Chapter 23: Then I’ll Take It Back

The Next Day

In the office of CT Entertainment’s CEO.

Tap— Tap—
Thud— Thud—

Each time Yang Ha-rin tapped her phone with her fingertips, a soft vibration echoed.

Her fingers moved tirelessly, as though she were busy communicating with someone. But the truth was a little different.

[Yang Ha-rin Gallery]
[Title: Yang Ha-rin’s Monthly Schedule Poster]
[Yang Ha-rin: Yang Ha-rin’s High-Resolution Photoshoot!]
[Yang Ha-rin: Yang Ha-rin Story Captures]

A near-obsessive ego-surfing session.

Many people enjoy browsing online communities, but for Yang Ha-rin, her attachment to them ran far deeper.

Her compulsion to repeatedly check her reputation on the internet was particularly intense.

[Title: Yang Ha-rin]
[Author: Yangsoonging]

“I was looking forward to it, so I’m curious why it fell apart. Didn’t Yang Ha-rin decide to join despite her already packed schedule? Why did it fail so badly?”

Yes, she browsed for posts like this.

Spotting posts she didn’t like was endlessly upsetting, but the satisfaction, thrill, and self-esteem boost from seeing posts she did like—it was addictive. She couldn’t stop. Ultimately, this habit would soothe her frayed nerves, at least a little.

“Ha-rin.”

The CEO’s voice pulled her out of her thoughts.

“I’m listening.”

“You’re only responding now? I’ve called you three times already.”

“…You called me three times?”

She had no idea.

Was she really that preoccupied with this issue? Yang Ha-rin furrowed her brows without realizing it. Her pride was clearly hurt.

“I’ve recovered all the investments, and we’ve released articles everywhere, so there’s nothing for you to worry about. Just focus on your upcoming work.”

“I saw the articles too,” Ha-rin replied, finally taking her eyes off her phone.

“But, CEO.”

Her subdued gaze turned to the CEO.

“I really don’t want to take a break. I’ll do another project instead.”

“Is that so? Should I start scouting for projects? Honestly, Park Jun had his merits because we could control him, but there are still plenty of good options out there.”

“Yes. Let’s do something, anything. I don’t want a hiatus. Besides, if I win an award, it’ll add a significant line to my filmography.”

As Ha-rin said this, a certain man came to mind.

The “charming trash,” Kim Sun-il.

Even now, the remnants of her feelings from The High Road lingered in her heart, a startling impact. Perhaps that’s why she had been scouring the communities endlessly.

To comfort herself by finding posts praising her.

“You are the best. You are the best. You are the best…”

“If I perform better, maybe they’ll acknowledge me. Perhaps I’ll even get an apology.”

To ensure that moment would come, her filmography had to become even more perfect. Winning the Best New Actor Award was a must.

In that case…

Having made her calculations, Yang Ha-rin opened her mouth.

“CEO.”

“Huh?”

“What if Director Park doesn’t let go of this project? He could survive like a cockroach, find new investors, hire actors again… If that happens, I think I’d feel really unpleasant.”

Since CT Entertainment had completely withdrawn from the project, the ideal scenario for Yang Ha-rin was for Sword to completely fall apart.

If it didn’t, it might look like she bore some responsibility too. For someone with compulsive ego-surfing tendencies like Ha-rin, this possibility was bound to prick her nerves.

The CEO, catching her drift, grinned slyly.

“Got it. Should I meddle a bit? Stir up some trouble in the articles about Director Park and create a negative buzz around him so that no one will join in?”

“Of course, you should,” Ha-rin replied, nodding firmly.

[Title: Yang Ha-rin]
[Author: Yangsoonging]

“I was looking forward to it. Why did it fall apart? Didn’t Yang Ha-rin split her already busy schedule to join? Why did it fail so badly?”

• I heard there were issues with the director.
• Apparently, all his recent works flopped.
• Honestly, it’s a waste of the actor’s talent.

She even left three comments on the post herself.

Meanwhile, Park Jun sat alone in a café, speaking on the phone.

“Sun-il, I’ve decided to try holding onto it. What you said about it not being too late gave me the courage.”

His conversation partner was none other than Kim Sun-il, the one who had inspired him to persevere.

“You made the right choice. It’s too good of a project to give up on.”

“Thank you,” Park Jun said with a warm smile.

“Being free from the leash CT Entertainment had on me feels great, but the reality is I have neither the actors nor the investment secured yet. It’s overwhelming, really.”

