PTK Ch 4

The first-week viewership rating for Monster averaged 2.7%. The production team encouraged each other, noting that for an eight-episode series, it wasn’t a bad result. The year-end was a busy and exciting time for everyone. It was hardly surprising that few viewers would stay glued to their TVs. Since they hadn’t set high expectations to begin with, there was no disappointment either.

Though the broadcast had only just started, filming was nearing its end. The set remained as hectic as ever. On one side, people discussed the premiere’s ratings, while on the other, conversations about the wrap party’s schedule and venue swirled.

Amid this, Euihyun mentally rehearsed the movements for the scene he was about to shoot. Today’s scene was practically the climax of Monster.

As the story reaches its final act, the investigation team’s leader, ‘Team Leader Lee,’ instinctively realizes that ‘Jungwoo,’ who wasn’t even a suspect, is the murderer. However, it’s clear that if prosecuted, Jungwoo would likely receive a lenient sentence due to mental incapacity. ‘Team Leader Lee,’ who has been pursuing Jungwoo and is also a grieving parent who lost a child to him, ultimately rams his car into the unflinchingly calm monster.

Euihyun had visualized the scene countless times in his mind. It was a high-intensity action sequence he had to perform without a stunt double. The slightest lapse could lead to injury. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one concerned, as Producer Bae approached quietly to confirm his readiness.

“Are you sure you’re okay for today, Euihyun? If it feels too tough, we can call in a stuntman even now.”

“I’ll do it.”

Every line, expression, and gesture was part of the performance. He didn’t want to hand over the highlight of a story he’d carefully built up to someone else.

“Then please be careful and do your best to stay safe.”

“Yes.”

“Let’s get ready.”

Producer Bae patted Euihyun’s shoulder and returned to his position. Soon, the assistant director’s booming shout to start filming echoed through the set. Staff scattered across the area moved in unison. Some approached Euihyun to attach wires, while the assistant director repeatedly briefed both Euihyun and the actor playing Team Leader Lee on their movements.

“You see that stop line over there? The car will come rushing in and halt just before it. You need to jump in at that exact moment. The wires are secured, so don’t worry too much. Just think of rolling smoothly over the car’s body. Got it?”

Euihyun nodded instead of answering. Following the assistant director’s exaggerated gestures, he meticulously reviewed the critical points. The other actor climbed into the car, and the jib camera was hoisted into the air.

A makeup staff member checking his costume let out an “Oh.” At their request, Euihyun opened his mouth, and a red plastic pouch was inserted. It was fake blood made with corn syrup and dye. The assistant director stepped out of frame, emphasizing safety first and foremost.

“We’re rolling!”

All cameras lit up, and Euihyun turned his back. Every person and object within the camera’s frame froze momentarily. Producer Bae, checking the composition, raised his hand and called, “Standby.”

“Cue.”

With the low signal, a loud engine roar reverberated. Euihyun slowly turned toward the sound. A car stood not far off, its headlights flashing repeatedly, growling as if ready to charge.

The middle-aged actor was armed with his characteristic seasoned skill. His eyes, fixed on Euihyun, flickered with the excitement and thrill of a detective cornering a killer, intertwined with the grief and rage of a father who lost his child.

‘Team Leader Lee’s’ hand moved from the steering wheel to his waist. Fingering the handcuffs there, he wrestled between reason and emotion. ‘Jungwoo’ stood before him, his face betraying no awareness. He seemed utterly detached from all the world’s evils, as if he’d never taken even a small life. Meeting ‘Team Leader Lee’s’ gaze, he flashed a guileless, innocent smile. It was an astonishingly pure expression.

Gripped by an indescribable sense of futility, ‘Team Leader Lee’ chose to be a grieving parent over a law-abiding detective. The car, poised in standoff with ‘Jungwoo,’ suddenly surged forward like an enraged beast.

Euihyun watched the approaching car with bated breath. The moment the car’s front bumper crossed the designated stop line, he threw himself onto the hood without hesitation. Though the car had stopped, the impact of friction with the vehicle was beyond imagination. A thud resounded, and as the wires yanked him, his body rolled over the car.

Yellow dust rose from the spinning wheels. Exhaust fumes poured over his face. His eyes stung, but he kept them open, resisting the urge to blink. Then, as if seizing, he heaved his chest and let out a wet cough.

“Cough.”

The barrage of coughs splattered bright red fake blood around his mouth and eyes. Some trickled down his throat, gurgling with each breath. Euihyun suppressed his breathing further. As shortness of breath set in, his eyelashes trembled, and thick veins bulged on his forehead. His focus blurred, leaving his eyes cloudy.

The middle-aged actor disembarked slowly, like someone in a daze. His hesitant steps showed no trace of the satisfaction of a successful avenger. ‘Team Leader Lee,’ intending to confirm the monster’s fate, stopped dead. The camera captured Euihyun’s face from his perspective.

‘Jungwoo’ let his blood-stained lips sag into a smirk. His eyes curved softly. It was the same innocent smile as always, as if he didn’t comprehend what had happened, what would become of him, or why it was frightening.

Unable to bear the emptiness, ‘Team Leader Lee’ collapsed to his knees. Beside him, ‘Jungwoo’s’ body rapidly cooled. Minor tremors grew violent, splattering the remaining blood in his mouth everywhere. At its peak, his neck snapped back completely. The final convulsion came, and his last breath escaped. A lingering smile remained on ‘Jungwoo’s’ face.

The surrounding air grew heavy and still. The persistent engine noise only amplified the eerie silence.

“Cut!”

With the clear shout, the heightened tension dissolved. The staff collectively exhaled their held breaths. Applause broke out shortly after. Some shook their heads in awe, unable to contain their admiration.

The assistant director rushed over to help Euihyun up, handing him water to rinse his mouth. The middle-aged actor personally brushed off Euihyun’s clothes.

“Good work, sunbae.”

“You did all the hard work. You okay? Not hurt anywhere?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“It looked like you hit pretty hard. Check carefully.”

The middle-aged actor’s face was full of concern. Despite Euihyun’s insistence that he was fine, he meticulously inspected him. The assistant director nearby suggested rotating his wrists and ankles. Sensing the serious mood, Producer Bae, who was monitoring, interjected with a “What’s wrong?”

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

Euihyun lightly shook his arms to dismiss their worries. Then he suddenly froze. His left wrist felt oddly sore.

🎥

“…What happened to your arm?”

Park Hanyoung, coming down to the lobby, widened his eyes in surprise. He was there to meet Euihyun after another call from TAP Agency to set up an appointment. Euihyun subtly tucked his casted left arm into his coat.

“I got a little injured during filming. Sorry.”

“No, you don’t need to apologize to me.”

Park Hanyoung laughed, his eyebrows drooping as if he’d heard something strange. The casting manager from TAP Agency, a man in his mid-thirties, had a gentle demeanor and a professional smile that felt natural.

“Let’s head up. The CEO is waiting.”

His gesture guiding Euihyun to the elevator was precise yet courteous. The rare hospitality felt more overwhelming than pleasant.

The building’s interior was unusually quiet. The only staff Euihyun had encountered were the lobby security guards and Park Hanyoung beside him. Was it because the headquarters was in the U.S.? It hit him anew that this company had only one signed artist.

