Lee Min-jun pictured the man on the phone: Han Jae-hyuk, the PD he’d met yesterday on the set of ‘Rising Star’. He couldn’t recall anything particularly memorable about him. All that came to mind was a beard and the fact that he was supposedly a big-shot producer—a detail supplied by his friend, Choi Si-woo. In any case, there was no logical reason for a director of Han Jae-hyuk’s stature to be calling him.
No, there were precisely zero reasons. So why was he calling?
A thought flickered through Min-jun’s mind. Was this a request to appear in the second round of ‘Rising Star’? He didn't know the show’s inner workings, but since Han Jae-hyuk was a judge, it was a possibility. The embarrassment from yesterday had faded, replaced by the certainty that his acting hadn't been trash. Slowly scratching his chin, Min-jun cleared his throat.
‘Better stick to the persona,’ he thought.
He adopted a dry, detached tone.
“You should probably tell me why you're calling first.”
PD Han Jae-hyuk’s response was immediate, but it wasn't an answer.
“Actually, it's a bit difficult to discuss over the phone. I’d prefer to meet in person, Min-jun. Would that be possible?”
Min-jun figured the call was about 'Rising Star', and he cut in. "I already told the head PD I won't be returning to the show."
“No, no, that’s not it. This is entirely different.”
‘This is getting to be a hassle,’ Min-jun thought as PD Han Jae-hyuk spoke again.
“You said you were a designer, right? What time do you usually finish work? I imagine the design field involves a lot of overtime.”
“No, I recently quit my job.”
“As I expected.”
‘As you expected?’ Why would he say that? The answer came just as quickly from the producer.
“So you’ve made up your mind.”
Han Jae-hyuk meant he'd finally decided to commit to acting, but the words left Min-jun completely dumbfounded.
‘Made up my mind about what? What is this guy talking about?’
He couldn't make sense of it. They were on two completely different wavelengths. Min-jun, unsure how to respond, chose a dignified silence.
“So, if you’ve quit your job, meeting today shouldn’t be a problem, right?”
He wasn’t wrong. Min-jun was unemployed, with nothing but time on his hands.
‘But agreeing so easily would break character.’
Lee Min-jun maintained his casual, aloof persona.
“I’m only free at 4 p.m.”
On the other end of the line, PD Han Jae-hyuk sounded almost eager.
“Great! 4 p.m. it is! I apologize, but there will be a few others joining us. Would you be able to come to an address I'll send you?”
“Who else will be there?”
“Oh, just a few people involved in the project.”
“Fine. Send me the address. I’ll see you at four.”
The call ended. Min-jun glanced at the time on his phone’s screen. It was around 8:30 a.m. He had plenty of time until four.
“Just how famous is this Han Jae-hyuk, anyway?” he murmured.
He'd heard from Si-woo that the man was a big deal, but with his own disinterest in the entertainment world, Min-jun had no real frame of reference. He typed ‘PD Han Jae-hyuk’ into a search engine. The results were instantaneous, and Min-jun’s surprise was just as swift.
『[Entertainment Issue] Top Actors Lining Up for DBS’s Star PD Han Jae-hyuk’s Newest Project』
『A Meeting of Titans! Netizens Ecstatic Over News of PD Han Jae-hyuk and Writer Park Eunmi Collaboration』
A quick scan of the headlines was enough to confirm the man's tremendous popularity. His mouth hung slightly open as he mumbled to himself.
“…And someone like that wants to meet with me?”
Why? What could he possibly want? Just as quickly as the question arose, Min-jun’s curiosity cooled. It was pointless to speculate.
“I’ll find out when I get there.”
Putting thoughts of PD Han Jae-hyuk aside, Min-jun set down his phone and picked up a script. With hours to kill before the meeting, he might as well read. He had finished ‘Heiress’ yesterday and was now in the middle of ‘Lawless Justice,’ already past the halfway point.
It was strange.
“This is… actually kind of fun.”
Lying on his floor, Lee Min-jun found a surprising amount of enjoyment in reading scripts. This was definitely strange. Min-jun rarely watched TV. Dramas, movies—none of it held his interest. Even when he did watch something, he usually gave up midway through.
But reading these scripts was different. He was completely focused, devouring the pages at a rapid pace. It was ten times more engaging than watching something on a screen.
“Was I always more of a reader?”
Or perhaps it was because of that bizarre void he’d discovered. Whatever the reason, Lee Min-jun tore through the scripts. By 1 p.m., he had read every script and scenario he’d been given. He couldn't recall every single detail, of course, but he had a firm grasp of each story's overall plot.
With that done, Lee Min-jun crossed his arms and chose a role from one of the works fresh in his mind.
He tapped the black square and stepped into the void. The process already felt familiar.
Inside the endless darkness, Min-jun moved toward the four floating white squares. He selected the second one.
-[2/Script (Title: Heiress Part 1), E-grade]
-[This is a drama script with a very high degree of completion. 100% assimilation is possible.]
