The wide theater was filled to the brim with a sea of gold.
Beautiful.
The instant he saw it, Rowoon felt his breath catch; the sight was so stunning it gave him goose‑bumps.
For a brief, dazzling moment—as though awarding him for making the right choices—the world was pure ecstasy.
When he blinked, the hall was ordinary again, yet Rowoon was certain.
No need for a second opinion. Absolutely certain.
This is a success.
Even after the end credits had finished and the house lights came up, the auditorium remained silent.
No one opened their mouth in haste.
Rowoon easily guessed why: everyone was steeped in afterglow.
A clap—clap‑clap.
One person’s applause snapped the audience out of their trance.
Perhaps sparked by that, the quiet hand‑clapping swelled until—
CLAP CLAP CLAP!
—it filled the hall. A few people even wiped at their eyes.
What verdict will they render now that the film is over?
Up to the moment the lights dimmed Rowoon had wondered that.
Whatever they decided would mark the beginning of the change he had longed for.
But he no longer needed to see the verdict.
The auditorium had already overflowed with brilliant gold light; that was verdict enough.
Now, at last, a true beginning.
A smile touched Rowoon’s lips.
It was his first successful step out toward the world.
It really was beautiful.
If you melted gold into an ocean, Rowoon thought, it would look like that.
Even after returning home, that golden tide still seemed to flicker before his eyes.
Will I ever see it again?
Not merely because it was beautiful—because it was proof.
Proof that Rowoon’s effort had not been in vain.
All I did was act so I could go on living, practicing until I could perform…
Yet that effort had reached countless people, gained meaning, and that meaning had returned to him as light.
It felt like being on stage again.
In the end, it wasn’t so different—only the stage, the method, the way of revealing oneself changed.
Chae Yujeong – Lee Rowoon
When his name appeared in the credits, the surge of emotion was something he knew he would never forget.
A feeling he thought he’d never touch again had been reawakened by something he’d begun simply to survive.
“Rowoon, Rowoon!”
While he was still lost in that golden after‑image his manager, who had been monitoring reactions even more feverishly, called out.
“Hyung, aren’t you tired? It’s already past midnight…”
This manager, always fussing like a mother bird, would stay through all‑night shoots and long waiting periods, looking after Rowoon without a single complaint—an angel compared with the one from Garion days.
“Tired? Who’s tired? You have to see this. Look.”
He thrust his phone at Rowoon, proud.
“What is it?”
“This critic—very famous, brutal, never spares anyone. Look at the handle: Han Hyang. If a film is below his standards, no amount of money gets a praise line out of him.”
“Han Hyang?”
“Big name. Never takes sponsorships, ads, nothing. People trust his reviews. We did send him an invite, but he never replied—I thought he skipped the screening. But—”
With a flourish the manager tapped the screen.
“—he’s already posted! Read it.”
@HanHyang_Onefragrance
Even before it was made, there was a film that drew every kind of attention. Gwiro is that film.
…
(The critic’s long review follows, praising the film’s realism, its stand on the side of the powerless, the resurrection of “virtue rewarded, evil punished,” and hinting—perhaps deliberately—at parallels between the movie’s plot and the director’s own past plagiarism scandal.)
“How about that? Look—the likes are already blowing up.”
The essay, posted with the film’s poster, had racked up hundreds of thousands of hearts in no time.
Should I tap a heart too…?
Rowoon decided he would, from his own account, a little later.
The last part was especially intriguing; comments were already buzzing about hidden meanings.
Someone influential had framed a theory, and the idea was spreading fast.
Well, that only helps me.
Rowoon remembered the mission‑progress figure he had checked after getting home:
Current mission completion rate: 73 %
Not as polished a number as the golden tides he’d seen; something was still missing.
Why? Filming wrapped, the movie’s finished, the preview went well…
Then he realized: Ah—because it isn’t in general release yet.
A preview isn’t an official box‑office figure; no objective numbers exist until opening day.
The hazy percentage made sense—but he felt there was more.
The mission wasn’t merely “make the movie succeed.” It was “pull a self‑loathing man out of the mud.”
Reviving the director’s career couldn’t be the only key.
Fine. I’ll watch and wait.
With opening day two days away, Rowoon chose patience.
When Gwiro opened, the team became busier than ever.
They had thought the final weeks of shooting were brutal, but post‑release was a different class altogether.
“Aigoo, must be my age—I’m dying here,” one veteran groaned.
A movie doesn’t end when it opens; promotion is just as vital.
Idols, after a comeback, blitz every medium in sight for two frantic weeks; films operate the same.
Row during the flood.
On release day the cast was already running a crazy relay of stage‑greetings from theater to theater.
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