The borrowed warmth of the yuzu tea was gone by the time I returned to the company. I put it away and headed straight back to the practice room. The members were still as noisy as usual.
“Hoyun, good luck with the shoot!”
After running through the performance a few more times, I made my way down to the underground parking lot for the cameo schedule. The manager was running late because he had stopped to pick up a gift for the director, so I got into the van first and sank into the seat.
It was nearly dawn. Fatigue crept in like an approaching darkness.
‘I could fall asleep just closing my eyes.’
I leaned my head against the window, the cold glass helping me stay awake. At the very least, I wanted to skim through the script again before resting. But being alone in the quiet made me think of Jeong Cheongyeon again, and a headache throbbed.
“Haa...”
It wasn’t surprising that the system could toy with anyone, not just me. That it had included Cheongyeon, whom I hadn’t expected to see again, was a little shocking, but since she no longer affected my future, it wasn’t really important.
What kept bothering me was—
“...Seriously.”
She looked far happier now, as if she had never appeared on my broadcast and never struggled as a trainee.
‘Didn’t you once say you’d sell your soul if it meant debuting?’
The memory of the younger Cheongyeon, eyes burning with venom, overlapped with the image of her bright smile now.
I didn’t regret what I’d done. Even if I went back, I would’ve edited the same way, riding on her plea.
But seeing her gentle and harmless now stirred feelings I couldn’t fully suppress.
As my thoughts deepened—
Clack.
The van door suddenly opened.
“Hi.”
It was Kang Ichae.
He busied himself searching between the seats, acting as if I didn’t exist.
“What. Why?”
“Ah~, I left my console in here.”
He motioned for me to move aside, sat down, and started digging through everything.
“Found it.”
By the basket always stuffed with candy, he pulled out the console. But instead of leaving, he stayed put.
I narrowed my eyes and watched him closely.
‘What’s he up to now?’
Did he notice I’d met Jeong Cheongyeon?
No, there was nothing to give me away. I’d kept my face neutral, even played around with the maknae, joked with Sunghyun, and laughed at Jiwon’s rapping.
If he had caught on, then he should be setting up a fortune-telling stall in Gangnam instead of being an idol.
“...Hyung, I just heard from the manager—”
I braced myself, eyes fixed on his lips.
“—your scene is at a funeral, right?”
“...Ah.”
So that’s what it was.
Instead of suspicion, what reached me was careful concern.
Fiddling with the joystick of the console, Ichae asked,
“You okay with that?”
Instead of saying it was better than being banned from broadcasts for a year, I curved my mouth into that sly smile Jiheon always wore when hiding something.
“Why? You worried about me?”
“Yeah.”
“......”
...Our Ichae, you’ve gotten a lot more honest.
Realizing tricks wouldn’t work on him anymore, I dropped the smile and waved my hand dismissively.
“There’ll be tons of other cameos. I’ll probably show up for three seconds at most. Shooting it will be over in a flash.”
He still looked unconvinced, eyes lowered.
“Then, hyung, when will you be back?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“’Kay.”
I watched him hop out of the van quietly. The door thudded shut.
‘He’s gone.’
I half expected him to throw another jab, but he left too obediently, and that nagged at me—until a knock tapped the window.
I looked over to see him gesturing for me to roll it down.
“You know, hyung, I actually don’t like it when you act.”
...What kind of sudden confession was that?
“Come back quick. I hate being alone.”
...Ah.
Once, back in Nobody Actor Tycoon, I had left him isolated for nearly a year. Every now and then, his scars from that time peeked through, tugging at whatever conscience I had left.
Scratching his head awkwardly, he hesitated, then finally walked off.
“...Hey, Kang Ichae.”
I debated letting him go, then called out.
When I held out a handful of candy, he accepted it with wide eyes.
“You were whining earlier about running out during practice. Take these.”
He blinked.
“And eat properly.”
Then I rolled the window back up.
Candy might not be enough to make even a child happy these days, but I didn’t want to send him away empty-handed.
I sighed and leaned back in the seat.
***
“Ah, Hoyun. Thanks for coming.”
Before the Moon Wanes was being filmed at a set in Gyeonggi Province.
I greeted every staff member I passed, and during what seemed to be a break, Director Kang Jeonggun stepped outside. He waved when our eyes met. I quickly bowed back.