During the elevator ride to the third floor, Park Hanyoung effortlessly led the conversation. He seemed skilled at dealing with people.

“Is it a bad injury?”

“No, just a slight fracture. They said I only need the cast for two weeks.”

“That’s a relief. Even losing the use of one finger can be incredibly inconvenient.”

The elevator reached the third floor quickly. The hallway was still silent, with little sign of human presence. As Euihyun glanced around unfamiliarly, Park Hanyoung seemed to read his thoughts and asked.

“Feels a bit empty, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does.”

“You probably already know, but for now, Cha Yiljoo is the only artist signed with us. Even he rarely works domestically. We started in the U.S., and our parent company, so to speak, is there, so the Korean branch operates with minimal staff.”

It wasn’t an unreasonable explanation. Why such a company was interested in Euihyun himself, though, remained a mystery.

They soon passed through a long corridor lined with large framed photos, all of Cha Yiljoo’s pictorials, spaced evenly apart. Some were unfamiliar, and Euihyun couldn’t help but stare, captivated, as Park Hanyoung continued.

“For the time being, Cha Yiljoo has decided to focus on domestic activities, so additional staff will be brought in next month. Executives and key personnel will come from the U.S. headquarters, while temporary roles will be filled locally.”

Euihyun’s gaze shifted from the frames to Park Hanyoung. The mention of Cha Yiljoo’s future plans came right after. Though they’d met privately a few times, they’d rarely discussed upcoming projects. Euihyun had assumed Yiljoo would leave the country again. The prospect of Yiljoo’s domestic work sparked genuine anticipation.

Soon, a spacious area appeared before them, likely a secretarial and reception room. One of the secretaries stood up.

“Could you inform them that Jung Euihyun is here?”

“Yes, please wait a moment.”

The secretary responded professionally and picked up the intercom. Permission to enter came quickly. Setting down the receiver, the secretary courteously knocked on the door.

When Euihyun entered the CEO’s office, Simon Kim was perched on the edge of his desk, facing away. Hearing the door, he glanced back and gestured to wait, then resumed his phone call, seemingly business-related.

In the meantime, Park Hanyoung guided Euihyun to a sofa. Euihyun sat rigidly, like a freshly enlisted soldier, avoiding looking around carelessly.

“Would you like something to drink? We probably have coffee, green tea, or black tea.”

“Green tea is fine.”

“Then wait just a moment.”

Park Hanyoung flashed a smile and left the office. As a result, only Simon Kim and Euihyun remained in the spacious room. Suddenly idle, Euihyun fidgeted, smoothing the creases in his pants. His downward gaze was interrupted by a large hand extended toward him.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Simon Kim.”

Euihyun shot up to shake hands, bowing and introducing himself, “Jung Euihyun.”

“They said you’re excessively polite, and it seems true.”

“Sorry?”

“Someone who never cares about company matters went out of their way to tip me off. They pitched you like I’d regret not meeting you, so how could I ignore that? I was curious what they saw in you. And now I get it, seeing you in person.”

Euihyun could barely comprehend half of Simon Kim’s words. It wasn’t because his Korean was clumsy—on the contrary, he spoke it remarkably naturally. It was the casual omission of who had recommended Euihyun that preoccupied him, making other details hard to register.

“You’re injured?”

“Oh, yes. A little.”

He touched his casted arm, then cautiously asked.

“…Is that a problem?”

Simon Kim’s eyes widened. After a moment of pondering the question’s intent, he burst into hearty laughter, which subsided only after some time.

“Of course not. You’re not a product to be returned for a defect.”

He added, “I’ve got a read on Jung Euihyun’s character in one go,” with an openly amused expression. Though completely different from Cha Yiljoo, he was equally difficult to navigate.

At that moment, the door opened, and Park Hanyoung returned. Euihyun’s face visibly brightened, as if saved. Simon Kim chuckled silently and moved to his main seat.

“I was deeply impressed by Monster. I’ve only properly watched the first episode, but it was enough to see Jung Euihyun’s potential. Plus, I really like your look. It’s not a striking first impression, but if used well, it’s an excellent face. You can embody countless characters, with strong contrast between roles, so it’s hard to get tired of you.”

Euihyun awkwardly rubbed his cheek. In an industry full of stunning actors, compliments on his appearance were rare.

Park Hanyoung picked up where Simon Kim left off.

“Per the CEO’s instructions, I reviewed everything from Jung Euihyun’s debut to your recent roles. Your steady growth since your debut stood out, and I personally felt it was a shame you weren’t properly supported. There were hardly any notable projects around your military service.”

Since being dropped by his previous agency, Euihyun had rarely landed significant roles. Audiences don’t care about the backstories of supporting characters. As a result, such characters remain hemispherical, showing only fragments of their thoughts, beliefs, emotions, past, or goals. Expression is naturally limited.

Simon Kim added, “Even so.”

“I couldn’t understand why Korean agencies overlooked Jung Euihyun. A star isn’t born solely from talent and support, but isn’t it different for actors? You could undoubtedly become a great actor.”

“You’re too kind.”

“No, that’s my assessment as a planner.”

He dismissed the modesty firmly. No matter how often he heard praise, Euihyun couldn’t get used to it, even if it was grounded in fact.

Park Hanyoung soon placed a document in front of Euihyun.

“I drafted a contract. Would you like to take a look?”

Euihyun carefully turned the first page. The words “exclusive contract” brought back memories of his first contract a decade ago. Taking a small breath, he scanned the clauses meticulously. As he flipped another page, his fingertips trembled noticeably.

“We don’t know Jung Euihyun well yet. We need time to analyze your strengths, weaknesses, and what can be developed. Future activities will depend on that. Some aspects may require correction. If there’s anything in the contract you’d like to amend, feel free to say so.”

As Simon Kim finished speaking, Euihyun set down the contract.

“Um…”

“Yes, what is it?”

“I don’t want to take a signing bonus.”

The unexpected statement made Simon Kim raise an eyebrow. Until recently, celebrities fixated on the size of signing bonuses, as they reflected their current value and set the baseline for future earnings. But lately, forgoing bonuses had become a trend—for the sake of freedom.

“So you want autonomy in choosing projects?”

“If possible, I’d like that.”

“You may need to shed your current image and build a completely new one. That could make it hard to take roles or genres you’re familiar with, since you’re not a rookie. You understand that, right?”

To Park Hanyoung’s question, Euihyun nodded and said, “Yes.” A brief silence followed. Simon Kim, who’d been deep in thought, proposed a new idea.

“How about this? Since project work may be limited during the correction period, take a partial signing bonus. We won’t exclude your preferences in future project selections. We’ll respect them as much as possible. Our internal planning team will shortlist candidates, and you’ll make the final confirmation.”

“That sounds good.”

“Then shall we sign?”

Simon Kim grinned and pulled the contract toward him. His swift signature adorned the document, which was then handed back to Euihyun. Park Hanyoung offered a pen at the perfect moment. Euihyun carefully wrote his name in the signature field.

The moment he set down the pen, Simon Kim extended his hand. When Euihyun stared blankly, he said, “This time, to celebrate the deal.” Euihyun shook hands, dazed. Unlike before, the clasped hands shook vigorously up and down.

