The drama “In My Office” is a textbook romance set at an asset management firm.
It’s the on-and-off love story between a new team leader who comes in from working on Wall Street and, for certain reasons, transfers to a Korean company, and an assistant manager with second sight who somehow sniffs out funds that will make a profit... but.
“Does any of this make sense?”
This is bad. I’m running into trouble at the very first step of pre-audition script study.
“Is it okay that they keep mixing up a securities firm and an asset manager?”
“Are we really saying investors wouldn’t even look at financial soundness?”
My college grades were abysmal, sure, but even a skim turned up oddities.
In a world where specialists upload drama review videos, how are they planning to handle the blowback?
But there was a bigger problem.
“How am I supposed to fall in love with the team leader?”
I couldn’t understand the leads’ emotional track at all.
Office romances exist, yes. But that doesn’t make them easy.
I simply could not grasp how the female lead falls for a male lead who checks the triple combo of talking obnoxiously, lacking social skills, and living on his own self-regard.
The one relief: the character I’d be playing was “Office Worker 1,” an ordinary employee who neither falls in love with anyone at the company nor has any genius ability. At least I wouldn’t have to bolt from the audition exclaiming, “I can’t act this!”
There were two major audition tasks: script acting and character analysis.
The lines weren’t long, so I memorized the script quickly. I decided to spend the remaining time on the character analysis.
“Name: Do Yeonghwan, 28, easygoing, the type who pops up from somewhere, says what needs saying, and vanishes—a scene-stealing spice character...”
I worked my pen hard, imagining what kind of person Do Yeonghwan would be.
A little younger than me, still at staff level, a quiet employee.
“I heard Iwol said he’d take the audition?”
Right after a meeting ended, during the leftover reservation time, Min Jugyeong asked the CEO.
“He did. Accepted on the spot.”
“Isn’t that pushing it a bit too much?”
“The audition isn’t right away.”
Then Yoon Hyeonju added:
“We should probably keep him from doing anything that drains stamina for a while. The management team knows this—when Iwol’s going, he doesn’t hit the brakes.”
“Right...”
“If we don’t assign him something, he’ll say he’s not working. He hasn’t been coming to the practice room lately, has he?”
“No, I heard he’s only been going to acting classes.”
“Perfect. Let’s have him lay off dance and company work for now. Tell Chanyeong to manage the members’ sleep hours across the board.”
Management staff jotted down Yoon Hyeonju’s directives.
Watching them, she recalled that Jeong Seongbin had recently requested a meeting with the CEO.
After the major incident, UA had to swallow a lot of changes. It wasn’t a smooth process, but indulging feelings was a luxury.
At times like this, Spark generally stepped back quietly and did their part.
They don’t need much hand-holding. Even Yoon Hyeonju herself said that as a refrain.
For the most well-mannered among Spark to request a meeting—that wasn’t ordinary.
He’d done a solo stage, yes, but Jeong Seongbin’s nature was to value the stability of the people around him over opportunities for himself.
Without making him wait, Yoon Hyeonju told them to send him up immediately.
Before long, she was sharing tea across from a company singer whose aura felt subtly changed.
After a few greetings, silence pooled in the office.
He must be here about treatment and conditions.
Usually Kim Iwol would take point on that, but with the person himself in that state, Jeong Seongbin must have come.
She’d been planning to talk to all of Spark about this anyway.
So she had a reply sketched out in her head, but...
“CEO.”
“Yes, what is it?”
“How can someone raise their self-esteem?”
Jeong Seongbin brought up something she hadn’t anticipated.
“Self-esteem?”
Yoon Hyeonju echoed it back. She’d often told staff to instill confidence during training or evaluation, but she hadn’t thought deeply about self-esteem.
Was it a mistake to make him leader when there are hyungs above him?
Or does he feel responsible for the Yu Hansu matter?
Flustered, she asked what was going on. Jeong Seongbin pressed his lips together once, then spoke with difficulty.
Another unexpected name came out.
“Iwol hyung. From our perspective he’s incredible and someone we rely on, but he doesn’t seem to think that way about himself.”
“Iwol?”
The Kim Iwol Yoon Hyeonju knew always had confidence in his work.
When he spoke, there was always conviction, and he was mature—he didn’t sway easily with outside factors.
But recalling the dossier of Yu Hansu’s abuses that Iwol had compiled, it wasn’t as if she couldn’t understand Jeong Seongbin’s point.
How many people can come out unscathed after months of verbal and physical abuse? And he didn’t even have a proper family to confide in.
“Hyung really looks after us. Not just the activities—he always gives the impression he’s watching over our hearts, too.”
Jeong Seongbin spoke calmly.
“We want to help him just as much... but we don’t know how. Maybe to him we’re not people he can lean on yet.”
“He’s just not someone who voices weakness. It’s not that he doesn’t trust you.”