It was the script for ‘Heiress,’ the project he’d failed. New lines of text materialized beneath the white square, the feeling similar to when he’d first touched it.
There was, however, one difference.
-[You have selected Script (Title: Heiress, Part 1).]
-[List of characters available for experience.]
-[A: Shim Hyungwoo, B: Jang Taesan, C: Choi Giseop, D: Go Dooseok ….]
A long list of characters scrolled into view, at least eight of them. That made sense; a full script would naturally offer more roles than a partial one. It was then that Min-jun noticed something.
“Only male characters are available.”
It seemed the gender had to match his own. He accepted the limitation. Just as he’d declined a sudden death, he had no interest in becoming a woman.
Min-jun tapped on a name he’d already chosen from the list, one near the very end. A static, robotic female voice echoed through the void.
[“‘J: Male Cafe Waiter’ experience preparation in progress…”]
He chose it for a simple reason: the part was short, perfect for an experiment.
Min-jun waited in the silent darkness.
It wasn't long before the voice returned.
[“…Preparation complete. This is a high-completion script. Implementation will be at 100%. Beginning experience.”]
And with that, Min-jun felt himself pulled from the void and into the role.
He was back in his one-room apartment.
With a soft sigh, he ran a hand through his short hair. There was no tension, no surprise. There was no lingering daze, no mental fog. His mind felt sharp and clear. Unlike his first time with the partial script, everything was lucid. He was already getting used to this.
“Why was I so out of it at first?”
Min-jun crossed his arms, tilting his head. The world inside the void and his small apartment were both, in their own way, his reality. He experienced them both directly. So why the jarring reaction yesterday? He settled on a simple answer.
“My body must have been rejecting it because it was a new experience.”
He took a slow mental inventory of his current state, from his thoughts to the beat of his heart. He could feel the change. Having lived it, the memory was perfectly vivid.
“I remember every single one of the waiter’s lines.”
Even the few lines of dialogue were etched into his memory, as if he’d repeated them thousands of times. It was more than memorization; it was an engraving. And it wasn't just because the part was short.
The rest of the experience was the same.
The character’s senses, his emotions, his thoughts, his mood—everything about the ‘Male Cafe Waiter’ had seeped into him. Just as with the partial script, there was no awkward adjustment period. He simply accepted it, the character's entire being settling into him like a successful organ transplant, with no hint of rejection.
The ‘Male Cafe Waiter’ had been transplanted into Lee Min-jun. This wasn't acting; it was possession. He wasn't playing a role; he was embodying it.
Lee Min-jun once again marveled at the void’s potential. Becoming an actor was one thing, but the ability to experience anything at all was priceless. He’d have to keep testing it to find the limits, but if there were no other conditions, he could theoretically live any life. Depending on the script, he could fly or even use magic.
‘Of course, it’s temporary, limited by the role. But if I’m going to do this, I might as well become an actor. And if I’m going to be an actor, why not aim for the top?’
For the first time, a thought lodged itself in Min-jun’s mind.
‘Let’s try living a completely different life. No matter what it takes. It’ll be fun.’
Thoughts he'd never entertained before—becoming an actor, pursuing this strange new path—began to fill his mind. In this new state, he picked up the short scenario for ‘Exorcism’.
“Still, I have to check what this ‘B-grade’ means—”
Muttering to himself, Lee Min-jun glanced at his watch. It was almost time for his appointment.
“I should wash up first.”
A few hours later, around 4 p.m., Lee Min-jun stood before a large building near Samseong Station. He wore the same padded jacket and jeans as the day before. He craned his neck to look up at the towering structure.
“It’s huge. He said the fifth floor, right?”
Min-jun entered the lobby and checked the building directory. Floors five through seven were occupied by a production company called ‘C-Blue Studio’.
This was his destination. A quick search earlier had told him C-Blue Studio was one of the largest production companies in Korea.
“Big or small, it doesn’t really matter to me.”
Muttering to himself, Min-jun cleared his throat, consciously lowering his voice to match his persona before dialing Han Jae-hyuk. The producer picked up almost immediately.
“Ah, Mr. Min-jun. Have you arrived?”
“Yes, I’m on the first floor.”
“I’ll send someone down right away.”
A few minutes later, a young woman approached him.
“You’re Lee Min-jun, correct?”
She was an assistant director. She led him to the elevators, and soon they arrived at the C-Blue Studio offices on the fifth floor. She guided him to a meeting room door and gestured for him to enter. Reminding himself to stay in character, Min-jun confidently opened the door.
The meeting room was spacious, dominated by a large, U-shaped table. About six people were seated there, and all of them turned to look at him as he entered.
Among them, of course, was the man himself.
“Mr. Lee Min-jun, it’s good to see you again.”
PD Han Jae-hyuk, with his signature goatee, greeted him with a warm smile. He sat in the center of the six, a position befitting a heavyweight producer.
But Min-jun was inwardly reeling.