“Let’s do well together.”

With a hearty smile, he squeezed Euihyun’s hand once before letting go. Then he moved to his desk, slipping on the jacket draped over his chair. He packed a few documents and a tablet into a briefcase. His movements were orderly but visibly rushed.

“I spend more time in the U.S. As you can see, the Korean office isn’t fully staffed yet. For now, Park Hanyoung here will handle what you need. Just in case, I’ll give you my phone number and Skype ID. If anyone gives you trouble, contact me anytime.”

He scribbled a note and handed it to Euihyun, who accepted it politely. With a wink, he added, “I’ll take care of it.” Park Hanyoung gave a small laugh and shook his head. Despite being the CEO, Simon Kim exuded no hierarchical intimidation. That felt unfamiliar and oddly thrilling.

“Then, Manager, show Jung Euihyun the facilities and go over the upcoming schedule.”

“Yes, understood.”

“Shall we all get up?”

Simon Kim suggested with a bright smile. As he led the way out of the office, he paused, as if recalling something, and said, “Oh.”

“Is there anything I should know in advance?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like an unusual family background, complicated personal life, or a criminal record. You know, things that could cause trouble if they surface later.”

Though a light question, Euihyun couldn’t help but ponder. He did have an unconventional family history, but not the problematic kind. He hadn’t done anything particularly shameful either. The issue wasn’t in his past but in his current self.

Should he disclose his unconventional sexual identity? If it became public in any way, it could cause trouble. No, it would definitely cause trouble.

But perhaps he could keep it hidden. If he managed his feelings carefully, without close relationships, as he did now.

“You’re thinking so long, it seems there’s nothing special.”

Simon Kim arbitrarily interpreted the prolonged silence. Then, as if truly the final check, he asked.

“Any questions?”

“…Who.”

It was a perfunctory question, but Euihyun seized it eagerly. Simon Kim looked at him with surprise.

“Who recommended me to your team?”

“I thought you’d already know.”

His reaction suggested he found the question odd. His next words confirmed Euihyun’s suspicions.

“According to Manager Han, you two have been getting close lately.”

It was him, as expected. The one who truly saw how Euihyun poured his thoughts and emotions into every frame. The person who awakened him to the value of his unnoticed perseverance.

Thump, thump. His heart began to race abnormally.

Leaving the CEO’s office, they toured the building. Park Hanyoung briefly outlined the upcoming schedule.

“There are various practice rooms and training facilities in the basement. You’ll be managing your fitness there for a while, Euihyun. Do you speak any foreign languages?”

“No, not at all.”

He answered honestly. Park Hanyoung nodded understandingly.

“Unless you’re aiming for international projects, there’s no need to stress about languages. But since TAP Agency is a U.S.-based company and our actors attend many events, it’d be good to learn some basics. Next month, we’re hosting an anniversary party in the U.S. with investors and industry figures. It’d be ideal to introduce yourself in English. Language skills can’t hurt.”

“Understood.”

“I’ll arrange a private tutor for you.”

Park Hanyoung handed him a sheet of paper. It was a timetable, like something from school days.

“For now, we’ll focus on basic management. You’ll have weekends off, but come to the office daily during the week. Mornings will involve language or diction training, and after lunch, you’ll work with a trainer on fitness. Since your arm is injured, you’re exempt from training until you’re healed.”

Euihyun nodded repeatedly. Park Hanyoung continued without pause.

“If you’re away for more than two days, please inform us. Keep the exclusive contract confidential. And if you face any personal issues, report them immediately.”

Despite the somewhat restrictive demands, Euihyun felt relieved. Until now, any problems were solely his to handle. Just days ago, that was his reality. He gazed at his casted arm. A newfound sense of belonging, like a sturdy fence, enveloped him.

“Oh, the CEO mentioned arranging an officetel near the office. Since you’re here, want to check it out?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“It’s provided as an investment by the company, so you don’t need to feel burdened.”

“Thank you, but I’m comfortable where I am now.”

“Isn’t it quite far from here?”

Park Hanyoung tilted his head while reviewing the contract. The address listed was undeniably in an outlying area. Yet Euihyun steadfastly declined the offer of a new residence.

“It’s about thirty or forty minutes by car.”

It seemed there was a specific reason for his insistence, but Park Hanyoung didn’t pry. No matter how fine a gift, it was useless if the recipient didn’t want it. He nodded in acknowledgment, leaving the door open.

“Then let’s decide slowly. If you change your mind, let me know anytime.”

“Yes.”

There were no further matters to discuss. Euihyun politely declined Park Hanyoung’s offer to drive him and left the agency building alone.

There was a place he needed to visit.

The traditional market, once bustling, couldn’t escape the ravages of time. The shopping district, with its faded signs, was steeped in the bleakness of midwinter. A stray dog scurried across the deserted street, devoid of passersby. It lingered briefly around Euihyun, who was approaching from the opposite side, before vanishing.

Turning into a narrow alley from the market’s center led to a food street. Tteokbokki, sundae, pajeon, grilled fish, fried chicken, and more. A decade ago, this alley had drawn customers with its appetizing aromas, but now it was desolate. Euihyun followed the sole scent of oil to a small eatery.

It was a place selling old-fashioned fried chicken cooked in a cauldron. The cauldron at the entrance still radiated heat, but the mere three tables inside were empty. He slid open the worn sliding door and stepped inside. The owner, fiddling with side work while a TV played, greeted him.

“Welcome…”

“One whole chicken, please.”

Passing the owner, Euihyun took a seat at the most secluded table. The owner hesitated at the doorway for a while. She seemed to have much to say but, seeing Euihyun’s stern expression, couldn’t bring herself to speak. She simply retreated to the kitchen to prepare the order.

About ten minutes later, a neatly portioned chicken was served. Without being asked, she brought a cola and poured it into a plastic cup herself. When Euihyun took a bite of the fried chicken, she quietly returned to her spot.

It tasted exactly as it had in his childhood. Fried purely in oil without extra seasoning, the chicken was surprisingly light and not greasy. The crisp frying left a lingering nuttiness in his mouth. Sipping the cola, he finally looked at the owner’s face.

Her eyelids bore dark bruises. Red scabs clung to the corners of her mouth. The knuckles of her fingers, fidgeting with her side work, were unnaturally swollen. Marks of violence. Seemingly unaware of Euihyun’s gaze, she busily assembled parts, counting and recounting the few finished products. It was a meager life, unable to abandon business despite such a state.

Though he hadn’t finished swallowing, Euihyun stuffed his cheeks with more chicken. He forcibly suppressed the emotions threatening to surge.

He barely managed to chew and swallow what he’d been holding. He calmed his roiling insides with effort. The plate still held over half the chicken, yet he wiped the oil from his hands and stood without hesitation.

As Euihyun approached, the owner’s head subtly lowered. Her belated attempt to hide the bruise around her eye was pitiful. A subtle tension hung between them for a moment.

“Thank you for the meal.”

He offered a casual farewell and left the shop. The sliding door creaked open and shut quickly. The owner, reflexively standing, couldn’t bring herself to call after Euihyun.

