The man who, just yesterday, had delivered a performance that seemed divinely inspired was now, by all accounts, terrible. It was as if a completely different person had shown up in his place.
PD Han Jae-hyuk studied him, searching for the reason, and found it in Lee Min-jun’s eyes.
He’s expressing his dissatisfaction… through his acting.
He cut Min-jun off mid-monologue and asked directly.
“Mr. Lee, may I ask why you’re giving us a performance of someone who can’t act?”
A ripple of understanding went through the room. The exclamation points almost seemed to appear over the heads of Yoon Seo-ah and the others as the realization dawned on them. Ah, so he was deliberately acting poorly! A palpable sense of relief settled over them. Min-jun, for his part, maintained the impassive expression he had adopted for this little stunt.
Inside, however, he was reeling.
A performance of someone who can’t act? How the hell do you do that?
He’d asked to go home, and now PD Han was spouting this nonsense. He had intentionally given a garbage performance, yet the director was framing it as some kind of meta-commentary. And from the look on his face, he wasn't joking. Han Jae-hyuk’s gaze was dead serious.
Min-jun forced himself to regain his composure. Once he took a moment to sort through the situation, the answer became surprisingly simple.
This man with the goatee… he’s completely misunderstood everything.
It must have started back at the ‘Rising Star’ audition yesterday. That was the seed, and it had snowballed from there. Min-jun had seen hints of this misunderstanding when he watched the clip of his own performance.
They think I’m some kind of genius actor, and it’s coloring everything they see.
Somehow, that snowball of a misunderstanding had grown to the size of a boulder. Correcting them now felt like too much effort, and for what? There was only one thing to do.
Take control of the situation.
It was their delusion, and only he knew the truth. Fine. Let’s see how far this could go. If he had to play the part of a misunderstood genius, he’d deal with the fallout later. Min-jun cooled his emotions, letting a sliver of arrogance settle over his features.
He chose his next line carefully. When he spoke, his voice was composed and chillingly detached.
“Because you told me to act without any explanation.”
A flicker of surprise crossed PD Han’s face, but he recovered instantly, already forming an excuse. Seeing him on the back foot, Min-jun felt emboldened. He decided to lean into the bluff.
He rose abruptly from his chair.
“I am not pleased with this treatment.”
Every head in the room snapped up to look at him, including PD Han Jae-hyuk and the nation’s top actress, Yoon Seo-ah. Their eyes were wide with a collective, stunned silence. They were utterly flustered, PD Han most of all.
“Wait, wait. Please, calm down.”
The director shot to his feet, holding up a placating hand.
“I’m sorry. I was too hasty. Let’s sit down first.” He took a step closer. “I’ll explain everything, so please, just have a seat and hear me out.”
Min-jun stared down at PD Han, his face an indifferent mask. He counted silently. One, two, three, four, five. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he sank back into his chair.
PD Han let out a sigh of relief.
He scratched his head, glancing at the others around the table before turning his full attention back to Min-jun.
“First, let me apologize again. I didn't mean to belittle you, Min-jun. I was just… eager to show everyone your talent as quickly as possible.” He cleared his throat. “Then, allow me to begin with my prepared questions.”
PD Han’s tone became serious as he addressed the impassive young man across from him.
“In your ‘Rising Star’ interview, you said you were self-taught. How long have you been studying acting on your own?”
Every person in the room, including Yoon Seo-ah, fixed their gaze on Min-jun. He paused, considering. What should he say? Five years? Ten? He decided to split the difference.
No, better to keep it vague.
He settled on a noncommittal answer, murmuring it softly.
“It’s been quite a while.”
It was an answer that said nothing, yet Han Jae-hyuk, staring intently at Min-jun, began to construct his own narrative.
I don’t know why he’s choosing to reveal himself now, but… to deliver acting of that caliber requires immense long-term analysis. He must have years of data ingrained in his mind and body. It has to be close to ten years. Maybe more.
To the director’s right, Yoon Seo-ah, her long hair draped over one shoulder, was having similar thoughts. She was more focused on the aura Min-jun was currently projecting.
Where did he get this level of composure, this unbreakable self-esteem? That deliberate display of bad acting… it was the kind of audacious move only a top-tier actor would dare to pull.
Normally, an actor’s confidence was built brick by brick over a long career. It solidified through countless performances on screen, through the cycle of evaluation by directors and, eventually, the public. That was the source of their assurance.
But this Lee Min-jun, as he was now, already possessed the audacity of a veteran. At least, that’s how Yoon Seo-ah saw it.
He’s been working alone all this time… Is this just his nature?