“Just focus on securing that one person. I’ll handle the rest.”

“Hey! How could I ask for more help from you? That’s not why I called. I just wanted to thank you.”

“It’s no trouble for me. I just can’t stand seeing a project I care about being ruined.”

The call ended on a heartwarming note.

However, the smile on Park Jun’s face didn’t last long. It faded the moment he checked the latest articles.

“What is this… what’s going on?”

The content was so shocking that his hands began to tremble. Still, he had to mask the shaking. Through the café window, a familiar face had just appeared.

It was Lee Sua.

Park Jun instinctively swallowed dryly.

“She’s really something else.”

Could there be anyone more destined to be an actor?

The woman cautiously opened the café door and stepped inside.

Her delicate face seemed like it could be covered with a single fist, and her jet-black eyes carried an unfathomable depth of mystery.

Her features looked as though they had been sculpted entirely from sharp, refined lines.

She was the kind of person you couldn’t easily approach, let alone speak to. Even looking at her felt intimidating.

“Ms. Sua, over here!”

As soon as Lee Sua took a seat across from him, Park Jun shyly slid the coffee he had pre-ordered toward her.

For a moment, he hesitated, wondering how to start the conversation.

“Please state your business,” Sua said coldly, her voice cutting through the silence.

Realizing any unnecessary preamble might backfire, Park Jun quickly spoke.

“Ms. Sua, you mentioned you liked the role of Wi Ji-hye, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask why in detail?”

There was a brief pause before Park Jun added a few more words.

“Please be as honest as possible. Even if it’s something like ‘I just needed a lead role to add to my filmography.’ That’s fine too.”

“Well…”

Sua hesitated briefly before responding.

“Explaining it in detail would take too long. Anyway, I wanted to participate in this project as Wi Ji-hye. That feeling hasn’t changed, even now.”

“That feeling… hasn’t changed even now?”

Park Jun’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Are you aware that CT Entertainment has withdrawn all its investments and that Yang Ha-rin has stepped down from the project?”

“Of course I am.”

“And even so… your feelings remain unchanged?”

“Yes. I said I want to do it.”

Unbelievable. Park Jun swallowed his astonishment.

His question to Sua had been simple: Was her interest in Sword purely superficial, or did she genuinely care about the project?

Now he had his answer.

It was clear she hadn’t applied out of mere curiosity. There was no doubt about her sincerity.

Overwhelmed with emotion, Park Jun smiled. As the director of the project, this one fact warmed his heart immensely.

“…I’m truly grateful. This really touches me.”

“Is that all you wanted to say?” Sua asked bluntly.

“Ah, I was going to ask you to take on the role of Wi Ji-hye, but the situation has become far too dire now,” Park Jun admitted.

He switched on his phone and held it out to her.

[‘Park Jun’ continues on a downward spiral after several failed attempts.]
[Another flop for the once-great director.]
[Park Jun’s upcoming project deemed unsalvageable.]

Every single article either criticized him or predicted an even bleaker future. This was why his expression had soured right after his earlier call with Kim Sun-il.

It was the bitter reality of a director in decline.

“These articles were just published. I think CT Entertainment is behind them, trying to confirm my demise. While I’m not bothered about my own reputation, this puts actors who choose to join the project at risk of being criticized for poor judgment.”

“It’s practically a threat to abandon the project, isn’t it?”

“Exactly. That’s how this industry works.”

Saying this, Park Jun reached into his bag and pulled something out.

A pile of scripts stacked up on the table.

“What’s this?”

“These are scripts for other short films that I gathered earlier.”

“…And why are you showing them to me?”

“You’ve spoken highly of my project, and I appreciate it. But since my film is essentially doomed, if you find a script you like, I can help you set up an audition for that instead.”

Sua flipped through the scripts briefly.

Well, to be precise, she only pretended to examine them closely. What would she really know? She was just checking the ratings.

However, none of the scripts seemed to match the quality of Sword. Some were even marked with a dismal fifth-tier rating, like mines waiting to explode.

The conclusion was simple. Sword and the role of Wi Ji-hye were still the best options.

After pushing the scripts aside, Sua spoke.

“Well, I still want to play Wi Ji-hye in Sword.”

“…What?”

Park Jun’s eyes widened in shock.

It was something he could hardly comprehend.

