“Killing time?” The main PD of ‘Rising Star’ let out a short, incredulous laugh in the empty corridor. She was on a break during the first preliminary round, and the reason for her disbelief was simple.
She’d just heard the most unbelievable excuse from Lee Min-jun over the phone.
He acted that well… because he was bored? Just how arrogant is he?
For a performance born from boredom, Lee Min-jun’s audition a few hours ago had been astonishingly good. Jaw-dropping, even. And the man who had delivered it so nonchalantly had simply gone home, only to now claim in that same detached tone that it was all just to kill time.
He’s definitely not normal.
Still, the main PD kept a faint smile on her face as she spoke into the phone.
“Haha, Mr. Min-jun, you don’t mince words, do you? Calling it ‘killing time’… that’s quite candid.”
Lee Min-jun’s steady, reserved voice came through the receiver.
“It’s the truth. So you can just forget about it.”
Forget about it? How could she? The main PD was now certain.
He really doesn’t care about what happened today. It’s like acting is just a hobby for him, nothing more.
But with that level of skill, shouldn’t he want to be famous? He’s tall, and he’s not bad-looking, either.
Why would he let such a phenomenal talent go to waste? Her curiosity was burning, but she had a feeling that conventional logic wouldn’t apply to him. In any case, Lee Min-jun was flatly refusing to appear on ‘Rising Star.’
It was a deeply regrettable outcome for her.
She was convinced that if his audition aired, the spotlight would be entirely on him. But she couldn’t use the footage without his consent.
The main PD let out a sigh of disappointment and made one last attempt.
“Killing time. Right, I get it. But are you sure you’re not throwing away a huge opportunity?”
Listening to his resolute tone, she knew he wouldn’t change his mind.
“Alright. I understand. I’ll delete your footage, then.”
A brief silence hung between them, maybe five seconds. Then, Min-jun’s low voice returned.
“But… uh. Could I get a copy of that one scene?”
“The scene? Oh, your performance? Getting the footage from the main camera might be difficult, but we have the version for YouTube Shorts. It was shot on a smartphone.”
“The angle, the feel, the quality—it’ll all be different from the main broadcast cameras, but it should be fine if you just want to review it.”
“Okay. Please send it to me.”
“For your personal collection?”
“Something like that.”
Hearing his reply, the main PD nodded, brushing her short hair back from her face.
“Got it. Just text me your email, and I’ll have someone send it over.”
“It’ll be sent by tonight at the earliest, tomorrow at the latest.”
“I’ll be waiting for it. Thank you.”
“Alright, I’ll hang up now.”
Just as the main PD ended the call and lowered her phone, a man’s voice cut in from behind her. Leaning against the corridor wall, she jumped, startled, and whipped her head around.
“Oh, Senior! God, you scared me! Don’t sneak up on people like that.”
It was one of the judges, PD Han Jae-hyuk. He stroked his beard as he asked his question.
“Was that the kid from this morning? The one from the Design Department?”
The main PD offered a wry smile.
“Did he say he’ll come back for the second round?”
“No. Not interested in the slightest.”
“Really? He only came for his friend? Then why bother acting at all?”
In response, the main PD just shrugged, a silent ‘You tell me.’
“I asked him the same thing. He said he was just killing time.”
“Killing time? He came in here and caused all that chaos just because he was bored?”
“Yep. His words.”
Han Jae-hyuk stared at her for a moment, then suddenly burst out laughing.
“I know, right? It’s been a while since I’ve seen someone so… unique.”
“But I kind of get it. When you get to a certain level, sometimes you want to go back and mess around.”
“To drop in like that out of nowhere… Just what is he?”
Han Jae-hyuk didn’t have an answer for that. His expression turned serious as he pulled out his own phone.
“Did you get his number?”
He looked determined.
An hour later, Lee Min-jun was back in his small, one-room apartment.
After the call with the ‘Rising Star’ PD, Choi Si-woo had pelted him with questions, but Min-jun had just brushed them off with vague answers. There was no need to relive the morning’s humiliation. He planned to bury it deep, a dark secret known only to him.
The moment he got inside, Min-jun collapsed onto his floor, still in his padded jacket. The scripts and scenarios he’d been carrying were tossed carelessly to the side. With a full stomach and a comfortable spot, a wave of sleepiness washed over him.
“Sigh… might as well finish what I started.”
But he had something to do. Forcing himself up, he rummaged through the pile he’d dropped and pulled out two script books. One was a light blue, the other a deep purple. Their titles were stamped on the covers.
-‘Perfect Daughter,’ Part 1.
