As Lee Min-jun finished his performance, the acclaimed screenwriter Park Eun-mi, author of ‘Profiler Hanryang,’ spoke with sudden finality.
“Alright. You start immediately.”
She couldn’t tear her eyes from him. She felt an urgent need to memorize every detail—the flicker in his gaze, the chilling cadence of his voice, the slightest gesture, the rhythm of his breath, the subtle shifts of his expression.
“I stepped in dog poop.”
The reason for her fixation was simple.
How… how can he embody a character I created with such terrifying accuracy? No, this is beyond accuracy.
The man before her was identical to the Park Dae-ri she had envisioned, yet somehow infinitely more vivid, more real. The word ‘real’ felt absurd, given that he was, of course, a living person, but her thoughts tangled in a knot of awe and disbelief.
Park Dae-ri is right in front of me.
The character she had birthed through sleepless, agonizing nights of writing was here, in the flesh. This was undoubtedly him, a man built from a database of psychopathy. A thrill shot through Park Eun-mi, followed by a faint, chilling tremor of fear.
Characters are born from a writer, but they are brought to life by an actor.
A perfect translation from page to person was, by its nature, impossible. No matter how meticulously an actor analyzed the source material, they could never crawl inside the writer’s mind. They couldn’t possibly grasp every nuance, every bit of hidden subtext the creator had painstakingly woven into the character’s fabric.
Because of this, writers learned to compromise.
They overlooked minor deviations in an actor’s performance. They tolerated differences in the tone of a line, and they accepted when an action didn’t perfectly match what they had written.
It wasn’t a lesson unique to Park Eun-mi.
It was a rite of passage for every screenwriter in Korea—perhaps the world. The sooner one accepted the gap between the vision and the reality on set, the faster one grew as a professional.
I wrote this… but I don’t see my words.
But the actor performing in front of her shattered the need for compromise. Lee Min-jun wasn’t just interpreting the script; he was eclipsing it.
If Park Eun-mi felt this way, the others in the room must have felt it, too.
He had taken her creation, preserved its core without the slightest waver, and then magnified its intensity a hundredfold. That was Lee Min-jun in this moment.
It was a sight that Park Eun-mi, a titan in the Korean television industry, had never witnessed before. And so, she was utterly captivated. She had worked with hundreds of actors, maybe thousands over the course of her career.
If he was the first among them…
Lee Min-jun. I absolutely have to have him.
The word ‘precious’ was an insult. He was a singular talent, the kind of actor she might never encounter again. Having seen him with her own eyes, she knew she couldn't let him go.
She cared little for appearances or professional decorum.
“Min-jun, please, take the role of Park Dae-ri. It has to be you.”
What writer wouldn't move heaven and earth to see their own creation made real? Park Eun-mi was prepared to beg. She was a woman who would do anything for the sake of her work.
No one in the conference room moved to stop her. No one advised her to save face. Not Director Han Jae-hyuk, not superstar Yoon Seo-ah, not the executives from the production company. They all sat in stunned silence, their faces etched with a shared understanding.
They felt it, too.
Park Eun-mi clutched Min-jun’s hands, her eyes burning with a raw, possessive desire. Her intensity was a palpable force, a pot about to boil over.
I wasn't expecting her to grab my hands.
In the entire room, only Lee Min-jun remained unfazed, though he was admittedly a little overwhelmed by the writer’s fervor. Who wouldn’t be, having their hands suddenly seized like that?
It’d be nice if she’d let go before we talk. Still, judging by this big-shot writer’s reaction, my void-space ability is seriously impressive.
All he had to do was maintain his aloof facade, and things seemed to fall perfectly into place. He decided to just go with the flow.
Of course, he had no idea.
I wonder if I can get a copy of this audition tape.
He couldn’t possibly know that this moment was a major turning point in his life.
For now, Lee Min-jun, his hand still in her grasp, spoke quietly to the writer.
“Ms. Park. First, could you let go of my hand?”
As if waking from a trance, Park Eun-mi released him.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize.”
A question came from the other side of the table. It was Director Han Jae-hyuk.
“But, Min-jun, why did you choose Park Dae-ri? The other roles would have been much easier to prepare for.”
Park Eun-mi clapped her hands together.
“Yes! I’m curious about that, too.”
“Me too,” Yoon Seo-ah added. “Why that specific role?”
Once again, all eyes in the room fixed on Lee Min-jun, their curiosity piqued. He, however, remained impassive.
I can just tell the truth about this one.
Min-jun answered casually.
“Because it’s short.”