At that moment, Han Jae-hyuk, who had been nodding slowly to himself, posed another question.
“So where did you conduct this self-study? A small theater troupe? Even if you learn on your own, you need feedback, correction. There are things in acting you can’t achieve in a vacuum.”
He had a point. Acting was, fundamentally, an art form that required an audience to improve. Judging your own work a hundred times over meant nothing. But Lee Min-jun had no deep understanding of this principle.
Therefore, he chose the only response he could.
A stern silence. PD Han Jae-hyuk naturally filled it for him.
“It can’t be a small theater troupe. An actor of your caliber would have been discovered immediately. Various directors and casting agents wouldn’t have left you alone. Which means… it must have been overseas. Did you study abroad?”
Overseas? Where had that come from? Min-jun was baffled. Sure, until a few days ago, he’d been considering a working holiday in Australia, but the director’s assumption was wildly off the mark.
How… This is getting a little out of hand.
Was this okay? As Min-jun felt his life spiraling into a grand, elaborate lie, Yoon Seo-ah interjected from the side.
“Is it something you can’t talk about? If so, you don’t have to answer.”
An out. Lee Min-jun seized on the non-existent secret he couldn’t possibly speak of.
The situation was growing stranger by the second. Min-jun felt like he was rowing frantically across an uncrossable river. PD Han Jae-hyuk, on the other hand, was now certain.
Something he can’t speak of. Well, if he’s willing to appear on ‘Rising Star,’ it can’t be anything criminal. What’s important is that this monster of a talent is sitting right in front of me.
He couldn’t let him get away. PD Han suddenly leaned forward, a slight smile touching the corners of his mouth.
He gestured to two men sitting a short distance away.
“Over there are the studio director and our casting director.”
Next, he indicated the middle-aged woman to his left, who had been observing the scene in silence, her hair in a long perm.
“This is writer Park Eun-mi. You know of her, I’m sure?”
Lee Min-jun did know the name. Not because she was famous—he didn’t watch TV at all—but because he’d looked her up yesterday when he researched PD Han Jae-hyuk. He gave the writer a slight nod.
PD Han’s hand then moved to his right, toward the universally recognized superstar.
“And of course, there’s no need to introduce our dear Seo-ah.”
After introducing the key players, PD Han Jae-hyuk looked back at Lee Min-jun, his expression confident.
“We are preparing a new drama.”
Min-jun knew this part, too. His friend, Choi Si-woo, had mentioned it was a gathering of industry heavyweights. But that had nothing to do with him. So what?
The bomb dropped from PD Han Jae-hyuk’s lips.
“We want you to be a part of it, Mr. Lee.” He clarified, seeing Min-jun’s blank stare. “We want to cast you as an actor.”
Min-jun gave a short, noncommittal hum, his face betraying nothing. On the outside, he was a pillar of calm. But inside, his mind had gone blank.
He was so stunned, he couldn’t form a reaction.
What is this guy talking about? Is he… is he serious?
The shock was so profound that the composure Lee Min-jun had so carefully maintained was on the verge of shattering. He was barely holding on when Writer Park Eun-mi, on the far side of the table, moved for the first time.
She slid a stack of papers she’d brought with her across the table.
“This is the first part of the script,” she said, her voice even. “It has not been seen by anyone outside this room.”
She looked at him with a calm, inviting gaze.
“Would you be willing to read for any of the roles here?”
At that same moment, in the bustling break room of a mid-sized food company, a group of five employees were enjoying a short coffee break. Mugs sat in front of each of them.
“No, seriously—Yoon Seo-ah is unreal,” Choi Si-woo was saying, still buzzing from seeing her at the ‘Rising Star’ audition.
“Her beauty is just insane. How do I put it? It’s like you get sucked into her face when you look at her. And her eyes are so big you can see your own reflection.”
“Come on, that’s an exaggeration.”
“He’s talking nonsense again. Seeing someone in person doesn’t make them a goddess.”
“Anyway, didn’t you get eliminated because you had to take a dump?”
“Hey! No! I just got nervous and forgot my lines!”
“Your friend did you a huge favor. If it weren’t for him, you would’ve just shit your pants and gone home.”
Choi Si-woo’s expression turned wistful as his colleagues teased him.
“Whatever. I just wonder who’s going to end up marrying Yoon Seo-ah. I’m so jealous.”
“Probably another top actor, right? Or a chaebol.”
“Right? Man, I’m envious. Anyway, I’m keeping the autograph she gave me for life. It’s going to be a family heirloom.”
“You’d have to get married first for that to happen.”
Just then, Choi Si-woo’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked the caller ID, then excused himself, stepping into the hallway to take the call. It was a close friend from his theater club.