“These projects all have better circumstances than mine. The directors are more reputable, and they’re backed by stronger funding. But you’re still interested in my film? Even now?”

“Yes.”

“Despite all the negative articles about me?”

“Yes. I think your work is the most compelling.”

“…!”

An unbelievable response.

At that moment, a memory surfaced in Park Jun’s mind—something Kim Sun-il had once said.

“Sometimes, there are actors like that. Ones who don’t care about money or personal gain, but simply dive into projects they believe are right.”

Frankly, he had considered such actors mythical.

After all, isn’t acting just another job people pursue for self-fulfillment, recognition, or money?

But now, Park Jun felt like he had encountered one of these “mythical” actors.

He thought about himself, someone who prioritized artistic vision over mass appeal, and how similar Lee Sua seemed in her steadfast commitment to her preferences.

Of course, this was a massive misunderstanding on his part, but to him, it felt like the truth.

And then, something ignited within Park Jun.

The name of that spark was passion.

Meanwhile, Sua found the silence awkward. She was growing increasingly uncomfortable with the sight of Park Jun, who seemed on the verge of tears.

“…What’s wrong?”

“No, it’s nothing. I’m just so grateful… Ms. Sua, would you be willing to take on the lead role in this imperfect project?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much. Your acting skills were already clear during the audition, so there’s no need for further tests for the role of Wi Ji-hye…”

“Oh.”

Sua took out her phone.

“I actually recorded myself practicing the role. Just for myself.”

“Ah, if you’re okay with it, I’d love to see it.”

“Sure. Take a look. I’ll just step out to the restroom.”

Recording her practice sessions? It struck Park Jun anew how deeply passionate Lee Sua was about the role of Wi Ji-hye. Filled with admiration, he pressed play on the video.

“…What the—!”

He couldn’t stop himself from standing up in shock.

Was this really filmed alone in her room?

Her performance was extraordinary. She didn’t just focus on the character’s movements and dialogue; it was as if she had mentally constructed the entire setting around her.

She acted like there was an actual set, interacting with an invisible world she had fully envisioned.

Watching it, Park Jun could already visualize how to film certain scenes. Her preparation was beyond anything he had expected.

“How much dedication and love must she have poured into this project?”

When Sua finally returned, drying her hands, Park Jun greeted her with an unyielding expression.

“Ms. Sua.”

“Yes?”

“I’m going to see this project through to the end.”

His eyes burned with determination, as if he were heading into battle.

“This film—if you’re in it, that’s all I need. I’ll handle the rest, even if I have to sell my organs.”

“…Why would you sell your organs?”

***

In a luxurious apartment, every detail spoke of elegance—from the polished tiles on the floor to the carefully placed furniture.

Seo Yeon-ju lay on the sofa with a face mask on, basking in the opulence.

It was then that Kim Sun-il entered the room.

“You’re here.”

Without opening her eyes, Seo Yeon-ju muttered.

“Why are you here? Leave.”

“You leave first.”

Were they living together? Absolutely not. If they were stranded on a deserted island together, they’d still have no interest in each other.

This upscale apartment was simply a workspace their agency had provided. A place that might be someone’s dream home was, for them, just a working studio.

Such was the world of top-tier actors.

Suddenly, Seo Yeon-ju murmured, “Kim Sun-il, I envy you.”

“There’s no shortage of things about me for you to envy.”

His reply was as arrogant as always, prompting Seo Yeon-ju to click her tongue in irritation.

“Shut up. There’s only one thing I envy.”

“And that is?”

“Lee Sua. Competing as co-leads with that monster.”

“…Are we back to this again?”

Recently, Seo Yeon-ju had become completely captivated by Lee Sua.

More precisely, she was mesmerized by Lee Sua’s acting.

Even now, Kim Sun-il found himself observing Seo Yeon-ju.

Normally, she would use any free time to discuss her next schedule or plan.

But these days, she spent every spare moment watching videos of Lee Sua’s performances. It was borderline obsessive.

“You’re a lead too. You’ll be acting alongside her.”

“But it’s different when you’re co-starring as rival leads! Oh no, my face mask almost slipped. Don’t make me yell like that,” Seo Yeon-ju said as she carefully adjusted her face mask.

“Being rival leads is a very romantic thing. You collaborate to align your performances, but at the same time, you compete fiercely so you don’t get overshadowed. And then, when filming wraps, you share a beautiful ending together. Isn’t that rosy and wonderful? Don’t you think so?”