It was the honest truth. Not a performance, not a bluff, but his genuine reason. Director Han Jae-hyuk’s brow furrowed as he sought clarification.
“You chose Park Dae-ri because… the part is short?”
It was a statement without a single lie. The others, however, heard something entirely different.
Director Han Jae-hyuk’s thoughts raced.
Short? He chose this incredibly difficult role because it’s short? But the less screen time a character has, the harder it is to make an impact!
Writer Park Eun-mi was equally baffled.
What is wrong with him? Actors normally avoid a thankless, challenging role like Park Dae-ri! And his reason is because it’s short? Is he a fool or a genius?
And the top actress, Yoon Seo-ah.
Ah, I see. It’s a humblebrag. He’s showing off his skill by saying a role like this is easy for him.
Of course, they were all completely wrong.
Amidst the charged atmosphere, Lee Min-jun stood up. He turned to Park Eun-mi and spoke in a low, even tone.
“Let me think about your offer.”
A short while later, Lee Min-jun left the conference room, his expression a stern mask as he walked slowly down the corridor. He passed several employees of C-Blue Studio, took another five steps, then risked a quick glance back toward the meeting room. Seeing he was clear, he let his carefully constructed persona drop.
A wave of relief washed over him. What on earth had just happened in there? He ran a hand over his face and pressed the elevator button.
“Lee Min-jun-ssi.”
A woman’s voice called from behind him. He turned to see Yoon Seo-ah, with her long hair and stunning figure, walking toward him.
For a moment, Min-jun was genuinely star-struck.
Wow. I never thought I’d live to see the day Yoon Seo-ah would say my name.
He quickly schooled his features, forcing the poker face back into place.
Yoon Seo-ah, oblivious to his inner turmoil, stopped directly in front of him. Her perfume was intoxicating, and he fought to focus as she asked her question.
“Why didn’t you accept the offer on the spot?”
The reason Min-jun had asked for time was simple. It didn’t feel right for a mysterious, pretentious genius to humbly accept a role right away.
If I agree immediately, it just doesn’t look cool. In the movies, the cool guy always takes his time.
It was a decision made purely for style, but he couldn’t very well say that out loud. Lee Min-jun met Yoon Seo-ah’s gaze, trying desperately to hide the frantic drumming of his heart.
“I meant what I said. I need time to think.”
The famous actress studied him for a long moment. God, she was beautiful. His heart hammered against his ribs. Could she hear it?
“By the way, Min-jun-ssi.”
Yoon Seo-ah changed the subject, seemingly oblivious to his cardiac distress.
“Do you have an agency?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Do I need a reason?”
“No, it’s not that, but… were you really overseas?”
Lee Min-jun fell silent at her question, letting his silence imply a complicated past. Seeing this, Yoon Seo-ah seemed to realize her mistake and cleared her throat.
“Ah, forgive me. I was out of line. But if you don’t mind my asking, how old are you?”
“I’m two years older than you.”
Yoon Seo-ah seemed a bit flustered by his directness and let out a small sigh as she chose her next words carefully. Her expression turned serious.
“How can I… How does one achieve that kind of acting on their own…?”
She had wanted to ask, “How can I achieve that?” but she swallowed the words, forcing them down.
Yoon Seo-ah was notoriously ambitious. For her, ‘good enough’ was never an option. Her intensity was such that some actors actively avoided working with her. When she first saw Lee Min-jun perform, she felt a sharp pang of envy.
But she was one of the country’s top actresses. It would be humiliating to ask an unknown for acting advice. If a rumor like that got out, it would be a major blow to her image.
Left with no other choice, Yoon Seo-ah changed her question again.
“No, never mind. Anyway, you don’t have an agency, right?”
The elevator arrived, its doors sliding open. Lee Min-jun stepped inside. As he turned back, he saw Yoon Seo-ah waving, her eyes crinkled into a smile.
“I hope to see you on set.”
With those words, the doors closed. The moment they did, Lee Min-jun’s tense posture dissolved, and he sagged against the wall.
“Whew. I barely held it together.”
It was understandable. He’d just had a close-up conversation with Yoon Seo-ah. The fact that he’d managed to speak at all felt like a miracle.
“Wow. Damn. I can’t even tell anyone about this. Still… that was awesome.”
Meanwhile, Yoon Seo-ah remained standing in the corridor.
“Hah… Honestly, that hurts my pride a little.”
She stared at the closed elevator doors where Lee Min-jun had disappeared. With her arms crossed, she tapped her foot, a slight pout on her lips. It had been a long time since anyone had treated her with such cool indifference.
“I wonder if he’s just not interested in women… I really can’t figure him out.”