-‘Lawless Justice,’ Part 1.
Both were Part 1 of their respective series. Min-jun stared down at the scripts and tilted his head. The titles felt familiar.
“I feel like… I’ve heard these names before.”
He pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and started searching. As it turned out, both dramas had already aired. ‘Perfect Daughter’ had finished last year, and ‘Lawless Justice’ two years ago. They were from different networks, but both had been broadcast on major channels.
After his brief search, Min-jun picked up the ‘Lawless Justice’ script. He had already processed ‘Perfect Daughter’ back at Si-woo’s place. Now it was this one’s turn.
“Still feels a little weird doing this.”
Lee Min-jun stared for a moment at the swirling black square that had appeared beside the script. Its energy was vaguely menacing, but with a small sigh, he reached out.
He poked the black square with his index finger. The familiar chill spread through him instantly. He was getting used to it after a few times.
With his lips pressed into a thin line, Lee Min-jun found himself staring into the sudden, endless darkness. He was back in the void. There was no need to panic this time.
It was his third visit, after all.
Min-jun turned to check behind him. A white square was floating at about chest height. And, as expected…
The number of white squares had increased from two to three. Lee Min-jun slowly approached the A4-sized rectangles of light, stopping a step away.
He read the text on the newly added square, starting with the single page from this morning.
-[1/Page Script (Title: Unknown), Grade F (Judgment not possible)]
He’d seen that one already, so he moved on. Next was ‘Perfect Daughter.’
-[2/Script (Title: Perfect Daughter, Part 1), Grade E]
-[This is a drama script with a very high degree of completion. 100% readability.]
That was definitely different from the single page. Finally, Min-jun checked the third one.
-[3/Script (Title: Lawless Justice, Part 1), Grade C]
-[This is a drama script with a very high degree of completion. 100% readability.]
Having seen all three, Min-jun crossed his arms.
“The single page is unreadable, but these are 100%…”
Then, something in the text caught his eye, and he tilted his head.
“But what do these grades mean?”
Indeed, the three squares were graded differently. The page was Grade F, ‘Perfect Daughter’ was Grade E, and ‘Lawless Justice’ was Grade C. The single page being an F made sense, given what it was.
“But how are the other two graded?”
It didn't seem to be based on completeness. The system noted both had a “very high degree of completion.” And both were dramas that had already finished airing.
A thought suddenly struck him, and Min-jun quickly muttered the exit command.
The gray void dissolved around him, and he opened his eyes back in his apartment.
He was so used to the transition now he didn’t even flinch.
“Humans really are creatures of adaptation.”
He grabbed his phone again and searched for ‘Perfect Daughter’ and ‘Lawless Justice.’ There was one specific piece of information he was looking for.
The viewership ratings.
The results quickly populated his screen.
-‘Perfect Daughter’ / Final viewership rating: 2.7%
-‘Lawless Justice’ / Final viewership rating: 7.1%
The ratings for the two shows were vastly different. After reading a few articles, he saw that ‘Perfect Daughter’ was widely considered a failure, while ‘Lawless Justice’ was seen as a moderate success. Skimming through the search results, Min-jun stroked his chin.
“‘Perfect Daughter’ was a flop, so it’s Grade E. ‘Lawless Justice’ was average, so it’s Grade C. Could it be… the grade is based on popularity?”
Or maybe a measure of the work’s overall success. He couldn’t be sure, but the gut feeling was strong. The grades and the ratings seemed to match perfectly.
However, that raised another question.
“…then what about scripts that haven’t been released yet?”
These two scripts were for shows that had already aired, but the world was full of scripts in pre-production, or scripts that were written and then scrapped.
What if he got his hands on one of those?
Would they show up, too?
He’d have to verify it, but only one answer came to mind.
“Can I… see the value of a script in advance?”
The ability to get a glimpse of a project’s success before it was even made. What? Seriously? If that was true… this was insane. The look in Min-jun’s eyes changed as he murmured to himself.
His hand moved quickly. This time, he didn’t grab a script book but a stack of paper held together by a clip. It was a movie script, different from the TV dramas Si-woo had given him. The cover read ‘Exorcism.’
Just as Min-jun was about to poke the black rectangle that appeared beside the stack, he stopped.
“Ah, but can I bring my phone with me?”
If he could bring personal items into that space, it would be a lot more convenient. Holding his phone in his left hand, Min-jun poked the black rectangle with his right index finger.
He re-entered the pitch-black void. The problem was…
“Damn, it didn’t work.”