Standing still for a moment, she shuffled to the table where Euihyun had been. The chicken still steamed. Beside it lay an envelope, presumably payment for the meal.

She didn’t need to check to know. It would contain an amount far exceeding the cost of the chicken. The owner sank into the chair Euihyun had vacated. Her frail back looked even smaller.

🎥

“Well then, see you tomorrow. Don’t forget your homework.”

“Thank you for your time.”

Caught mid-note, Euihyun hurriedly bowed. The instructor gave a light wave and left first. Only then did he let out a sigh. He couldn’t fathom how two hours had flown by. Pressing his eyelids for relief, he felt dizzy studying English for the first time in nearly a decade. Just four days in, the sight of the alphabet gave him a headache.

He slumped onto the table. His tilted gaze caught the wall clock: 1:10 p.m. With a meeting scheduled with a personal trainer at 2:00, less than an hour remained.

Resting briefly, he heard a knock. Park Hanyoung entered shortly after. For the time being, he was acting as Euihyun’s manager, so they met daily.

“Euihyun, shouldn’t we eat soon?”

“There’s not much time left. Is that okay?”

“Oh, right. Then let’s eat at the cafeteria today.”

“There’s a cafeteria?”

“It’s not fully operational since we don’t have many staff yet, but about twenty lunchboxes come in for lunch. They’re pretty decent.”

“Let’s go,” he said, leading the way. Euihyun tidied his belongings and followed quickly.

The cafeteria was in the basement. Though not fully active, it was equipped with tables and utensils.

Laughter echoed from within, suggesting others were there. Among the voices was one strikingly familiar. Euihyun instinctively followed it, his eyes landing on a familiar face: Cha Yiljoo.

He was chatting with staff mid-meal. His smile, whether directed at Euihyun or others, was consistently genuine. Euihyun’s gaze lingered on Yiljoo’s unaffected expression.

It had been a while since they’d met in person—perhaps a week or ten days. In that time, Euihyun had signed an exclusive contract, and Monster had wrapped. He and Yiljoo exchanged occasional messages, but they were mostly pleasantries. Euihyun had wondered when they’d meet again, but he hadn’t expected it to be like this.

Euihyun approached Yiljoo to greet him first. Though hesitant since Yiljoo wasn’t alone, his excitement won out.

“Hello.”

“Hey, Euihyun. It’s been a while.”

Yiljoo paused his conversation to warmly return the greeting. At that moment, Park Hanyoung approached with two lunchboxes. Glancing at them, Yiljoo casually asked.

“Here to eat?”

“Yes.”

“Then enjoy your meal.”

“Oh… yes.”

Euihyun replied, slightly dazed. He hadn’t planned to say anything specific, yet an unexplained disappointment crept in as Yiljoo rejoined his group. What had he been expecting?

With little time left, he sat nearby. The late lunch meant the food had cooled to lukewarm. He picked at the slightly hardened rice. Park Hanyoung, as if to keep him engaged, briefly introduced the trainer they’d soon meet, explaining the purpose of the workouts and noting that his diet would focus on high protein for a while. Euihyun nodded, listening attentively.

“How’d you hurt your arm?”

A voice other than Park Hanyoung’s cut in. Looking up, Euihyun saw Yiljoo, who had stepped away from his group, standing before them. His eyes were fixed on Euihyun’s casted arm.

“It just happened.”

Surprised briefly, Euihyun smiled and brushed it off. Admitting he’d been injured performing without a stuntman felt embarrassing, though it shouldn’t have. Still, he subtly hid his arm under the table to avoid Yiljoo’s persistent gaze.

“Does it hurt a lot?”

“No. They said it’ll be off in a week.”

“That’s good,” Yiljoo said with a bright smile. A brief silence followed. The unexpected encounter left Euihyun unsure what to say, especially with Park Hanyoung present. If he stayed quiet, Yiljoo might say, “Finish your meal,” and leave. Feeling reluctant, Euihyun hesitated, but Park Hanyoung spoke up.

“Yiljoo, have you decided on your next project? The planning team seems awfully busy.”

“I’m still mulling it over, but it’s mostly settled. Filming should start in January. Once I’m on set, it’ll be hard to make time, so I’m trying to clear my existing schedule beforehand.”

“That’s the best approach if the timing works.”

Euihyun nodded, listening to their exchange. He considered asking Yiljoo about his role but decided against it. Seeing the project fresh at its release might be better.

The conversation soon turned back to Euihyun, as Park Hanyoung brought up the housing issue again, perhaps hoping Yiljoo could persuade him.

“By the way, Euihyun, are you sure you don’t want to move? The CEO’s quite concerned. It’s not just the commute—private homes make it harder to avoid privacy issues.”

“I’m really fine.”

Euihyun gave an awkward smile. Yiljoo, who’d been listening quietly, chimed in.

“You’re staying in that house? It was cozy, but it doesn’t get much sunlight, and it’s pretty far from the office or studios. Is there a reason you’re willing to deal with the inconvenience?”

“Well…”

“……?”

“Someone’s waiting for me.”

“Waiting for you?”

Park Hanyoung asked with genuine curiosity. But Euihyun only smiled quietly, offering no further explanation.

“Must be a partner, judging by how he’s dodging the question.”

Yiljoo made a light guess, his tone playful. Contextually, it was the most obvious assumption. Yet it seemed to hit Euihyun with a slight shock. Only when Park Hanyoung asked, “Really?” did he snap out of it, shaking his head and saying, “No.” But Yiljoo’s gaze had already shifted to the doorway.

Manager Han peeked through the open door, giving a small nod. Yiljoo responded promptly to the silent prompt.

“I should go. Kim called me in briefly.”

“…Oh, take care.”

Euihyun half-stood to say goodbye. Yiljoo’s eyes crinkled as he laughed.

“Will do.”

His teasing tone recalled a past message exchange. Yiljoo then held up his phone, saying, “Call me.” Euihyun stood dazed until Yiljoo disappeared through the door. Only when the door stilled did he fidget with the back of his head.

Lately, he’d been startled by trivial things. Was something wrong? A vague unease began to stir.

“Lunch?”

Manager Han asked as they left the cafeteria. After finishing the morning schedule and heading over upon a summons, Han had parked and smoked a cigarette, only for Yiljoo to vanish and then dodge the question with an unrelated remark.

“What’s Jung Euihyun’s girlfriend like, you think, Manager?”

The question was utterly out of the blue.

“What? Why ask that all of a sudden?”

“No reason, just feels like she’d be unexpected.”

Whatever. Manager Han only urged, “We’re late,” prodding Yiljoo along.

Despite summoning a busy person, Simon Kim wasn’t there. Yiljoo settled onto the sofa as if it were his own room. Soon, bustling sounds came from outside. The door opened, and Simon Kim entered, apparently back from an errand.

“You’re here?”

He greeted casually, handing his coat to his secretary. Yiljoo gave a single nod.

As Simon Kim sat, his secretary placed prepared documents before Manager Han and Yiljoo. They quietly reviewed the contents.

“It’s for tomorrow’s press release.”

The article-style document stated that Cha Yiljoo would appear as a presenter at the upcoming KBC Acting Awards, accompanied by TAP Agency’s new face.