Kim Iwol wouldn’t lean on younger members. He didn’t even tell much older company people when he was having a hard time.
“So I’ve thought of a few things.”
Jeong Seongbin laid out alternatives, carefully worked through.
“The company will do what it can, but going forward, I’d like fewer situations where hyung has to participate in administrative work.”
“Could we find tasks where he can enjoy himself or showcase his abilities?”
“He’s said that in society there’s no case where he’s praised, but... still, I’d like proper evaluation when he achieves good results. He seems to listen closely when professionals give praise.”
His delivery didn’t falter. Meanwhile the two fists on his knees trembled ever so slightly.
It wasn’t a proposal as clinically rational as Kim Iwol would make. In a profit-seeking entity like a company, there was no easy reason or need to agree.
Even so, Jeong Seongbin was doing his utmost to say it—carefully, but as plainly as possible.
“Is this the team’s consensus?”
When Yoon Hyeonju asked, he nodded vigorously.
“Alright. Since it’s the first proposal brought by the leader, I’ll move to implement it quickly.”
“...Thank you!”
His eyes shone.
The look he’d seemed to lose for a while during that long trainee period was back.
“How commendable.”
Murmuring at the door he’d exited, Yoon Hyeonju felt a lump in her throat—like when she’d watched his My.Best.Singer stage.
After that meeting, she began watching Kim Iwol a bit more closely.
The company could have declined the acting job outright. Even so, if he wanted it, she tried to bring him opportunities to experience different kinds of work.
And he examined each one attentively. He had no greed, yet if assigned something, he’d accept it and look it over—something about it made her ache.
“Because he’s good at work, we all just kept thinking of giving him more.”
Reflecting and reflecting again, she swallowed a sigh.
When he decided on the spot to take the audition, she called in Spark’s yet-to-be-formally-assigned support staff by department and laid down the law.
“No carrots-and-sticks nonsense. Carrots only. Got it?”
“We’ll turn the building into a carrot field.”
What good is it if our idol—who deserves nothing but praise—has low self-esteem?
Even if he drinks bitter defeat at the audition, at least UA’s officers and staff would cheer his new challenge.
She made that vow. Then, studying the still-in-progress org chart, she put her pen to it in earnest.
The audition was held at a shared office that had meeting rooms.
“Iwol, don’t be nervous—do great! You can do it! Got it?”
My manager’s cheer was passionate enough to be a burden.
Is this audition some super-critical assignment? If I fail here, does UA go under or something?
Good thing I came in a semi-suit just in case. Even if I get cut, they’ll at least consider that I showed effort. Honestly, I’m dressed the most like an office worker.
Wearing office clothes for the first time in a while, my breath caught in my chest—it felt like I was about to clock in—but aside from that, all good.
Since I’d only been reading the script during breaks, I’d now memorized everyone else’s lines too. No matter how I looked at it, I really did work hard. I’ve earned the right to say I fought well even if I lose.
While I was thinking useless thoughts and stepping into the office, someone who looked like the writer gave me a few small pointers.
I sipped from the water I’d brought, and soon it was my turn.
I knocked. On hearing permission to enter, I opened the door and went in—three interviewers.
“Hello, I’m Iwol of Spark!”
“Yes, nice to meet you.”
The person in the center returned the greeting.
“Sit only when they give permission to sit, keep the face soft with a smile...”
The interview manners I’d memorized the first time I ever interviewed came back. Even though they’re second nature now, I remembered every word vividly.
Up until recently, I’d even been the one sitting in that interviewer’s chair. Now it felt like ages ago.
But my knowledge of interviews became useless three minutes in.
“Born in XX? How old ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) does that make you?”
“Twenty-one!”
“Twenty-one? That’s really young. Won’t it be hard to sell you as an office worker?”
“Still, he’s tall, so he has the presence. How tall are you, Iwol?”
“One eighty-three.”
“One eighty-three? Without lifts?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
In a company interview, every one of those questions is report-worthy.
In an era pushing blind interviews, age and height questions? I used to think the entertainment world and the corporate world were the same in how they sort people, but the difference hit me in the skin.
“He’s perfect visually, but he’s too young.”
“Oh, come on, just on visuals he’s male-lead tier.”
“That’s only because there aren’t many handsome guys in their twenties now.”
The writer, the director, and the showrunner opened a lively symposium on the extinction of handsome actors in their twenties—about me.
Even if I have no connections in acting, isn’t this a bit like leaving me hanging by a cut string?
Still, I kept smiling until they were done talking, and then they all went “Ah, right,” and focused on me again.
“You got the audition process brief, yes? Script acting and character analysis.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Then let’s start with the character analysis. Freely explain what kind of person Do Yeonghwan is—as you see him, Iwol.”
Here we go.
Time to show off the PT skills that, for some reason, only got better after I became an idol.
