Becoming an actor is anything but easy.

It wasn’t for Gu Jahan either. After setting his sights on acting, he persuaded his parents with difficulty to let him attend an acting academy. He started late, so he didn’t make it into a theater-and-film department, but once he joined an agency he worked his way up from supporting roles to a lead.

For some people, though, it’s far too easy.

“Why are there two idol-turneds in this one?”

“Come on, Jahan. Mr. Ha is good.”

“The other one’s a total rookie. Aren’t they even from the same label? Looks like a bundle deal.”

He even considered backing out of the project. But you can’t throw away your first lead just because of something like this.

Fortunately, they didn’t get in the way much on set. Aside from the rookie idol named Kim Iwol showing up a little too often, nothing happened. Kids always want to stand out anywhere—they’re not hard to understand.

That is, until the lead, Ha Seomyeong, started openly boosting Kim Iwol.

It began with a small spat between him and Ha.

“Jahan, about the exchange here...”

“Let’s each do it our way. It’s just passing lines.”

“Sorry?”

What’s he supposed to gain from working it out with a non-professional? Gu had no intention of taking a loss or wasting time.

When Gu wouldn’t play along, Ha chose a backup plan.

“Iwol, what if we add a little more to the exchange here?”

“Do you mean ad-libs? If we consider what comes next...”

They were having a grand old time among themselves. A set isn’t a playground. Ridiculous.

Whatever they tried while shooting, a sequence can only hold so much, so the edit would cut it all anyway.

So he decided to tune it out. He meant to, anyway.

“Yeonghan—no... sorry. Let’s go again.”

He failed. With the mood on set unsettled, even a short line wouldn’t come out clean. Without discipline, everything turns sloppy.

“It’s Yeonghwan, sir.”

Kim Iwol said it quietly. The way he seemed to correct people over nothing rubbed Gu the wrong way, so he pretended not to hear and waited for his manager to bring the script.

Not that the chatterers who like talking behind backs wherever they go cared about Gu’s complicated headspace. They ran their mouths as they pleased.

“Gu Jahan really has his nose in the air...”

“He doesn’t know he only got the part after everyone on the top of the casting board turned it down?”

“Of course he knows. He’s still that kind of jerk. It’s the height—without that he’d never land a male lead. Look at how long he’s been debuted; only now he’s getting a lead.”

Gu let the staff’s sharp words roll off him.

They’re nothing special.

You can always hire a few more crew.

Actors are different. How much does it cost to fill the hole an actor leaves? Their market value is on another level.

Not knowing the subject of their gossip could hear every word, the crew kept going, delighted with themselves.

“The idols too. If they just shot what they need and sat still, we’d be done quick, but they keep dragging the shoot out.”

“Who’s worse—ten-year vet Gu who keeps flubbing, or Mr. Ha?”

Fuck it, they’re all the same.

People like that will bad-mouth anyone anywhere. The habit of talking about others doesn’t change.

Pathetic lives. Rather than stop and dress them down, Gu chose to ignore them.

About a month into shooting—

“Wow... how does Gu Jahan show zero improvement after a month of lines that long?”

“They say he’s a slow starter. Who knows when he plans to start.”

“Yeah, looks like he’ll ‘start’ at the wrap party.”

Gu found himself facing another round of backbiting.

Just as he’d expected, they were the same: light-tongued and eager to tear people down.

Something else, however, had changed.

“Think Kim Iwol’s going to keep acting?”

“Why not? He does fine without trying to stand out. Works hard.”

“He doesn’t push back.”

“It’s rumor, but they say he’s just naturally polite. Diligent.”

“How much can you trust rumors in this business?”

“At least here he’s proven. Unlike somebody, he never chews a line.”

“True, never NG-ing is impressive. The kid knows how to think ahead, so even the AD never chews him out.”

He didn’t crave compliments from people like that. Praise only feels good when it comes from someone of a fitting caliber.

But he couldn’t help wondering:

Why? In the same month, neither he nor Kim Iwol had changed a thing.

So why was the kid’s evaluation softening?

It must have been around then that Kim Iwol really started getting under his skin.

Gu wanted to see Kim Iwol’s bottom line.

From the stance of an actor who should deliver honest performances, he meant to face the face under that utterly affected mask and tell him: This is your true self. I know everything.

Maybe because he’s an idol, Kim Iwol didn’t ruffle easily. Whatever you asked, he smiled.