“…Perhaps it’s just your addiction to romance novels talking.”

“Either way, that’s how I see my world of acting. Having a partner like Lee Sua—a monster rookie—makes it even better. It’s a great opportunity for growth.”

“You sound childish.”

Even as he dismissed her remarks, Kim Sun-il couldn’t help but acknowledge Seo Yeon-ju inwardly.

That’s precisely why they coexisted peacefully within the same agency.

Unlike those who trample over others to climb higher, Seo Yeon-ju was someone who advanced step by step while holding hands with others.

She created positive opportunities, a trait even Yang Ha-rin respected.

Then, a sudden thought struck Kim Sun-il.

“Wait a minute.”

He remembered something critical: in Director Park’s short film, even if Lee Sua played Wi Ji-hye, there was still a lead role left vacant. Yang Ha-rin had dropped out, after all.

And here was Seo Yeon-ju, eager to act opposite a phenomenon like Lee Sua. Kim Sun-il’s mind began working even faster.

“If Seo Yeon-ju joins as a lead, it might completely change the situation. No, it will change everything.”

Having made up his mind, Kim Sun-il uttered just one sentence:

“Seo Yeon-ju, don’t go anywhere.”

“Why are you acting like that?”

***

About 30 minutes later, Kim Sun-il returned.

“What now? Did you bring more cleaning supplies? Your obsession with tidiness is unbearable.”

“Today’s different.”

Kim Sun-il placed something by Seo Yeon-ju’s side. She casually picked it up and saw it was a script.

“A script? What’s this for?”

“You already know it. Director Park’s project.”

“Oh, the short film? I saw the articles. It fell apart, didn’t it? I felt bad when I read about it.”

Seo Yeon-ju suddenly sat upright, as though she were getting angry.

“But the more I think about it, isn’t it just too much?”

“What is?”

“All those articles—can’t you tell they’re trying to ruin him? What kind of ethics do these people even have?”

The project likely fell apart because of Yang Ha-rin’s personality, yet why is Director Park being blamed for everything?

Kim Sun-il nodded briefly.

“Read this script.”

“What? Why so suddenly?”

“Read it. Or you can handle today’s cleaning instead.”

“…How petty.”

Seo Yeon-ju opened the script.

It took her an hour before she put it down again.

“What’s this? The script’s better than I thought.”

“It’s already been an hour.”

“Huh? Really? I thought I’d only been reading for ten minutes.”

Blinking in amazement, Seo Yeon-ju barely finished speaking before Kim Sun-il delivered the real reason for his insistence.

“Do you want to try taking the lead in this?”

“Hmm…”

Smack!

Seo Yeon-ju threw the script at Kim Sun-il’s forehead.

The script slid down his face in silence.

“…Are you out of your mind? I’m too busy to handle this.”

“Are you scared?”

“It’s not fear; it’s that this will be such a hassle. The moment it’s announced that I’m in this production—a film with no funding, no actors, nothing—there will be a flood of articles. It’ll just be endless headaches from there.”

Rubbing her temple, Seo Yeon-ju could already feel the weight of future troubles.

“And if the project fails, people will start saying things like, ‘Seo Yeon-ju doesn’t even have good judgment.’ I’d rather avoid all that.”

“Seo Yeon-ju.”

“Stop saying my name! I’m not doing it. I get that you like this script, but the project’s already a disaster. Let it go.”

Kim Sun-il folded his arms and tilted his head slightly.

“You said you were envious of me, didn’t you?”

“What?”

“You want to stand as a rival lead against Lee Sua, right?”

Tap, tap.

Kim Sun-il tapped the script lightly with his index finger.

“Lee Sua has already taken one lead role. You just need to join.”

A long silence followed.

“Ah, no. I’m still not doing it.”

Seo Yeon-ju shook her head.

“It’s fine if we matched perfectly as rivals, but she’s a complete rookie, and I’ve built my career. If I join, it’ll feel like I’m chasing her momentum, and I can’t let that happen.”

“Then I’ll take this back.”

Kim Sun-il turned swiftly to leave.

Suddenly, thunk—

Seo Yeon-ju grabbed his ankle.

And she grabbed it firmly.

“You could at least leave the script here, couldn’t you…?”

[Short Film ‘Sword’]

• Experience completed / Grade: 1.5

[Short Film ‘Sword’ Final Grade]

• Experience completed / Grade: 1