“What’s the scheme?”

Yiljoo set down the document and pressed.

“Not a scheme, a strategy.”

Simon Kim grinned. Manager Han, fully grasping his intent, confirmed.

“KBC, as in the network for Jung Euihyun’s eight-episode drama?”

“What’s the point of being in the same family if we don’t support each other?”

Yiljoo had never attended domestic award ceremonies. Often abroad, he’d skipped even when nominated. For him to appear as a presenter at a local network’s year-end event—not an international film festival—with a rookie from a company with no other artists was noteworthy. Especially since the public, steeped in stereotypes, would assume Yiljoo’s escort was female, heightening attention.

This was the motive behind keeping Euihyun’s contract under wraps. Simon Kim was a master at stoking curiosity and anticipation.

“Won’t other networks complain?”

“They’ll be annoyed, thinking we’re favoring KBC. But what can they do? It’s their fault for not signing Jung Euihyun.”

“Our Jung Euihyun.” Yiljoo mimicked Simon Kim’s phrase with a smirk. Undeterred, Kim doubled down, refusing objections.

“It’s settled. Yiljoo, I know you wouldn’t, but don’t leak anything to the press. The ceremony’s soon, so tomorrow you’ll pick outfits at the designer’s shop. Manager Han, adjust the schedule.”

“I’ll try.”

“No trying. Make it happen.”

Manager Han shook his head at the insistence but pulled out his phone and left. His efficiency was unmatched. With him and the secretary gone to prepare drinks, only Simon Kim and Yiljoo remained.

Yiljoo leaned back deeply, tilting his head against the sofa. Simon Kim, observing quietly, suddenly adopted a mischievous look.

“What’s up with Jung Euihyun?”

“What.”

“I heard you two are close lately.”

“Who said that.”

Simon Kim only smiled meaningfully. Yiljoo stared back, saying nothing. Shrugging, Kim remarked, “Just curious.”

“You’re not the type to take interest in anyone first. You keep everyone at a safe distance, smoothly. If someone’s off, you subtly pull back without making a fuss. That’s easier, right? So it’s surprising you’re close with someone so different from your usual circle.”

Yiljoo listened silently, then chuckled. Rubbing his closed eyelids, he responded.

“So?”

“So what?”

“He’s unlike anyone I’ve met. Seems soft, but the more you look, the tougher he is. His surface and core are the same. Not very stimulating, but rare, intriguing, and fun to watch without getting boring.”

“…What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Why I want to get close to Jung Euihyun.”

“That’s it?”

“What else is needed?”

He retorted shamelessly. Simon Kim started to protest but closed his mouth. Yiljoo wasn’t a kid; he’d handle it. Still, saying someone’s likable because they’re not boring? He cautioned against saying that openly.

The door opened, and Manager Han returned.

“Yiljoo, we need to go.”

Yiljoo stood reluctantly, a preemptive sigh escaping. Simon Kim, watching him head to the door, offered a request instead of a goodbye.

“Look after Jung Euihyun well.”

Yiljoo gave a half-hearted nod without further reply. As he reached to open the door, he paused. Park Hanyoung and Euihyun were outside.

“…Oh.”

A soft exclamation escaped Euihyun. Seeing Yiljoo again, he felt a mix of surprise and joy. Yiljoo smiled brightly and said.

“See you later, Euihyun.”

“Yes.”

Yiljoo nodded to Park Hanyoung and followed Manager Han. His figure soon vanished beyond the glass door. Euihyun snapped out of it only when Park Hanyoung said, “Let’s go in.” He must’ve been staring at Yiljoo again.

Park Hanyoung knocked on the already-open door and entered.

“You called?”

“Yes, take a seat there.”

Simon Kim gestured to the opposite side. As soon as they sat, he announced directly.

“We’ve set your first schedule. You’ll attend the KBC Acting Awards this Friday.”

Euihyun and Park Hanyoung’s eyes widened simultaneously.

“But I heard Jung Euihyun wasn’t nominated.”

“Is winning an award the only thing that matters? You starred in their drama this year, so let’s focus on attending.”

“Does attending a ceremony without a nomination have meaning?”

Network award shows were often dubbed “attendance awards,” with little prestige. An actor attending without a nomination would struggle to gain attention. Simon Kim, surely aware, shook his head firmly.

“It’ll be very meaningful. Yiljoo will escort you.”

The confident assertion stunned both Park Hanyoung and Euihyun. Yiljoo’s escort—the implication was clear.

“Every year, Yiljoo gets flooded with requests to attend as a special presenter. This year’s no different. KBC is special since it’s where Jung Euihyun did his last project before signing. We’ll only announce that Yiljoo is presenting and that our company’s new face will accompany him.”

Now Euihyun understood why Simon Kim was so delighted.

“We’ll disclose just that and stay silent otherwise. The public’s curiosity will be answered on the red carpet.”

Euihyun didn’t want to dampen Simon Kim’s excitement. That made it all the more critical to reveal. After a brief pause, he cautiously spoke.

“Sorry to interrupt, but a reporter already knows about my contract.”

“What? Who?”

“Kim Jihee from Cheonghwa Daily. I consulted her before signing because I was conflicted, so…”

Simon Kim, brimming with anticipation, fell into thought. Cheonghwa Daily was a major outlet. If they reported first, Yiljoo’s involvement would lose impact.

Rubbing his chin, Simon Kim muttered.

“Then we’ll ask Cheonghwa Daily to keep it confidential.”

After further deliberation, he made a decision.

“Here’s the plan. Contact Kim Jihee now, explain the situation, and offer her coverage from tomorrow’s outfit selection, on the condition she keeps your contract under wraps until the ceremony. In return, she gets an exclusive scoop.”

“That sounds good.”

Park Hanyoung agreed readily. With no further obstacles, instructions followed.

“Since you’re entering together, your outfits need to match. Go to the designated shop tomorrow and discuss with Yiljoo. Send me a photo.”

He raised his eyebrows, confirming understanding. From decision to details, it was seamless. Euihyun, dazed, said, “Yes.”

Despite a decade of acting, Euihyun had never won an award. He had never even been invited to an award ceremony. Perhaps that was why he felt unusually nervous. It was as if he had become a rookie again, with every moment brimming with novelty.

🎥

The following afternoon, the doorbell rang late. Having already prepared to go out, Euihyun opened the door without hesitation. Park Hanyoung, his face flushed from the cold, asked if he was ready. Then, seeing Euihyun bundled in a thick coat, a scarf wrapped over it, and shoes already on, he let out a soft chuckle. His voice, saying “Let’s go,” was lighter than usual. Euihyun hurriedly followed him.

At the car, he opened the front passenger door without hesitation.

“Euihyun, you should sit in the back…”

“Yes?”

Park Hanyoung started to suggest the safer back seat but stopped. Seeing Euihyun, who had already fastened his seatbelt and was looking puzzled, he only chuckled and said, “Never mind.” Then he shared news of the others.

“Cha Yiljoo and Reporter Kim Jihee are heading straight to the shop.”

“Yes.”

Euihyun subtly buried his chin in his scarf. The idea of shops and award ceremonies still felt foreign. The thought of meeting Kim Jihee and Cha Yiljoo for work, no less, made his hands and neck stiffen with unwarranted tension.

