“Ah, ahaha, haha. Mr. Seo Hoyun, you must really love kimchi fried rice! I really love jajangmyeon. I could eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”
“Hahaha.”
“Today’s just a relaxed meet-and-greet, so don’t be nervous. Just think of it as light chit-chat, okay?”
Director Joo smoothed the atmosphere and pressed the camcorder button that the assistant director had set up in advance. It was because this was arranged as a simplified audition.
Even after seeing Seo Hoyun in person, a corner of his heart still twisted with bitterness, but as a director, a greedy spark also flickered to life.
In Director Joo’s judgment, in a drama related to the entertainment industry—especially when the role was that of an idol—the most important thing was not singing, dancing, or even acting skills.
Of course, those were bonuses if good. But the absolute priority was appearance.
Good-looking faces were common enough in the industry, but finding an actor who truly carried that distinct “idol aura” was nearly impossible unless they were an actual idol.
But standing face-to-face with Seo Hoyun, whom he had assumed was just a fine-boned pretty boy, it genuinely felt like facing a real idol.
“Look at Mr. Seo Hoyun’s styling today. Honestly, he could walk on stage right now and it wouldn’t look out of place.”
At the assistant director’s whisper, Director Joo nodded.
When Seo Hoyun had appeared on TV as Kim Wooho in Dead after Hope, his looks had been warm enough, though the role had made him seem worn by the world.
Now, with slightly lighter hair dye, a plain white t-shirt, and jeans—he looked different. Fresh, yet radiating an indescribable sparkle.
“Please take good care of me.”
Seeing Seo Hoyun’s easy smile, Director Joo recalled a recent call with PD Jung.
When asked what Seo Hoyun was like ahead of this casual meeting, the other PD had gushed—kind, gentle, the best colleague to work with—lavishing praise to the point of excess.
“No other candidates yet. Not bad... but I still need to see if he fits the role.”
He had no intention of making him sing or dance on the spot.
What Director Joo wanted was one thing only.
The color of the role shining through his demeanor, expression, and actions.
The Kang Jiseong that Seo Hoyun would portray.
“Mr. Seo Hoyun, I’d like to hear how you interpret the character. I’ll give you simple questions—just answer how you think he would act.”
“Yes.”
Clearing his throat, the director asked:
“You’re walking down the broadcasting station hallway when a junior greets you. How would Kang Jiseong respond?”
“‘Oh, hi,’ and then he walks right past.”
Acting it out, Seo Hoyun gave a half-hearted wave with a detached face, then smiled again.
“But actually... no, Kang Jiseong wouldn’t even notice who said hello.”
“...Why do you think that?”
“Because he has no interest in others. He’s probably used to one-sided attention from those around him, but more than that, he’s been burned by relationships enough to build high walls.”
For a moment, the director’s eyes sharpened.
“Oh, interesting. Then what if someone he dislikes tries to cling to him? How would he react?”
“Ah...”
As though searching through memories, Seo Hoyun tilted his head slightly.
“Sorry.”
Then he tugged one corner of his lips upward.
“I don’t remember faces that blur together.”
Though he didn’t show it outwardly, Director Joo was impressed.
A perfect answer.
After standing at the top as an idol, ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) Kang Jiseong could no longer accept kindness or goodwill at face value. He believed everything hid an ulterior motive.
Naturally, he grew indifferent to those around him.
“What if, like in the drama, Kang Jiseong met someone he truly wanted to help? How would he approach them?”
It was a part not even written into the script yet.
Maybe too much to ask, but the director still awaited Seo Hoyun’s reply.
“He’d have to act suspiciously clingy.”
“...Sorry?”
“He’d keep contacting them endlessly, pestering them at all hours, only quieting down when ignored long enough, and even then grumbling until he started again.”
“...Hm?”
But the words that came out pointed in a completely different direction from the character of Kang Jiseong.
“That’s... not quite it.”
“...What?”
Though there was no “right answer,” the director couldn’t help but feel let down after his expectations had risen.
“Like you said earlier, Kang Jiseong builds walls with people. And his pride is sky-high. Even if he wanted to help someone, I doubt he’d approach so easily.”
“...Is that so?”
Blinking, Seo Hoyun seemed not to fully understand. But acting followed the script anyway, so there was no immediate problem.
What had truly caught the director’s attention from the start was something else.
“By the way... do you play guitar?”
Following the director’s pointing finger, Seo Hoyun looked at the guitar case and brushed it with his hand.
“Someone taught me a little, so I can play.”
“Oh? A friend?”
“Friend... well, yes. A composer I know.”
