“…An appearance fee?”
The production manager seated across from Director Han Jae-hyuk frowned, a deep line forming between his eyebrows.
“An appearance fee? For some guy with no verifiable credits? It’s absurd to even bring up a fee at this stage!”
The manager’s voice sharpened, rising in indignation. His reaction was understandable. He worked for C-Blue Studio, a major domestic production company, and from his perspective, Lee Min-jun was no different from any other civilian off the street.
His background was a complete mystery.
And a guy like that had the nerve to talk about money before he’d even signed on? The production manager, a veteran of countless productions, had never encountered such audacity. It was unheard-of. His voice grew louder.
“I don’t care how unique this Lee Min-jun is, this isn’t acceptable. It shouldn’t be. This is just a guess on your part, Director.”
“Well, that’s true, but…”
Even the veteran Director Han Jae-hyuk felt the same. The notion of an appearance fee was purely his own speculation. Still, this Lee Min-jun was a complete anomaly, unlike anyone he had ever met. And his acting?
He could effortlessly eclipse veterans with more than a decade of experience.
On top of that, there was the profound gravity he exuded—his focus, his sheer presence. This was a man who had casually strolled onto the set of ‘Rising Star’. Wouldn’t a man like that have the confidence to negotiate a fee from the outset?
‘And Writer Park took a clear liking to him.’
It wasn’t just Writer Park Eun-mi. Director Han, Yoon Seo-ah, everyone who had witnessed Lee Min-jun in the conference room that day had been captivated. If he was aware of that, it was entirely possible he’d try to leverage it.
‘This is a first for me, dealing with someone negotiating right from the start. It’s tricky.’
As things stood, Lee Min-jun held a surprisingly strong hand. Director Han, his arms crossed in thought, turned his head to his left.
Writer Park Eun-mi, a headband now holding her hair back, was already looking at him. Her expression was severe, her resolve as solid as granite.
“I don’t know if it’s a guess or not, and I don’t care.”
She stated it plainly.
“I’ll say this once: don’t get cheap.”
Her voice was low and carried a distinct chill. The short sentence was heavy with implication. The unspoken threat was clear: Don’t lose him over a few won, or you’ll answer to me.
Director Han shrugged and turned his gaze back to the production manager.
“Director Lee, I’d like to keep my job, so maybe we should figure out an appearance fee for Lee Min-jun, speculation or not?”
The production manager let out a long sigh.
“Ah, Director, Writer… you have to see it from the production company’s side. There’s an industry standard. No matter how special he is… word will get around.”
“I know, I understand. It’s a headache.”
Director Han, picturing Lee Min-jun’s impassive face, added another thought.
“But treating that man like just another nobody… that doesn’t feel right, either.”
“Nobodies and rookies don’t land supporting roles just by impressing the director and writer. And he did it all on his own, without an agency.”
A momentary silence settled over the room. Director Han was the first to break it.
“Let’s do this. To keep rumors from flying, we’ll offer him a fee that’s above the average for a newcomer, but we’ll add a strict confidentiality clause to the contract.”
“With all due respect, Director, what kind of fee are you considering for him?”
“Hmm. You saw him today, didn’t you? He’s sharp. A clever guy. I don’t think he’ll ask for the moon. He’ll have a good sense of his own worth and will stay within a reasonable range.”
Director Han picked up a pen and jotted a number down on a nearby notepad.
“How about this as our maximum? What do you think?”
At that very moment, in Lee Min-jun’s small studio apartment, the man himself was blissfully unaware that his salary was being debated.
He was lying comfortably on his back, not sleeping, but watching a drama on his phone.
In truth, Min-jun had been like this for a while. He had returned home from the meeting around six o’clock; it was now half past eleven. Though five hours had passed in the real world, for Min-jun, it felt closer to fifteen.
As soon as he had gotten home, he had entered the void space several times. He had nearly finished inhabiting every character from the first part of ‘My Heiress,’ one of the scripts available to him, leaving only the ‘Male Cafe Clerk.’
This, of course, was part of his experimentation.
The drama he was watching now, having already lived through its script, was that very same show, ‘My Heiress.’ He replayed scenes over and over, analyzing how the actors portrayed their roles, noting the differences between script and screen, and comparing the world he’d experienced in the void with the one filmed in reality.
Thanks to this process, Min-jun came to a realization.
“Watching it like this, it’s obvious why this drama bombed.”
Setting aside the directing and production values, the acting was simply atrocious.
“Isn’t this actor pretty famous?”
Now that he had personally embodied every character from the script, his evaluation was crystal clear. It was as if the actors in the drama were attempting a poor imitation of him.
After all, Min-jun had already performed every single role.