Barely into his twenties. He must have grown up on nothing but praise from fans, never hearing a harsh word.

He was like a hothouse flower—laughable.

Gu sneered.

“Soon enough you’ll be flipping your belly to the director. My dog does that. Who knows, Iwol—maybe you’ll get a few extra lines.”

For the briefest moment, Kim Iwol’s eyes dimmed.

Just for a blink.

Now...?

Almost the instant Gu registered something off, Kim gave an awkward smile.

A clean, unbarbed smile with not a hint of sarcasm.

“I couldn’t say.”

He patted the damp hems of his pants with his hand, then bowed and left.

Why was that? He felt like he’d just seen himself in Kim Iwol.

Specifically, himself thinking those crew who’d bad-mouthed him were nothing special.

You’re going to look down on me? That little punk?

It was a clear insult. As a senior, Gu had the right to call out Kim Iwol’s attitude.

He hurried after him.

He was just about to round the corner when a voice made him flatten himself behind the wall.

“Director, did you have a good meal?”

“Yeah.”

Lighting? Sound? Whatever the department, some director and Kim Iwol were face to face.

“Hey, Iwol.”

“Yes, director.”

The director called him again.

Right—like Kim would only butter up the main PD or the ADs.

The way he clung to anyone as if disaster would strike unless they praised him—pathetic—

“Tell makeup or whoever to do that tone-down thing properly. You think I need the stress because of you?”

“Do you mean skin tone? I was told this level was sufficient, but should it be darker?”

“Sufficient, my ass. It only looks good if you look roughly like a human being. You look like a corpse. Go to a hospital.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, and you’re not going to leak to the press like your PD, right? I’m not saying this because I hate you.”

...

For a moment, Gu’s brain froze.

He had thought he was the only one on this set who was strict with Kim.

Everyone else was inexplicably indulgent with him, so Gu figured at least he should say something so the kid wouldn’t take the field lightly.

Soon enough you’ll be flipping your belly to the director.

You look like a corpse. Go to a hospital.

How is what I say any different from what that man says?

And...

“Thank you for the concern. I’ll tell our makeup person.”

“I’m glad it wasn’t something important you lost.”

...Why does Kim look so used to this?

Gu’s steps took him toward the corner.

Rounding it, he saw the director walking toward him wearing a perfectly normal expression, and Kim Iwol straightening up from a bow.

Even with the director’s back to him, there was no anger on Kim’s face.

It brought to mind a line from Seonguan that Ha Seomyeong had performed not long ago.

He couldn’t recall it word for word. What was it again?

Right—clearly—

Fuck. How humiliating.

Gu immediately called his manager.

“Hey, you in the car? Do you have last episode’s script for ‘In My Office’?”

Luckily, all the scripts were in the car. They were a mess from being crammed into the back seat, but the part Gu wanted was readable.

Seonguan: (explodes) People like you, Team Lead, will never know how rank-and-file staff feel. When a superior sighs, it’s not that we didn’t hear it—we pretend we didn’t. When we look fine after getting chewed out, it’s not because today’s youth have no sense of responsibility—it’s because we’re acting fine! (He shouts, exasperated.) We don’t get to act however we feel while we’re working—that’s the job, that’s social life!

Under Ji Seongin’s flat lines, Seonguan spoke again.

Seonguan: It’s not that we’re fools putting up with it, and it’s not lack of courage that keeps us quiet. We endure it even when it’s filthy and unfair. No one has the right to belittle that. (with a bitter smile) And for the record, I’m saying this now because I really screwed up my courage. Because when you need to raise your voice, you have to.

That was the line that made Ji Seongin look at Seonguan differently.

So what about him?

“Acting is the sacred craft of showing the most human truth through the most mechanical method.”

Unable to forget what a great senior once said, Gu had jumped into acting. He had taken on the arrogant team lead, Ji Seongin.

To Ha Seomyeong—confident, proactive, unafraid to speak up—they gave Seonguan.

To Kim Iwol—polite, good at office politics, the taciturn youngest on a promising corporate team.

Had Gu been given Ji Seongin because he had the stature of a lead—or because arrogance made him a good vessel for the character?

Turn it around: was Kim Iwol’s workplace polish a survival tactic—or simply his social nature?

Or was it the most inoffensive, human-seeming face he had learned to wear to blend into human society...?

The image of Kim Iwol’s wet pant hems {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} flickered before his eyes. So did those deep irises.

He was ashamed.