“Returned.”
“Sorry?”
“I said it’s returned.”
Team Leader Ji Seongin’s hand gave the file a small shake. His eyes stayed nailed to the monitor. Take it and get lost—that’s what it meant.
“May I ask why?”
Assistant Manager Seon didn’t take the file. He asked a question instead.
Only then did Ji Seongin’s gaze turn to him.
“I’m the one who wants to ask.”
“...”
“Is this your answer for why we need to change the components of a perfectly fine product?”
Silence flowed through the office.
Assistant Manager Seon was certain: the profitability left in “Yoobyung Industries” was all but tapped out. At this point, they had to rotate into “Bea,” which was on the verge of a clear tailwind.
But there was no way to explain that. It was a reality only “he” could see.
“If you’ve got nothing else, take that and go back to your desk.”
“...”
“And stop doing pointless things.”
In an asset-management company that “speaks in data,” Team Leader Ji Seongin communicated only in numbers. For the first time, Assistant Manager Seon despaired that his own two eyes couldn’t get him over that wall.
There’s already a blue light flashing on Yoobyung. What am I supposed to do with that!
Back at his seat, he clawed at his hair for no good reason.
This is all because of Team Leader Ji.
Their previous team leader was a man in whom you couldn’t find even a trace of enthusiasm.
Having that kind of boss made the job easy. Seon had a knack for choices that never put him at a loss, and that knack had gotten him promoted fast.
But ever since Team Leader Ji arrived, everything changed. Reports padded with convenient excuses didn’t fly.
Now he had to explain intuition-born insight with data. That’s why Ji Seongin and Assistant Manager Seon clashed every time.
So annoying, so lame—regret it after Yoobyung goes under.
Muttering to himself, he stood to go pick up some prints he’d queued.
His junior, Do Yeonghwan, was standing at the copier.
“Did you print these?”
“Yeah, I did.”
Do Yeonghwan squared the pages that had come out early and handed them to him.
The printer kept spitting out more.
Leaning against the wall by the machine, Seon asked while they waited.
“Come to think of it, Yeonghwan, you’ve never gotten chewed out by Team Leader Ji, have you?”
“How severe does it have to be to count as ‘chewed out’?”
“As bad as me today?”
“Not that bad yet.”
“Good for you.”
He looked at Yeonghwan, then half to himself asked:
“To communicate with Team Leader Ji, is data absolutely essential?”
For someone in finance, could there be a dumber question? Seon let out an awkward laugh.
“Feeling frustrated?”
“A little.”
He stared past the glass partition at Ji Seongin—neatly combed hair, head held straight.
Can I keep working with that man?
Say he brought the data exactly the way the team leader wanted.
But what if that company was on the verge of delisting?
Or what if, after they manipulated the documents to the hilt, they just hadn’t been caught—yet?
What if the decision landed on investing there?
Seon’s eyes could judge the substance. But they couldn’t show proof that the documents were cooked. Investigating, finding it, and persuading—those parts would fall to him.
Beep, beep—
A chime sounded at his feet: the copier.
“I don’t think you always have to speak from your strengths.”
When Do Yeonghwan opened the paper tray, the noise stopped.
He rolled up his sleeves, tore open a ream, and loaded fresh paper. The copier started up again.
“If Assistant Manager Seon, with the good feel, makes the list, and Team Leader Ji, with the thoroughness, signs off, wouldn’t the two of you be a good combo?”
“...”
“The list just needs a bit of persuasiveness. You don’t have to carry an outsized burden.”
The copier halted. Do Yeonghwan pulled the full stack, tidied it, and handed it over.
“Isn’t that why you printed this? Those materials.”
“Our Yeonghwan is so smart it’s scary sometimes.”
Seon gave a short laugh.
He started back to his desk, then paused and looked at Yeonghwan still standing at the copier.
“What about you—ever worry because I’m your senior? The guy teaching you keeps going on about ‘gut feel.’”
Still unruffled, eyes on the pages sliding out, Yeonghwan answered:
“If I start to worry, I’ll immediately find a way to live and run.”
It was a cute kind of trust. Seon’s steps felt lighter as he headed to his seat. He wanted to shove that revised report under the team leader’s nose as soon as possible.
“Ha...”
While the directors reviewed the take, I pressed a hand to my chest to calm down.
Ad-libbing is tough on a good day, but this one was actually insane.
And I’m the one who opened the floodgate!
Who’d have guessed the paper would run out right then.
In this scene, the lead, Assistant Manager Seon, goes through a crucial shift.
He’s wielded his talent well up to now, then slams into a wall—helplessness, a sense of calling about his job—all of it mixes, and that decides how he’ll talk to the new team leader.