‘Oh my god! Is that Yoon Hyeyeon?!’
Because sitting there was the top actress, the angelic Yoon Hyeyeon. What was she doing here? Min-jun fought the urge to rub his eyes, to ask for a handshake, to gawk like a fan. He desperately suppressed it all. Awe had no place in the persona he'd constructed.
Thanks to his focus, he managed to meet Yoon Hyeyeon’s gaze with a nonchalant expression. PD Han Jae-hyuk’s voice broke the silence.
“I’m sure it’s a bit overwhelming to see so many people here.”
‘You think?’ Min-jun screamed internally. ‘If Yoon Hyeyeon was going to be here, you should have mentioned it!’ Outwardly, however, he gave a casual shrug, as if he couldn’t care less.
“There must be a reason.”
He continued in his dry tone, pulling out a nearby chair and sitting down. ‘Should I cross my legs?’ he wondered, trying to project an air of calm. He settled for a relaxed posture and let his gaze drift over the others at the table. He deliberately skipped over Yoon Hyeyeon, instead taking in the faces of a middle-aged woman with a perm and several other men, all of whom were staring at him intently.
It was more than a little uncomfortable.
Across from him, PD Han Jae-hyuk leaned forward slightly, his expression turning serious.
“I know this is sudden, but everyone here is curious. You must have a monologue prepared, don't you? We'd like to hear you deliver some lines, since yesterday was more about your presence than your voice.”
A monologue was an actor’s solo speech, usually a lengthy one. Aspiring actors always had one memorized for auditions.
Lee Min-jun, however, had nothing of the sort.
‘Monologue? What the hell is that?’
He’d only encountered acting for the first time yesterday.
‘For now… I’ll just stay quiet.’
His silence was his answer. PD Han Jae-hyuk seemed to understand and proceeded on his own.
“Or, you can just read this. Interpret it however you like.”
The producer slid a black tablet across the table toward Min-jun. On the screen was a block of text, maybe ten lines long. It was a monologue.
Whatever the case, they were asking him to act. Right here, right now. Perhaps this was it—his first real step into the world of acting. Understanding this, Min-jun kept his face a perfect mask. But inside, as he stared down at the tablet, he was panicking.
‘Damn it, the black square isn't showing up.’
Unlike with a script or a scenario, the portal to the void did not appear. This was a huge problem.
“You can start whenever you’re ready,” PD Han Jae-hyuk said, his voice grave.
Min-jun’s hidden anxiety spiked. If he could just get into the void, he could prepare for anything. But there was no black square, no script, nothing to help him. In other words, his entire charade was about to collapse.
Lee Min-jun contemplated for a moment. Suddenly, all his motivation evaporated. He didn't need to stake his life on this persona. The world was a big place. He could still go to Australia and find work.
‘I don’t know,’ he thought, looking down at the tablet. ‘Let’s just screw this up and go home.’
Lee Min-jun opened his mouth.
“Today, as I was walking down the street, a cat suddenly attacked me. I didn’t do anything. From the cat’s point of view, there must have been a reason…”
As Min-jun began to recite the lines, everyone watching him felt their brows furrow in confusion. That included Han Jae-hyuk, Yoon Hyeyeon, and everyone else at the table.
The reason was simple.
The acting Lee Min-jun was now displaying was absolute garbage. They couldn’t help but be flustered.
“What… what is this?”
PD Han Jae-hyuk, staring directly at Min-jun, had bewilderment written all over his face. His mind was in chaos.
‘He’s worse than an amateur… This is a complete 180 from yesterday.’
This wasn't just a step down; it was a plunge into the abyss. The performance was too embarrassing to even be called acting. He sounded more stilted than a student reading from a textbook. In a formal audition, they would have cut him off in five seconds.
And yet, Lee Min-jun droned on with a completely straight face.
“So, I caught the thing. It resisted like crazy. But still……”
His brazenness was astonishing. As he continued his trash-tier performance without a flicker of emotion, PD Han Jae-hyuk’s confusion multiplied tenfold. How? Why? What was he watching? Was this even the same man from yesterday?
Min-jun’s gaze lifted from the tablet and met Han Jae-hyuk’s from across the table. His eyes held a clear note of discontent.
‘I’ve already blown it, right? Just let me go already.’
But as their eyes met, Han Jae-hyuk’s own widened in a sudden flash of insight. He saw the discontent in Min-jun's gaze and came to a stunning realization.
‘Of course,’ the producer thought. ‘He's acting like he can't act.’
It was a profound misinterpretation—a delusion, really.
Han Jae-hyuk raised a hand, interrupting Min-jun’s performance. Then, he asked cautiously,
“Mr. Min-jun, may I ask why you're performing… as if you don't know how to act?”
Min-jun paused. He fixed his gaze on Han Jae-hyuk, holding it for a long ten seconds. Finally, with a blank expression, he replied in a low, cool tone.
“Because you asked me to perform on the spot, without giving me any context.”