Junseong looked through the résumés of the people who had applied for the open audition in the office.
Beside him stacks of paper were piled so high they could not be counted.
“How many applied? It looks like a lot.”
“A lot, you say?”
Junseong glanced at me and laughed in disbelief.
“It is over eight hundred. That is beyond merely a lot. Even the bundle that holds only the actors with real box-office pull is this thick.”
He waggled a fat wad of pages in front of me.
“Son Yebin, Lee Seobin, Kim Hwi-in too… I thought their pride would keep them from an open audition, but plenty of them applied.”
“Hm…”
Junseong reeled off the names of young established actors whom Korea would be excited about right now.
If an actor who already has a place is rejected in an open audition that even unknown newcomers can enter, it will be quite a blow.
The truly unknown actors at least have nothing to lose.
Yet despite that risk, so many have applied…
“There are a huge number of actors who want to work with you. Really it was Weird Desire that was unusual; this is how it should be.”
Smiling broadly, he looked at the heap of applications.
“Oh, and Kwak Yeonji is in here too.”
“What…? Kwak Yeonji?”
“Yeah. I thought it might be a namesake, but the photo says otherwise. I was surprised.”
He handed me Kwak Yeonji’s form.
Resolution: I will work hard.
Her short, plain declaration almost made me laugh.
Most other actors had covered their resolve in fancy phrases; the simplicity of Yeonji’s line felt more appealing.
“Looks like she does not expect to get picked. Compared with the others, her application is really brief.”
“Well… who knows. Unless acting is innate it is hard to improve dramatically in a few years. I am not holding out much hope.”
Hearing me, Junseong nodded.
“Has it really been three years since the graduation-project audition? Back then her acting was…”
“The worst.”
At his words, I recalled how she had stood awkwardly in that room three years ago, pouring out nasal tones.
Even for an actress who had risen on her looks, it was far too bad.
She had not tried at all to understand the character; her attitude felt arrogant past forgiveness.
“Tell the interviewers not to care about name value. How famous they are is none of our business.”
At that Junseong frowned.
“Obviously. Why are you announcing it like some grand maxim?”
“Just in case.”
He ignored me and muttered to himself.
“But if there are more than eight hundred people, how many interviewers do we need…?”
Practising hard, Kwak Yeonji sensed something was wrong yet could not pinpoint it.
“What is the problem…?”
She stared at her reflection in the mirror, frowned slightly.
She wished the self in the glass would speak the answer, but nothing happened.
Acting had always been difficult.
“Where is the answer to acting? Acting is moving as the heart leads.”
She often heard that saying, but only someone at a certain level could pull it off.
Only those who can blend a character naturally can talk like that, yet some people overused the phrase.
As a child she had admired those words and carried them like a life motto.
Not anymore.
Even if acting has no single answer there is at least an approximation that everyone acknowledges.
These past months she had spent more time studying characters to find that approximation.
Before, she had only rushed to memorize lines; now she imagined how the character would move.
The more she immersed herself, the more she felt her sync with the role rise.
Yet she did not feel it with the script before her.
Maybe because it was too hard.
She sighed, pressed the stop button on the camera.
“Whew… let’s try again.”
After a sip of water, she faced the camera to start again.
“Reporter Lee So-hee from Culture Daily. Ha… this is not it.”
Watching the playback, she tried to find what was off.
Something had to be identified.
“Having trouble with something?”
Her manager entered holding water.
“Something is wrong, but I don’t know what.”
He watched her on the camera, eyes worried yet distracted.
When the clip ended, he forced a laugh.
“You have improved a lot. It’s fine, really.”
“Something is up, isn’t there?”
“What?”
“Didn’t we promise to hide nothing about business, good or bad?”
At her words, he sighed and showed a newspaper.
“Some articles popped up… Lee Seobin applied.”
At that name, her face tightened.
Lee Seobin of Heyum Entertainment, an agency far more powerful than hers and famous for using illegal lobbying to plant its talents in films, dramas, even variety shows.
Everyone in the know was aware, yet no one exposed it.
She had lost good roles to Seobin more than once thanks to them, so merely hearing the name made her shiver.
It was not only a matter between companies.
“Senior, your acting is amazing. How many hours do you practice a day?”
On the last drama set, Seobin had grinned and said that.
Seobin had played the lead; she had only reacted at the lead’s side.
That alone felt bad, since it was clearly mockery, but what followed was worse.
Trying not to recall it, she shook her head and exhaled.
Seeing this, the manager brightened.
“Still, don’t lose heart. Let us give it everything.”
“It’s fine. I wasn’t expecting much anyway.”
Her sudden listlessness surprised him; he stared a moment, then forced a smile.
“It isn’t over. It hasn’t even started.”
“Her agency’s famous… you know that.”
She slumped in a practice chair, dropping the script that had gone wrinkled from days of constant handling.
“Still…”
“Don’t give me useless hope. That hurts.”
“If you truly don’t want to do it, I won’t stop you. But that’s not it.”
He lifted the script she had set down.
“Does someone who doesn’t care carry a script until it looks like this?”
She said nothing, staring at the battered pages.
She could not recall when she had handled it so much.
After a silent moment he pressed it back into her hands.
“I will do whatever it takes. You just practice and think of nothing else. Understand?”
She said nothing; he left without waiting.
“I heard nothing. I won’t tell the boss you quit. You’re doing it, okay? I’m off. Practice hard.”
Bang.
The door closed loudly; she looked at the script in her hands.
Little drops fell on it like drizzle.
“Damn…”
Wiping her tears, she switched on the camera, closed her eyes before recording.
That character Lee So-hee—maybe she isn’t bold but scared of being hurt, so she strikes first… maybe she pretends madness so no one can raise a knife.
She stared into the lens, planned each movement to capture what she felt, then hit record.
The day before the first auditions, Lee Junseong was drafting the budget at the office.
Paying the interviewers alone would cost a fortune.
He was entering the figures when the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Junseong, it’s Sang-woo…”
Go Sang-woo.
Hearing the voice he least wanted, Junseong frowned, about to hang up, then paused.
The strange link between Chanhyeon’s recent events and Sang-woo made him curious.
Kwak Yeonji showing up before the director, Sang-woo showing up before him did not seem a coincidence.
“Are you Yeonji’s manager?”
“…”
When Sang-woo did not answer he asked again.
“Are you? If you don’t answer honestly, I hang up.”
“Yes… I am.”
His voice prickled Junseong’s nerves.
“Do you know how risky it is just calling me? Yeonji applied for the audition…”
“I know. But I have a shameless request.”
“What? Do you even have a conscience…”
“I lost that long ago.”
The calm tone jarred. Sang-woo had once been the most decent of his friends.
Yet hearing him say he had no conscience was irritating.
“I’m in front of Seonghyeon Pictures. Can you meet me once? It will take five minutes.”
Junseong collapsed into his chair.
If it were the Sang-woo he remembered, he was not the type for cowardly tricks.
Yet all his old friends had changed: Kang Jun-mo, Jo Jun, Son Baek-jin. The boys he had known were gone.
He could not be sure Sang-woo had not changed too.
“Please, just once. After this I will never call or show my face. My last request, Junseong. The last of my life…”
T/N: Whaaat—?! I never made that connection! As I edited this chapter in the beginning, I was thinking: ‘Yeonji’s manager is so nice’. Haha, he’s actually the pitiful Sangwoo… *sigh* I feel tired.
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