From his unique vantage point, it was like watching a cast of amateurs trying to copy his performance. And in his opinion, they were doing a terrible job.
“The dialogue feels… hollow.”
The lines the actors delivered carried no emotional weight. They seemed to be forcing the words out, just to match the beats of the scene.
“It’s a shame. It would be so much better if they put some heart into it.”
Was this what it felt like to watch someone mimic you? Min-jun had no idea. Unwittingly, his knowledge of acting was accumulating, layer by layer. By repeatedly living through different roles, a vast array of emotions and expressions was being imprinted upon him.
It was a training method no one else could even fathom.
Min-jun’s phone vibrated, interrupting the drama. A call. The name on the screen was his friend, Choi Si-woo. Rolling onto his side, Min-jun put the phone to his ear.
“What’s up? It’s late.”
Choi Si-woo’s voice came through the speaker, thick with a yawn.
“Hey, let’s get together after I finish work tomorrow. You still owe me that barbecue.”
He paused.
“And bring back those scripts you borrowed.”
The next day, a Friday evening, Lee Min-jun was walking near Jeongja Station shortly after eight o’clock. He wore his usual padded jacket and jeans, but today he’d added a hat.
No need to fuss over his hair just to meet Si-woo.
“Should be around here somewhere.”
Min-jun scanned his surroundings, searching for the pork belly restaurant his friend had mentioned. Just then, his phone rang.
He glanced at the screen and a small grin touched his lips. It was Director Han Jae-hyuk. Wondering what it could be about, Min-jun cleared his throat and answered.
Director Han’s voice greeted him, sounding relatively cheerful.
“Min-jun, how have you been?”
“By the way, I was just wondering if you had a rough idea of what you’re expecting for an appearance fee? I’m not trying to negotiate right now, just curious.”
An appearance fee? An out-of-the-blue call about money? The question hadn’t even crossed Min-jun’s mind, and for a second, he was taken aback.
On the other end of the line, Director Han misinterpreted his silence.
“Of course, I’m sure the fee is on your mind. Alright, let’s be more direct then.”
“Actually, now that I think about it, Writer Park and I might have been a bit rash with the casting offer. We should go over the various conditions.”
“Let’s do this. We’re on a tight schedule and need to cast the ‘Manager Park’ role soon. Think it over tonight, and let’s meet tomorrow to discuss the terms and finalize our decision.”
The specific conditions were unclear, but it didn’t matter to Min-jun. He was leaning toward accepting anyway.
Hearing Min-jun’s decisive agreement, Director Han named the meeting place.
“Tomorrow morning at ten. Come to the C-Blue Studio, where we met before.”
A little while later, Lee Min-jun and Choi Si-woo were seated across from each other, happily grilling pork belly. The sizzling meat vanished into their mouths almost as quickly as it was cooked, and the soju glasses were refilled several times to wash it all down.
The current topic of conversation was, predictably,
“Hey, so I told my coworkers I saw Yoon Seo-ah in person, right? They were all so jealous.”
It was all about the top actress, of course. Choi Si-woo, her number-one fan, had brought her up.
“And I even made eye contact with her that day, remember? Man, I’m kicking myself for not getting a picture.”
Watching his friend, Lee Min-jun smirked to himself.
‘That’s nothing,’ he thought. ‘Yoon Seo-ah said my name. My actual name. “Lee Min-jun.”’
If he told Si-woo that, the man would probably pass out. For now, though, he decided to keep it to himself.
Si-woo, having just stuffed his mouth with a lettuce wrap containing three slices of pork, changed the subject.
“So, what’s the plan for a new job? You quit two weeks ago and you’ve just been resting.”
He had a way of cutting straight to reality.
“You’ve got to start looking soon, right? You can’t just rest forever. Should I ask about openings in my company’s design team?”
“You think a mid-sized company would even look at me?”
“No, I’m not talking about a full-time position. You could at least find a contract gig. A portfolio is what matters in design, isn’t it?”
At this, Lee Min-jun stared at his friend for a long moment before posing a question.
“Hey, let’s say you were a totally unknown actor. And you got cast in a project by a famous director and a legendary writer. What would you do?”
Choi Si-woo’s expression immediately turned serious.
“Who’s the female lead?”
“I don’t know about the male lead, but let’s say the female lead is… Yoon Seo-ah, for example.”
“Then it doesn’t matter who the male lead is. If Yoon Seo-ah is the star, it’s not even a question.”
“So you’d just do it?”
“Hell yeah. I’d jump on it, no questions asked. Especially with her as the lead.”
Si-woo threw back a shot of soju and continued.
