube content, is total spontaneity fine…?
Oddly, every time he spoke the other actors watched him with warmly pleased smiles, Kim included—positively beaming at Rowoon.
Whenever he fumbled someone pressed another snack into his hands.
Nibbling away, his nerves gradually eased.
Well, if it wasn’t okay the director would cut. Relax, Rowoon.
Shooting even covered lunch; for realism they filmed the meal.
As usual the seniors slid plates toward him.
He’d once asked why and got:
“Our Yujeong always looks so pitiful— he dines so politely, yet eats only tiny portions.”
Per Chaheon’s advice—just say thank you and eat—he accepted gratefully.
But… this is still filming. Is this really okay for broadcast?
Questions lingered, yet Kim said it was perfect; Rowoon left it in his hands.
By wrap‑time it was the wee hours.
“When does this go up?” someone asked.
“Tomorrow afternoon,” Kim said. “Has to hit before the screening the next day.”
His strategy was not mystery but riding the wave: keep the spotlight burning with steady fuel.
Next day Kim’s channel uploaded the video.
Within hours views soared into the hundreds of thousands.
Release was practically here: time to reap the harvest of effort.
“Hyung, are you okay?”
“I—I’m fine—ugh—fine.”
Premiere day dawned. Rowoon was nervous, but the manager looked ready to puke.
He still drove Rowoon to the venue.
Today is critical, Rowoon thought.
A preview screening was like a compressed forecast of total box office.
Half the hall was industry, half general viewers; their word of mouth could determine fate.
Especially this: no friendly journalists bought in advance. No influencers invited. They had none of that luxury.
People filed into the green room, a grim air like soldiers before battle.
“Nervous?” Chaheon flicked Rowoon’s shoulder. “You were cool at the presser.”
“Those were only reporters.”
Now, civilians.
The public—dear yet terrifying: their verdicts defined an entertainer’s worth.
“Here. Take this.”
“…?” A piece of candy.
“Did you catch that from the seniors?”
Humans doing out‑of‑character things just before death and all that. Still, the gesture calmed him.
“Please take your seats!”
They entered the auditorium. The large theater was packed to the last seat.
Ah.
Instagram had been a first conversation with fans; this screening was the first official meeting with the public.
He felt thousands of eyes: some hostile, most curious, a few faintly kind.
Facing hundreds of judges—yet…
Not bad at all, he realized.
Curiosity dominated, free of pre‑made verdicts. Which meant:
I can turn them to my side—or the opposite.
And Rowoon had faith he could win them.
“Good evening. Thank you all for coming to the very first showing of Gwiro. I am the director…”
After greetings, flashes, waves, Rowoon found himself in his assigned seat.
Lights dimmed; on the vast screen words appeared.
Life… is hard.
A low, heavy murmur—quietly spoken yet carving ripples in the heart—
Thus Gwiro began.
And when the final credit scrolled off and the lights rose,
Rowoon saw it: a surging sea of golden light.
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