Her misunderstanding of him deepened.
“Still, it’s a good thing he doesn’t have an agency yet.”
Late that night, in Park Eun-mi’s studio.
It was nearly 11 p.m. Four people were gathered around the large kitchen table in the writer’s workspace, which was conspicuously empty of assistants. It was Director Han Jae-hyuk, Park Eun-mi, the studio manager from C-Blue, and the casting director. Yoon Seo-ah was not present.
In front of them were scattered script pages and clear files. They appeared to be in the middle of a planning meeting, but the heavy silence suggested otherwise. Everyone seemed lost in thought, their faces weary. The reason was singular: the lingering aftershock of the actor, Lee Min-jun.
The production manager for ‘Profiler Hanryang’ finally broke the silence.
“I had high expectations after what Director Han told me, but I never imagined… that.”
The bespectacled casting director immediately chimed in. “I’ve been doing this for eight years. I’m considered a veteran in my field, and I’ve never seen an actor like that. No, he doesn’t exist. An actor like that shouldn’t exist.”
“It was like he moved beyond the category of ‘portraying a character,’ wasn’t it?”
“…It was almost dangerous to watch. You know how it is in Hollywood, with actors getting so absorbed in their roles they have accidents? This felt even more intense than that.”
“But he snapped right out of it the second it was over. The switch was so clean.”
Director Han, his arms crossed, added his thoughts.
“Having a clean switch like that… that’s a technique even most top-tier actors don’t possess.”
Park Eun-mi, who had been fiddling with a script, turned to the director beside her.
“You mentioned before that you thought Min-jun might have been overseas?”
“Do you really think he was? I’m dying to know his backstory.”
“How should I know? The overseas thing was just a guess,” Director Han said with a shrug, before his tone turned serious. “But you all saw his performance. That wasn’t easy. And for him to be self-taught? I can’t decide if he’s a genius or a madman.”
Unable to resist, Park Eun-mi pointed to a tablet lying on the desk. It contained the recording of Lee Min-jun’s audition for Park Dae-ri.
They watched it again, and the writer’s sense of urgency amplified.
She buried her face in her hands.
“The more I see it, the more I have to have him. You know, Director, this is the first time I’ve ever felt this way while writing a script.”
“I feel the same.”
“But… what if he refuses after a performance like that?”
“What if Min-jun decides he doesn’t want to play Park Dae-ri?”
Park Eun-mi groaned, her long, permed hair falling into disarray.
“After seeing him, who else could possibly measure up?”
In her eyes, Lee Min-jun had reset the bar for the role. The same was true for Director Han; their shared perfectionism was why they had worked together so many times. They would do anything for their art.
The production manager, who had been listening quietly, crossed his legs, his expression stiffening.
“Lee Min-jun was remarkable, I’ll grant you that. But him saying he’ll ‘think about it’ is a bit…”
Director Han was the one who answered.
“No, isn’t it obvious? Who’s directing ‘Profiler Hanryang’? Who’s the writer? We’re talking about the dream team of Director Han and Writer Park.”
Both were titans of the industry.
“I haven’t mentioned this, but there are A-list actors who’ve put other meetings on hold for a chance at this project. If we offered the role of Park Dae-ri to any of them, they would take it in a heartbeat.”
“Well, of course they would.”
“But both the writer and director said they would prioritize an actor’s ability to embody the character over their fame. I agreed. That’s why I’ve been turning away all the big names clamoring for a meeting.”
At this, the production manager grew more animated.
“He has to know that. Even if he didn’t, he must have some sense of the situation, sitting in front of Director Han and Writer Park.”
He gestured dismissively, thinking of Lee Min-jun.
“For him to say he’ll think about it… it came off as arrogant. Normally, an actor would be on their knees, grateful for the opportunity.”
Anyone else in the industry would likely have shared his opinion. But Director Han, who had encountered Lee Min-jun first, just smirked.
“He was like that from the very beginning. The normal rules don’t seem to apply to him.”
“It’s like he couldn’t care less about industry politics or favors. He just does what he wants.”
The production manager let out a frustrated sigh.
“Regardless, Director, Park Dae-ri isn’t some minor role! It’s a supporting lead! What is there to even think about?”
Director Han stroked his beard, a picture of Lee Min-jun’s stoic face in his mind.
“He says he’ll think about it… Maybe he has something else in mind.”
A meaningful smile spread across the director’s face as he quietly voiced his conclusion.
“Well, maybe he’s trying to raise his own value.”
He was talking about his acting fee.
“Give me time to determine my own worth. Something like that.”
It was an answer the man in question hadn’t even begun to consider.