“Si-woo, you busy? Got a minute?” a man’s voice asked.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Did you finish reading that script I gave you? ‘Exorcism’?”
The question reminded Si-woo of the short film scenario he had passed on to Lee Min-jun.
“Oh, yeah, I read it.”
“Great. Then I need it back, man. I have to read it again.”
“Haha, sure, sure. I’ll bring it this weekend. But why do you need it back so suddenly?”
An excited voice came from the other end of the line.
“You’re not going to believe this, but it sounds like ‘Exorcism’ is actually getting produced. I was thinking of auditioning if they hold open calls.”
Si-woo’s voice filled with admiration.
“Wow, no way. They’re really making it?”
Back in the Seablue Studio meeting room, a quiet tension had fallen. All eyes, starting with PD Han Jae-hyuk, were fixed on Lee Min-jun. He, in turn, was staring silently at the stack of papers before him—the script for Park Eun-mi’s new drama. The initial shock had receded, but he still couldn’t wrap his head around the casting offer.
Time. He needed time. And then he saw it. Next to the script Park Eun-mi had offered, a familiar pattern of swirling blackness had appeared. That was his first move. He reached out and, without a word, accepted the script.
He pretended to study the cover.
It wasn't a bound book, but a sheaf of A4 paper, with the title and episode number printed simply on the front page. That wasn’t what mattered, though. Min-jun lowered the script slightly, then gently touched the edge of the black void with his index finger.
An immediate, icy chill shot through his body.
Just as he expected, he was pulled in. In an instant, his vision was filled with an endless, dark space. A sense of peace washed over him, and Lee Min-jun exhaled sharply.
“God, what is happening? This is insane.”
He never thought this bizarre space would feel so comforting. Here, at least, time stood still, and he could think freely.
“Casting? They want to cast me? In a new drama starring Yoon Seo-ah?”
With the influential PD Han Jae-hyuk directing and the star writer Park Eun-mi penning the script. It was a tremendous stage to be scouted for, and it had come completely out of nowhere.
Alright, he needed to get his thoughts in order. Floating in the void, Min-jun crossed his arms, forcing himself to calm down.
“The only thing they have to go on is my ‘Rising Star’ audition. So… my acting must have been far more impressive than I realized.”
The experience he gained in this void was exponentially more potent than he’d ever imagined. There was no other explanation for events moving this quickly.
“Okay… for now…”
Min-jun unfolded his arms and turned toward the row of white squares lined up in the distance. A new one had just appeared.
He walked over and confirmed the text written on the fifth square.
-[5/Script (Title: Profiler Hanryang, Part 1), Grade A]
-[This is a drama script with a very high degree of completion. 100% assimilation is possible.]
He focused his thoughts on one of the words, muttering to himself.
About thirty seconds passed.
Of course, for Lee Min-jun, time in the void was meaningless. For PD Han Jae-hyuk, Writer Park Eun-mi, and everyone else in the meeting room, thirty seconds had ticked by as they watched Lee Min-jun stare intently at the script’s cover.
Why is he studying the title so intensely? writer Park Eun-mi wondered, her brow furrowing slightly.
Just then, the motionless Lee Min-jun stirred. He slowly lifted his head and met her eyes. A faint, knowing smile touched her lips.
“Take your time. The PD mentioned you performed after looking at the script for only a minute at the audition. You don’t have to do that this time. We can wait ten minutes, thirty, however long you need.”
Park Eun-mi was the kind of writer who would do anything to improve the quality of her work.
“There’s no pressure,” she added, trying to lighten the dense atmosphere. “You can act out just a few lines from any character you like. I’m just curious to hear your tone.”
In truth, she and the PD already had a role in mind for him, but she kept that to herself. Lee Min-jun still seemed to be in a sensitive, prickly state.
Min-jun gave her an indifferent nod, then slowly lowered his gaze back to the ‘Profiler Hanryang’ script in his hands.
His low voice filled the quiet room.
“I’ll just read for a moment.”
He began to flip through the pages. His reading, however, was brief. In about five minutes, he had skimmed through dozens of pages before raising his head once more.
He looked at the expectant faces around the table and spoke calmly.
“I’ll do the role of Park Dae-ri.”
“Park Dae-ri?”
PD Han Jae-hyuk and Writer Park Eun-mi’s eyes went wide with surprise. The role of Park Dae-ri was the exact part they had secretly hoped he would choose.
“Yes,” Min-jun confirmed, his expression unreadable. “The role of Park Dae-ri.”
It was, after all, a character with a touch of the sociopath about him.