The car sped along and arrived at the designated designer’s shop. In the parking lot out front, Euihyun spotted Cha Yiljoo’s sedan and a hatchback he assumed was Kim Jihee’s.

“Go in first. I’ll park and follow.”

Euihyun readily got out of the car. But standing alone, ready to enter, he felt oddly awkward. After a small breath, he slowly pushed open the glass door. The sound caught the attention of Kim Jihee, who was sitting on a sofa. Spotting Euihyun, she lit up and approached.

“Hey, Actor Jung! Long time no see, huh?”

“Yes. Have you been well, Reporter?”

“Oh, listen to that tone. I’m feeling some serious distance right now.”

Kim Jihee welcomed Euihyun with her characteristic warmth. A faint coffee aroma filled the shop. Following the scent, Euihyun turned his head and naturally locked eyes with Cha Yiljoo, who was seated on the sofa. Euihyun gave a slight nod, and Yiljoo responded with a quiet smile. As Euihyun was about to greet Manager Han beside him, someone stood abruptly and approached.

“You’re Jung Euihyun, right? Nice to meet you. I’m Yeolrak.”

A designer in his late fifties extended a hand for a shake. Though Euihyun was unfamiliar with fashion, the man’s face was recognizable from frequent media appearances. Euihyun gladly clasped his hand and bowed. The designer cackled, saying, “Just as I expected.” With that momentum, he took Euihyun’s hand and led him toward the sofa as if escorting him.

“Have some tea while you wait. I’ll bring the outfits we prepared.”

“Oh, yes.”

Left alone in front of the sofa, Euihyun glanced around awkwardly. The only available seat was on the three-person sofa where Cha Yiljoo sat. The main chair belonged to the designer, and Kim Jihee’s camera occupied the opposite side.

Did Yiljoo notice his hesitation? Setting down his cup, he casually gestured.

“Sit down, come on.”

He patted the seat beside him, looking at Euihyun. His tone was gentle but carried a hint of command. Unable to refuse, Euihyun quietly sat, though he barely leaned back, perching on the edge of the sofa.

Soon, Park Hanyoung entered and greeted the group. Meanwhile, Euihyun unwrapped the scarf covering his mouth. He felt a gaze from the side but thought it might be his imagination.

Kim Jihee returned to her seat and asked a question Euihyun had heard more often than greetings lately.

“How’d you hurt your arm?”

“During drama filming. It’s almost healed now.”

“Tch, you need to be more careful.”

She clicked her tongue openly, then narrowed her eyes with a “Wait a minute.”

“Actor Jung, you didn’t tell the production team, did you?”

Cha Yiljoo’s gaze landed on Euihyun’s cheek. This time, it was too direct to dismiss as imagination. Kim Jihee pressed, “Right?” and Euihyun responded in a small voice.

“…They’d all worry.”

“I can’t with you! Of course they’d worry! They injured their actor!”

Her indignation was so fierce she could pass for his older sister. With no excuse, Euihyun just smiled, but the designer returned, holding an outfit in each hand.

“Since Jung Euihyun’s left arm is injured, I’m thinking we’ll style the jacket to be draped rather than worn. For that, the fit needs to look sharp even if it flares out. I’ve narrowed it down to two designs, so let’s try them on. It’ll look different once tailored to your body anyway.”

He handed one outfit to Euihyun, gently nudging the still-dazed actor toward the dressing room.

“Our staff will help you get dressed.”

“Oh, yes.”

As Euihyun headed to the dressing room, the designer fully closed the corridor curtain. Cha Yiljoo stared at the closed curtain before suddenly addressing Kim Jihee.

“You seem to know him well.”

“Sorry?”

“The way you treat Euihyun doesn’t feel like just a reporter-actor relationship.”

He elaborated with a faint smile. Kim Jihee let out an “Oh.”

“I don’t write articles about Actor Jung.”

“You don’t write about him?”

“I don’t want him caught up in pointless rumors. I’d love for our Actor Jung to focus solely on acting without getting tangled in petty scandals.”

Yiljoo, listening silently, chuckled and echoed, “Our.” Always the same, here or there.

Kim Jihee, lost in old memories, didn’t seem to register his reaction. After pondering, she flashed a playful grin.

“You could say Actor Jung and I are bound by a tear-soaked choco pie.”

The odd metaphor left everyone puzzled. Kim Jihee began her tale with a hesitant tone, as if recalling a distant memory.

“Once, an actor stabbed two colleagues and committed suicide by poisoning. I think it was about a month into my internship?”

“Oh, that case? I remember. The poisoning guy thought his partner was cheating and went on a rampage, right? It was all a misunderstanding, and they’d already broken up. Both guys died, the woman survived but retired due to injuries and scandals. That’s the one, right, Reporter?”

The designer clapped, jumping in. Kim Jihee nodded with an awkward smile. It had been a shocking incident, reported daily at the time. But years passed, and people largely forgot.

Kim Jihee shook her head, as if the memory still gave her chills.

“I rushed to the hospital on desk orders, but other reporters had already swarmed the place. One said someone was critical, another said someone was in emergency surgery, another mentioned stomach pumping or CPR. One even claimed one of the three was dead. I didn’t know who to believe or interview. You can’t write based on hearsay, right? But the office kept calling, demanding updates, yelling to bring an exclusive next time. Other reporters ignored me because I was an intern. I thought I’d lose my mind.”

“Then what?”

Yiljoo showed keen interest. Kim Jihee’s face turned gloomy, as if reliving that moment.

“I had nothing to report, and time just slipped by. Other reporters were typing furiously, churning out stories, while I had nothing. My seniors referenced other outlets’ top stories, sent out late articles, and screamed that we had to lead next time. They told me to beg managers, cling to families, or eavesdrop on medical staff to get the scoop. Ugh, thinking about it still makes me mad. What’s a grunt to do but obey? I pleaded with shell-shocked managers for a single quote. Their response was always the same: ‘We’re too busy to comment. Sorry.’ My senior kept calling, and I just wanted to quit.”

The group nodded empathetically, engrossed in her tale. Kim Jihee, veins bulging in her neck, vented her frustration.

“But I was starving. No sleep, no shower, squatting like a beggar, starving, I started questioning why I was doing this. It’s all to survive, right? I ditched reporting and ran to the convenience store. But there wasn’t a single bread or milk left. All sold out. Reporters all eat the same stuff. I was ready to cry. I was hungry, there was no food, and my seniors were threatening me. I couldn’t quit the job I’d fought to get. Seeing an empty choco pie wrapper on the ground, I just broke down. It’s embarrassing now, but I sat there sobbing. People stared, but I couldn’t stop.”

Kim Jihee paused to catch her breath, which had grown ragged. When she spoke again, her face glowed with a triumphant smile, signaling the story’s climax.

“Right then! Our Actor Jung appeared. I heard rustling and looked up to see a guy offering me a choco pie, asking if I wanted it—with the most apologetic look!”

At that, Yiljoo smiled slightly, picturing Euihyun’s expression.