The phone he’d been holding was gone, left behind in his room. He was empty-handed. That meant personal items couldn’t be brought into this space. Disappointed but undeterred, Min-jun gave up and turned to check the white rectangles.
Sure enough, there were now four of them.
He approached them and read the text on the fourth glowing square.
-[4/Scenario (Title: Exorcism), Grade B]
-[This is a highly accomplished movie scenario. 100% readability.]
The movie script was a B. Min-jun was genuinely surprised.
“B? That’s the highest grade so far.”
So, did that mean this was a huge success? In terms of box office numbers or something similar?
However, Lee Min-jun knew nothing about the film industry. His expression serious, he quickly muttered “exit.” The moment he was back in his room, he called his friend, Choi Si-woo, to ask about a movie called ‘Exorcism.’
Si-woo’s voice was muffled, as if he’d been sleeping. Min-jun didn’t care and got straight to the point.
“Hey, that movie script you gave me. ‘Exorcism.’ Was it a successful movie?”
“Ah, ‘Exorcism’? It hasn’t been made yet. What do you mean, successful?”
“It hasn’t been produced?”
“Yeah. I don’t know the details. I just got it from a guy in my theater club last week.”
“So it’s going to be produced and released?”
“No way. It’s not a commercial film, it’s a short film. You know, like an indie or art film. The director is a total unknown.”
The points Lee Min-jun focused on were:
A short film? And it hasn’t been produced yet?
The fact that it was a short film, and an unproduced one at that. Si-woo’s sleepy voice continued to explain.
“And ‘Exorcism’ probably won’t ever be produced. So many commercial films get scrapped at the script stage, so the chances for a short film are even lower.”
“…It can’t be released in theaters? Then how does a short film become successful?”
“Why the sudden interest? Well, if a short film does well, that’s one thing. A theatrical release is impossible, so success means winning an award at a competition or a film festival. If it gets really popular, it might get remade into a feature.”
“Ah, like the Blue Dragon Film Awards?”
“Exactly. There are also festivals just for short films, both here and abroad. But going abroad almost never happens.”
As soon as he heard the answer, Lee Min-jun replied,
“Got it. Talk to you later.”
He hung up immediately. He didn’t fully grasp everything Si-woo had said, but one thing was crystal clear.
A movie that hasn’t even been produced is Grade B.
He didn’t know what level of success a B grade represented, but the possibility that he could preview a project’s potential had just become much, much more real.
After a few minutes lost in thought, Min-jun moved again. He picked up the script for ‘Perfect Daughter.’
“I don’t know. I’ll just have to figure this out as I go.”
Then, Min-jun began to read the script.
The reason was simple. He needed to understand the contents of these scripts inside and out. Only then could he choose his role carefully.
“I’m done getting stabbed to death without knowing what’s coming.”
He wanted to avoid another unexpected end.
Late that same night, at the DBS Art Center in Mok-dong.
The filming for the first preliminary round of ‘Rising Star’ had finally wrapped up after 10 PM. All the contestants who had packed the hall were gone. Now, only a few dozen staff members remained, cleaning up the set.
Everyone looked exhausted. It had been a long, grueling day.
The three judges who had evaluated hundreds of participants were no exception. Among them, PD Han Jae-hyuk was the first to move. He rose abruptly from the judges’ desk, his movements sharp and purposeful.
“Great work, everyone.”
Just as Han Jae-hyuk, having offered a polite nod to the nearby staff, was about to leave, a voice stopped him.
“Huh? PD-nim! You’re leaving already?”
Beside him, the top actress Yoon Hyeyeon, who had been slumping in her chair to rest, suddenly lifted her head. The motion sent her long hair fluttering.
“Aren’t you coming to the after-party? I heard they’re getting beef.”
Normally, Han Jae-hyuk could never resist beef, but he waved a dismissive hand.
“No, I’m good. I have an appointment with Writer Park.”
“Writer Park? At this hour?”
A spark of realization flashed in Yoon Hyeyeon’s eyes. She quickly got up, hurried after Han Jae-hyuk, and grabbed his arm.
“You’re going because of that kid, aren’t you?”
“It’s work.”
“Work? To show her a video of some unknown rookie?”
“That ‘unknown rookie’ is exactly why I’m going. This is for our project.”
‘Our project’ obviously included the-list actress standing right in front of him.
Yoon Hyeyeon fell into step beside Han Jae-hyuk, a knowing smile playing on her lips.
“I saw you getting his audition clip from the main PD earlier.”
By now, the man—or rather, the monster—who had dominated both of their thoughts all day was the same person.
“You’re going to show it to the writer, aren’t you?”