“Things were rough the other day... I spoke with that staff member separately. I gave plenty of warnings, so there won’t be any more trouble. Sorry about that.”
“No problem. It’s fine.”
“And, well, I need to apologize about something else...”
Apparently, Jiheon’s scenes were running long, delaying everything scheduled after.
“Why? Equipment problems?”
Having worked with Jiheon twice now, I knew exactly how he operated.
He breezed through scenes, never tripping over his acting. Because of that, the staff’s praise always followed him.
“Not that...”
The assistant director leaned closer, whispering.
“...It’s Jiheon. He keeps NG-ing.”
“...What?”
That Jiheon?
I frowned in disbelief as the AD led me to the set’s edge.
There he was—dressed in a black turtleneck, looking haggard in a funeral setting. He forced a sheepish smile and apologized to his scene partner, who shook his head, insisting he was fine.
Meanwhile, the director reviewed the footage, hand stroking his chin, before addressing Jiheon.
“...Jiheon, let’s try that line with more—”
On the surface, nothing seemed wrong except for Jiheon’s complexion.
“What scene is this anyway?”
The AD chuckled nervously.
“Scene 27. It’s a pretty simple one...”
I flipped through the script he handed me until I found “#27.” Rookie detective Kang Juhwan discovers the protagonist Won Jaeuk’s spiritual ability and reacts.
[Kang Juhwan: What, since birth? H-how...? Do your family members know? Don’t they think you’re strange?
Won Jaeuk: (calmly) Strange? My family understands everything. They’re good people.]
“Alright, let’s go again!”
Filming resumed.
Normally, repeating takes would have the staff sighing in exasperation, but the infamous NG-free Min Jiheon stumbling? Everyone watched, spellbound.
“What, since birth? H-how...? Do your family members know? Don’t they think you’re strange?”
The rookie’s line came first.
Jiheon’s gaze slowly shifted to his partner. Every camera zoomed in.
“Strange?”
His voice was calm, yet there was a sharpness beneath it.
“My family understands everything.”
His drooping eyes narrowed slightly, lips curling at an angle.
“They’re such good people.”
“Cut!” The director pressed his hand to his forehead. Jiheon’s expression instantly smoothed out.
“...Jiheon.”
“...Yes.”
“You read the directions carefully, didn’t you? This isn’t a sarcastic scene.”
“Sorry. I’ll try again.”
“Please do it right this time.”
Jiheon bowed in all directions before approaching his partner to apologize again. The partner, though, looked thrilled to have more time acting with him.
‘...Hmm.’
Even with retakes, Jiheon kept faltering.
When his tone was fine, his eyes went wrong. When his eyes were fine, his expression slipped.
This was going to drag on.
I sat down at a folding table at the side, resting my chin on my hand as I stared at him.
‘Strange. Watching him struggle is... almost fascinating.’
My eyes drifted to a script on the empty chair beside me. Opening it, I saw it was Jiheon’s copy. Only Won Jaeuk’s lines were highlighted, with meticulous notes scribbled in the margins.
‘With all this prep, why can’t he pull ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) it off?’
He handled tougher roles easily before.
As I flipped, the pages naturally stopped at one heavily worn spot. It was the same scene he was shooting now.
Above the troublesome line, pressed so hard it left a mark, a single phrase was scrawled.
What the hell does that mean?
.
.
.
“—Good work, everyone. We’ll reset for the next shoot, so take a break!”
With the AD’s call, staff bustled around.
After a word with the director, I wandered the set’s outskirts. Jiheon usually sought solitude for practice, so I headed toward the vending machine I’d spotted earlier.
Sure enough, there he was, face dark with frustration.
“Min Jiheon.”
A stack of paper cups beside him showed he’d been guzzling caffeine.
I fished in my pocket and asked,
“...Got any coins?”
“......”
Without a word, he obediently handed me his wallet. I shoved the coins into the slot, pressed the barley tea button, and waited.
Even then, Jiheon said nothing.
“Tsk.”
Not like this.
From Camera Please to Dead after Hope, Jiheon was never the type to get this rattled, not from fatigue or emotional spikes.
Watching him slump with that grim glare, I nudged his leg with my foot.
“Hey, bad actor.”
That finally got a rise out of him—he blew his bangs out with a sharp huff.