“He was probably from the same agency as one of the actors brought in. Honestly, I didn’t even know who Actor Jung was then. I just thought, ‘What a kind guy.’ I took the choco pie, pride be damned, and ate it on the spot. Then he gave me a milk too. I was so busy scarfing it down, I didn’t even ask who he was…”

She looked embarrassed, recalling her past self, and scratched her cheek before wrapping up.

“When I came to, he was gone. Thinking back, I think he said ‘Good luck’ while I was drinking the milk. It hit me that the world was still warm. Reinvigorated, I ran back to the operating room. And there he was again, handing out choco pies and milk to agency staff. He stayed until the surgery results came out, never leaving.”

It was so quintessentially Euihyun. Yiljoo rubbed his forehead, smiling silently.

Soon, a staff member’s voice came from behind the curtain, announcing the dressing was done. The designer stood with exaggerated gestures, as if signaling anticipation. Counting “One, two, three,” he seemed to relish dramatic flair.

The curtain parted on his cue. Euihyun stood awkwardly behind it. For some reason, his gaze wandered to the floor instead of forward.

“So, what do you think?”

The designer scanned the group, his face brimming with expectation.

In the brief silence, Euihyun looked up. He flinched because his eyes met Cha Yiljoo’s directly. As no one spoke, Yiljoo, staring at Euihyun, grinned.

“I like it.”

There it was again—the subtle tingle in the palm of his hand.

🎥

As expected, the entertainment media’s interest was fervent. Even before the ceremony began, news about Cha Yiljoo and his escort flooded reports. His appearance on a domestic award show’s red carpet was rare enough, but TAP Agency’s new signing—especially a Korean actor—captured public attention. Speculative articles guessing at a few recently prominent rookies proliferated.

Thanks to this, the KBC’s modest annual event garnered unprecedented attention. A red carpet was laid early in the open hall where the ceremony would take place. Entertainment media cameras lined both sides. As the opening neared, a long queue of actors’ vehicles formed. The van carrying Cha Yiljoo and Euihyun joined the procession.

Inside the darkly tinted van, Euihyun repeatedly sipped water. He tried to restrain himself, wary of needing the restroom later, but his lips kept drying out.

The closed window reflected Euihyun’s image like a mirror. The meticulously styled hair and makeup felt utterly unfamiliar. Whether from nerves or the snugly tailored outfit, even breathing felt difficult.

Cha Yiljoo calmly soothed the fidgeting Euihyun.

“No need to be so stiff. Relax.”

“Yes.”

Though he answered obediently, his nodding was mechanical, like an unoiled machine. His body seemed beyond his mind’s control.

The van reached the red carpet before he could compose himself. The barrage of flashes outside hardened Euihyun’s expression further.

“Euihyun, ready?”

Yiljoo asked calmly. Euihyun looked at him and nodded. Taking another deep breath, he steadied his pounding heart.

The back door opened. Yiljoo, seated on the outer side, stepped onto the red carpet first. Cameras that had been capturing the previous actor swiveled to him. Blinding flashes erupted nearby.

Yiljoo peered into the open door at Euihyun. Like he would for a female partner, he extended a hand. Euihyun, caught off guard, took it and slowly stepped out. The trembling in his fingers likely reached Yiljoo, who gripped their clasped hands more firmly, guiding him.

The unexpected figure’s appearance halted the flash storm. Everyone stared, dumbfounded. A faint murmur followed.

But only briefly. A shutter snap triggered another wave of flashes from all directions. Euihyun stood dazed in the fervent onslaught.

“Let’s go.”

Yiljoo released Euihyun’s hand, lightly supporting his back. Then, removing that hand too, he walked ahead on the red carpet. Euihyun followed, trying not to fall behind. Though his feet touched the ground, it felt like stepping through air, disorienting. He shook his uncasted right hand a few times but, overwhelmed by awkwardness, quickly lowered it.

Meanwhile, Cheonghwa Daily’s top article appeared online: “Cha Yiljoo’s Man, Jung Euihyun, Signs Exclusive Contract with TAP Agency.” It became a sensation upon release. Rival outlets’ copycat articles followed in droves. By then, both names trended on portal sites’ real-time searches.

Yiljoo and Euihyun stood side by side in the photo zone. Bazooka-like camera lenses competed to capture them. Though inwardly rigid, Euihyun’s appearance was fitting for the day’s protagonist.

His voluminous, side-swept bangs lent a refined air. The jacket, adorned with a distinct detail at the closure, looked sharp even draped over his shoulders. A textured white shirt paired with a neatly tied tie amplified Euihyun’s polished image. Yet, uniquely cut pants and black mid-calf walkers added an irregular twist. The cast sling, swapped for black leather, blended seamlessly, feeling like the designer’s hidden intent.

Yiljoo’s hair was swept back naturally, revealing a smooth forehead and sharp brows, creating an urban yet primal contrast. A tie-less, relaxed shirt and a deep V-shaped jacket line exuded restrained sensuality. A soft pocket square and cuff buttons, visible with movement, hinted at refined taste.

Their styles, though distinct, harmonized subtly. Despite their differing personas, they stood together without a hint of discord.

Only after a while could they enter the building. Escaping the cameras’ barrage, Euihyun sighed involuntarily. He felt almost bewitched for a moment.

“Was it tough?”

“No. I’m just completely out of it. It’s my first time with this.”

Euihyun finally managed a smile, though it was faint and fleeting. He couldn’t get used to the spotlight. It felt like wearing someone else’s clothes. Though he’d crossed a major hurdle, the ceremony was just beginning.

The hall had several large round tables. Staff guided attendees, suggesting designated seating per project. Some projects had three or four tables, others just one, based on attendees. Since Euihyun was the only one from Monster and hadn’t notified anyone, no table was assigned.

The production team, learning late, scrambled. They debated setting up a table for Euihyun or adding a chair to another. Leaving him alone seemed odd, but squeezing him in elsewhere felt awkward too.

Euihyun stepped back, feeling like a burden. As no decision emerged, Yiljoo spoke up.

“If it’s alright, I’ll sit here.”

The sudden declaration made the staff exchange glances. Presenters typically stayed in a waiting room until called, except in rare cases like last year’s winner being this year’s presenter and nominee. Could Yiljoo, uninvolved in the project, sit among other actors?

The staff looked to the decision-maker. Though a network’s award show was their domain, this time was different. Yiljoo in the hall, not the waiting room, would increase camera exposure. His attendance was already a major topic. No director would pass up sustained buzz.

“Let’s do it. Set up a table and chairs.”

At the director’s call, a new table with two chairs was arranged. Sitting down, Euihyun whispered to Yiljoo, barely audible.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For looking out for me.”

“I did it for myself.”

“Sorry?”

“I’d be bored alone in the waiting room.”

Yiljoo smiled as if it were nothing. It eased Euihyun’s tension slightly. Even if Yiljoo was just playing along with Simon Kim’s plan, having someone to rely on was reassuring.

He exchanged greetings with arriving actors. Those he knew congratulated him on the contract. The hall buzzed with unrefined chaos until the last actor arrived. Staff at the back hustled with final filming preparations.

“We’re going live!”

At someone’s shout, a countdown began on the stage monitor. As the number hit zero from five, thunderous cheers erupted from the audience. Actors smiled brightly, clapping.