“Could you play us something?”
“Of course.”
Agreeing readily, Seo Hoyun took out the guitar and settled into position.
“I’ll begin.”
After strumming a few chords, he released a calm melody.
【Chill out, Do not go too far....】
“...!”
As the quiet guitar blended with his steady baritone, both the director and the assistant director’s eyes widened.
【You and I are waiting fear hid underneath the bed】
‘Got goosebumps.’
It was a song from a 1990s rock band.
Though not flashy or high-pitched, it was infamous for being difficult to sing—but Seo Hoyun handled it skillfully.
【As we cannot leave all the things behind...】
Singing with his guitar, he looked like a scene out of an indie music film.
Despite their heavy stares, he played on unfazed, as though long used to such situations.
【Lay down, do not go too far
You and I are waiting hope over the sunlight】
Just as they were immersed in the performance, the melody stopped.
“Hey, why stop here?”
“Haha.”
“Were you preparing to debut as a singer?!”
Before the director could speak, the assistant director—face flushed red—blurted it out.
“I thought you were just good at dancing, but maybe you’re even better at singing?”
“I’m better at dancing.”
Seo Hoyun answered flatly.
Recalling the variety show clip of Seo Hoyun that the main writer had shown him, Director Joo found the claim believable.
Seo Hoyun was a big catch.
Even the assistant director, nudging him furiously to secure him quickly, made that clear.
His grasp of Kang Jiseong might be a little lacking, but singing, dancing, acting—he had all three.
But the director wanted to check one more thing.
“...Mr. Seo Hoyun.”
“Yes.”
“Truth is, though we won’t have explicit romance scenes to avoid idol relationship scandals, the main writer imagines Kang Jiseong as someone with a long line of ex-girlfriends.”
For the first time, the smile at Seo Hoyun’s lips faltered.
“...Is there a real-life model for this?”
“Huh? That I don’t know.”
“...I see.”
Scratching his nape, he hesitated before carefully speaking.
“...But this drama has no romance, right?”
“Even so, we’d like a bit of that nuance to slip into his words and actions.”
The little gestures and tone of voice could convey a character’s backstory. To viewers, that would appear as charm.
The director believed the flavor of acting came from direct or indirect experience.
Not that Seo Hoyun had to be skilled at romance, but he at least shouldn’t come across as clueless.
No matter how detailed the writer’s notes—“a man so handsome everyone stares,” “someone who’s dated many women”—if the actor couldn’t embody it, the role’s appeal would be cut in half.
The director absolutely didn’t want that on camera.
“If you don’t mind, could you try a pickup line? If you need a partner, you can use the assistant director here.”
“I’d love that!”
The assistant director raised both hands eagerly.
“...Do I have to?”
With an awkward face, Seo Hoyun looked truly reluctant.
“Must I?”
“...Huh? Did I push too far?”
According to PD Jung, Seo Hoyun could do everything without issue.
“Is romance his weak spot?”
There were actors vulnerable to certain genres, so Director Joo felt troubled.
As he mulled it over, Seo Hoyun rose and sighed softly.
“Why ask me to do that?”
Then he leaned forward, bracing one hand on the table.
Not toward the assistant director—
“...Eh?”
—but toward the director.
At fifty-one, Director Joo was utterly thrown off by the sudden move.
“Uh, Mr. Seo Hoyun, if you don’t want to, you can just say so—”
“That’s not it.”
Lowering his long lashes, Seo Hoyun murmured.
“Director... would you really be fine with me saying those words to someone else?”
“Wh-what??”
His trembling voice sounded like he was suppressing hurt feelings.
“Really?”
Director Joo, under the sudden bombardment—later he would only be able to describe it as “an attack”—froze.
“...That’d be a little disappointing.”
Even as the assistant director gaped in shock, Seo Hoyun’s eyes never left the director.
He smiled slightly.
“Director.”
It wasn’t the same smile he had worn all meeting.
It was a smile that knew exactly when it was most attractive.
As if to say—
“What time do you finish today?”
The very face of someone he was imitating.
.
.
.
Whoosh.
Outside, hot wind brushed my cheek.
The meeting had ended with Director Joo saying he would actively consider me for Kang Jiseong.
“Joo Woosung...”
But instead of feeling satisfied, I was left stunned with cold realization.
“How the hell did the king of over-immersion even manage this....”
Ding!
[Today, I learned a lesson.]
“...What now.”
[A friend is...]
“...”
[...something to make properly...]
“That bastard is not my friend....”
I just wanted to return to Idol Tycoon as fast as possible.