On top of that, the two leads just did a windy rooftop sequence, soaked up autumn air, and even took a break to “regain body heat.”
Terrible weather, broken shooting rhythm, stamina draining—and the plot calls for acting persuasive enough to carry the audience.
In that do-or-die moment, of all things, the copier made trouble. My vision went as white as A4.
So before anyone could call cut, I just ad-libbed—and hustled to load more paper to stop the noise. I regretted it even while I was shoving the ream in.
The good news: we didn’t have to stop rolling. Ha Seomyeong bridged it nicely too.
The bad news...
“Iwol, let’s grab one more of Do Yeonghwan’s single and a half-body.”
Of all things, they added pickups to my part.
Damn it—can Seongbin’s OST just drop already?
Filming eats time, but it gives you things too.
You end up thinking, from every direction, about how to look good on camera.
For idols, giving your gaze to the camera is key; for actors, you must not “show” that you’re aware of it.
Since you can’t rely on the eyes for immersion, every movement has to read natural. That pushed me past facial acting into body flow—practicing until set motions look everyday to anyone watching.
As an idol on stage, my aim was to make any lack of detail in my lines read less on camera.
But for actors, unless there’s a specific intent, at minimum you’re in a bust shot. Unless they’re framing just hands or shoes for directorial reasons, your face is on-screen constantly.
Given that, even whether your bangs’ shadow cuts your eye light makes a big difference.
When that kind of continuity isn’t there, it nags at you.
So I spent a whole day at the dorm with my bangs down.
A couple of the brats asked if I was in a bad mood, but thanks to the practice I can play “dead eyes” no matter where the lights are hung.
Meanwhile, there’s one guy whose eye light is just gone, bangs or not.
In the kitchen, Lee Cheonghyeon was hammering a laptop in a headset—the one I bought him recently so he’d stop wrecking his ears with earbuds.
I tapped the table lightly. He lifted his gaze—hollow, but with that deep beauty like the center of an abyss.
“You’re back? What’s up?”
“Are you handling the OST?”
On his screen, a DAW project titled “InMyOffice_2ndED_Ver.5” was open.
“Yeah, that’s how it ended up.”
“Is everyone having meetings without me lately?”
“Should we pull you into video calls when you leave in the morning and get back at night? Be grateful your younger brothers are growing autonomous.”
“You don’t listen to a single thing I say anymore.”
“Of course not. Next year, when the calendar flips, I’m not even calling you hyung.”
Even while cracking dumb jokes, his hands didn’t stop. The tracks were packed—he must’ve layered a ton of instruments.
“Wanna hear it?”
“If you don’t mind.”
He handed me the headset. He didn’t look thrilled.
Maybe because it’s his first ballad? He’s not a “genre traitor,” though.
When he hit play, a sad ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) melody spilled out.
Lyrical and emotive. Perfect for a couple in crisis or breaking up.
The late swell of instruments was classic, too.
But...
“You don’t like it, do you?”
“How did you know?”
He popped his eyes like a squirrel.
“It’s not your style.”
“What is my style, then?”
“Could you not hit me with questions like ‘What makes me me,’ please? I never know how to answer those.”
Despite my plea, he grabbed both my forearms and wouldn’t let go.
“I don’t like it! There’s nowhere the harmony or melody feels off.”
“Right, right.”
“But something has to stick—catchiness, a peak, something. This has nothing. It’s bland. If you turned Jeho lying on the sofa into a song, it’d be this.”
“Why are you picking a fight out of nowhere?”
From the couch, Choi Jeho piped up. We had no intention of engaging, and he didn’t expect anyone to answer, so it didn’t become a conversation.
“I get that you used famous OSTs as references. I get the ballad base. I like that you’re hearing Seongbin’s voice for the vocal. A guide track will make it much better, sure. The problem is, there’s no image.”
“You mean the drama itself doesn’t come to mind?”
“It’s an OST that ‘could drop into any drama and not feel out of place.’”
He started to scowl, then stopped, smoothing his brow with a thumb.
“Still, it’s impressive. What made you decide to take on an OST?”
I’d figured every creator needs a cooldown, so I wasn’t going to dump the OST work on him.
Didn’t expect him to volunteer and drag it in.
“Spark might come back with a ballad next.”
“What a commendable thought.”
“I’m always commendable. Younger brothers like me are rare, so treat me well.”
Then he started typing my comments into a memo.
“Evokes the drama,” “tailored to ‘In My Office’...” He trailed off.
“But hey.”
“Yeah?”
“What’s a typical working person’s life like?”
Ah. You’re starting from there.
Can’t be helped. You’re invited to a UA planning meeting (specialty: three days before deadline).