The MCs appeared. Cameras weaved between the stage, floor, and tables. One fixed on Euihyun, preventing him from looking away or changing expressions carelessly.

Frozen, Euihyun felt Yiljoo lean slightly closer. Covering his mouth, Yiljoo whispered, “Relax.” Pulling back, he flashed a subtle smile. Euihyun forced his lips upward. The camera caught it live, likely making it look like a private exchange.

The ceremony proceeded smoothly. Presenters introduced categories and nominees, naming one or two winners. Over time, awards became compensatory, tied to network relationships rather than acting merit. The moment of announcing winners lacked tension or thrill. Those seated were often the recipients.

Category introductions, presenter remarks, nominee listings, winner announcements, and repetitive acceptance speeches followed. As the mood grew lax, the production team inserted an unplanned interview.

“Let’s take a moment to chat with the actors gracing this event. By MC authority, I pass the mic to the versatile entertainer, Lee Jeongman.”

A comedian-turned-actor, recently in dramas, Lee Jeongman took the mic unexpectedly. With a comedian’s quick wit, he introduced the impromptu segment and scanned the room. His eyes soon locked on Cha Yiljoo. Approaching the table with a playful grin, he greeted.

“Hello, Cha Yiljoo.”

“Yes.”

“I saw earlier. You were whispering with Jung Euihyun. You two seem pretty close.”

At the cheeky remark, Yiljoo laughed silently, casting a meaningful glance at Euihyun. Euihyun smiled faintly in return, feeling cold sweat on his back.

“Oh, Jung Euihyun’s face just froze. Are you only pretending to be close for the cameras?”

“No way.”

“Did you tell Jung Euihyun, ‘There’s a camera, smile’?”

The teasing drew laughs from nearby. Yiljoo, unfazed, chuckled.

“No amount of stirring will drive a wedge between us.”

“Really? We should check with Jung Euihyun.”

“We were just saying we’d grab a drink after the ceremony.”

He said, “Right?” with his signature tone. Eyes, including Yiljoo’s, turned to Euihyun. Lee Jeongman, laughing exaggeratedly, thrust the mic forward.

“We can’t skip a three-way face-off. Is Cha Yiljoo telling the truth?”

“…Yes, that’s right.”

Euihyun reluctantly confirmed. Lee Jeongman swiftly shifted focus to him.

“Since we’ve heard Jung Euihyun’s voice, let’s chat. How’ve you been?”

“After the drama, I’m half-voluntarily, half-forced resting.”

“Oh, you’re injured?”

“Yes, a little. Almost healed.”

“That’s good to hear. But you know, I’m something of an entertainment insider myself. Word is, Jung Euihyun’s ideal type is here tonight, isn’t that right?”

The interview’s topic shifted abruptly. A noticeable unease crept across Euihyun’s face, which had been calm until now. His ears, predictably, flushed red. Lee Jeongman, not missing the change, pressed with a mischievous “Right?” It seemed like he was steering the conversation, ready to pivot to another subject. Pushed along, Euihyun responded as if nudged.

“Yes. Probably.”

“Probably! That’s a sincere answer. Can you whisper to me who it is, just between us?”

Lee Jeongman leaned in close. A glance at Cha Yiljoo showed him watching Euihyun with a smiling face. Whose name should he say? Could he brush it off vaguely? Hesitating without deciding, Lee Jeongman suddenly jerked his head up.

“Aha, Lim Soohyun!”

He called out the name of an actress nominated for Best Female Actor. The camera, which had been fixed on Euihyun, swiveled toward her. Lee Jeongman quickly moved in her direction.

Without Euihyun saying a word, his ideal type was hastily decided. He sat there, dazed, as if he’d been robbed in broad daylight.

“That’s your type?”

Cha Yiljoo asked out of the blue. Euihyun assumed he’d be wearing a teasing expression, but surprisingly, Yiljoo was obliquely watching the actress, Lim Soohyun. Eager to clear the misunderstanding, Euihyun stammered.

“No, that’s not…”

He trailed off, abandoning the explanation. Laughter had spread through the hall at Lee Jeongman’s gag. Like the other actors, Yiljoo chuckled, seemingly forgetting his earlier question. It was only natural. There was no reason for Yiljoo to care about Euihyun’s ideal type, nor any need to correct his misunderstanding. That was clear, yet why did Euihyun’s mood suddenly sink?

At that moment, a staff member approached, bending low.

“Cha Yiljoo, please prepare for presenting.”

Yiljoo replied, “Yes,” and stood. He smoothed his slightly disheveled jacket and followed the staff. Euihyun watched him go, then forced his gaze to the stage.

Shortly after, the MC introduced Yiljoo.

“For the Lifetime Achievement Award, we have film actor Cha Yiljoo presenting.”

A wave of loud applause filled the hall. Every camera in the venue trained on Yiljoo. Standing on stage, he was both familiar and different. His impeccable manners, warm gaze, gentle smile, and the vibrant energy he exuded were all there.

Looking up from below, Euihyun felt a tangible distance for the first time. Yiljoo was still “someone he knew,” but above all, he was “a famous actor everyone knew.” People said they seemed close, but Euihyun had never felt that way. He wasn’t even sure if they were close or just inching closer. The discomfort he felt every time he saw Yiljoo likely stemmed from that.

The ceremony’s aftermath was fervent. For the first time, the grand prize winner’s name didn’t top real-time search rankings. It was an anomaly born of Yiljoo’s stature, Simon Kim’s orchestration, and Euihyun’s own incongruous position alongside them.

As Euihyun mulled over the surreal day, the van neared his home. Perhaps out of consideration for his exhaustion, Yiljoo, silent until now, finally spoke.

“It was a tiring day, wasn’t it? Don’t think too much tonight—just rest well.”

Euihyun replied, “Yes,” and got out. Declining Park Hanyoung’s offer to walk him to his door, he gave a quick bow.

“Thank you all for your hard work today. Drive safely.”

The van pulled out of the narrow alley amid Euihyun’s farewell. He stayed until its taillights vanished from view, then trudged home. It felt like a storm had passed. His mind remained blank throughout.

The front door closed behind him. Complete silence settled in. The tension that had gripped his body dissolved. Drained of energy, he couldn’t muster the will to move.

It had been an exhausting day. The sensible thing was to shower and sleep soon. Reflecting on today could wait.

Yet Euihyun ignored his instincts and took out his phone. He turned it on, having kept it off. Connecting to the internet, the culture and entertainment section caught his eye. Most of the main articles, save a few, were about Yiljoo and Euihyun.

But all that spotlight wasn’t his. The titles and articles mentioned only Yiljoo’s name: Cha Yiljoo’s man, Cha Yiljoo’s agency mate, with Cha Yiljoo, of Cha Yiljoo, Cha Yiljoo…

In the end, it was all thanks to Yiljoo’s halo. The trajectory of Euihyun’s life, which he thought would never change, had veered sharply since Yiljoo entered it. Because of him, Euihyun enjoyed unprecedented opportunities and public attention, yet he wasn’t purely happy. He felt awkward and embarrassed, like he was sitting in someone else’s place.

Euihyun flipped his phone face-down. Then he lay his weary body beside it. As his body sank heavily, sleep seemed far off.