“Do you think a big-shot director or an amazing writer would even bother with some no-name actor? You’d have the presence of plankton. And a top star like Yoon Seo-ah is the lead? For an unknown to land a role in a project like that would be a literal miracle.”
“It’s that hard?”
“Hard? It’s not just hard, it’s basically impossible. A huge drama like that has no reason to cast an unknown. There’s a line of established actors desperate for roles. It’s tough enough to get a minor part, let alone a significant one. You need connections—family, school, industry ties.”
“Family, colleagues, school ties…”
“Yeah, that’s how the entertainment industry works. It’s all about who you know. So, for a complete unknown to get a part in a world like that? I’d kill for that opportunity. But in reality, it would never happen.”
Sorry, but it’s happening to me right now, Min-jun thought. He remained silent as his friend went on, then asked another question.
“Okay, so say you’re that unknown actor and you got the part. How much would you ask for an appearance fee?”
“Appearance fee? What are you talking about? It’s not about how much I’d get. I’d take whatever they offered and be grateful for it.”
“Is it that serious?”
“Dude! Like I just said, it’s a miracle for a no-name to even get in the door. They’re doing you a favor by casting you. How could you possibly bring up money? They might throw you a bone, maybe 30,000 won an episode for a newcomer. And that would be generous.”
“Thirty thousand?”
“Yeah. But you should be grateful even if they offer 3,000 an episode. Just getting cast is the real prize.”
Honestly, Min-jun thought that sounded ridiculously low. He understood that actors were freelancers, but 3,000 won was pushing it.
Choi Si-woo, refilling Min-jun’s empty soju glass, suddenly held out his hand.
“Speaking of which, did you bring them? The script and the scenario.”
Min-jun passed the paper bag he’d brought to his friend. He had, of course, made copies of the ‘Exorcism’ scenario for himself, just in case. Si-woo rummaged through the bag.
“Did you even read this stuff? You asked for it so suddenly. You didn’t just use them as a placemat for your ramen, did you?”
“I read it. Hey, is that short film, ‘Exorcism,’ actually getting made?”
“Oh, I heard from my friend that it is. I figured it would fall through, but I guess an investor showed up or something.”
“Oh? So they’re holding auditions now?”
“I don’t know the details. My friend might have mentioned auditions, so I guess some roles are open. Usually for these short films, the main parts are already cast.”
Hearing this, Min-jun crossed his arms, lost in thought. After a moment, he looked back at Si-woo.
“Do you know which production company is making ‘Exorcism’?”
Si-woo, who was flipping a piece of meat on the grill, narrowed his eyes.
“…You’re acting weird. Why are you suddenly so interested in this stuff? You never cared before.”
“No reason, I just… I read the script and it seemed fun. Figured I’d check it out when it’s released.”
Choi Si-woo studied him with a hint of suspicion before shrugging.
“Well, whatever. I don’t know the production company, but I can ask my friend.”
A few minutes later, after stepping outside to make a call, Si-woo sat back down across from Min-jun.
“I sent you a link in a message.”
He waved his phone.
“It’s a community site for filmmakers. The link will take you to a page with information on ‘Exorcism.’ You can look it up yourself.”
At ten o’clock the next morning, in a meeting room at C-Blue Studio, two familiar figures were seated at the table.
It was Director Han Jae-hyuk in a light jacket and the production manager. Writer Park Eun-mi was not present. In any case, both of their expressions were grim.
Several clear file folders were scattered on the table in front of them.
The glass door to the meeting room swung open, and the production manager from ‘Profiler Hanryang’ walked in, followed by Lee Min-jun, who offered a quiet greeting. As Min-jun entered, Director Han’s serious face broke into a slight smile.
“Come in, have a seat right here.”
Director Han gestured to the chair opposite him, silently studying Lee Min-jun as he moved. More accurately, he was trying to gauge his mood.
‘Same as always. Completely unreadable today.’
But it was pointless. It was impossible to read anything from Lee Min-jun’s poker face. He’d been like that since the first moment they’d met.
‘He’s incredible at hiding his feelings. Which makes it all the more interesting when he acts and everything changes.’
Director Han pushed one of the clear files across the table toward Min-jun.
“Take a look at this. It’s a draft of your contract.”
Opening an identical file in front of him, the director smiled.
“Now, there’s a lot of complicated language in here. But the main thing I want to talk about is the appearance fee we’ve decided on for you.”
Across the table, Lee Min-jun’s eyes met his. Director Han pointed to a line in the contract with his finger.
“Your appearance fee, Min-jun, will be 2,500,000 won per episode.”
It was considerably more than three thousand won.
“What do you think? 2,500,000 won per episode.”
For the first time, Min-jun’s poker face twitched.