CRT Ch 26

💎

Seok Ryu walked through the officetel. He sought out actors who had either failed doping attempts or were too busy to try. Though his core stone was cracked, he wanted to confirm his performance remained intact.

The success rate was unchanged, which was reassuring. If he continued building Yejun’s follower base bit by bit, a day might come when there was no one left to dope.

While out, he sat by the lobby fountain to catch his breath. He wasn’t fixated on any particular thought, nor did he try to escape them. He simply let his mind idle, allowing stray thoughts to drift in and out.

He realized for the first time how abundant sunlight bathed this city. The tightly woven concrete and glass pulsed with vitality. The flowers and trees planted for decoration seemed almost artificial in comparison. Perhaps it was Cha Yilhyun’s presence somewhere in the city that made everything feel so alive.

He opened The Lake of Gods on his lap. The “Biryu preliminary audition” was days away. With the third teaser release a month off, the Biryu audition was gaining momentum.

Seok Ryu figured knowing the novel’s broader details would be useful. He read it in spare moments to help Yejun, but soon forgot his purpose, engrossed in the story. It was astonishing that someone as fragile as Isaac could create such an intense, expansive tale.

Since the The Lake of Gods teaser dropped, Isaac had been quite active at home. He started an SNS account he previously ignored, following Yejun and sending him private messages with photos of his clipped nails—his way of expressing utmost devotion within his means.

The best news was that Isaac had begun writing a new work. Had he also cleared out the sleeping pills hidden in his bedroom? Seok Ryu reached into his shirt pocket for a notebook to jot down Biryu’s scenes.

“Oh…”

He kept forgetting he’d lost his notebook. He’d also left the phone Yejun bought him in his room. Too far to go back, he decided to buy a new notebook at a nearby stationery store.

As he exited through the revolving door, it suddenly spun faster, shoving Seok Ryu’s back. The force flung him out, and he crashed to the ground, bruising his knees. As he fell, a tearing pain in his back made him swallow his breath.

Biting his lip, he turned to see Lee Taeon emerging from the revolving door with a brazen expression. As usual, he was alone, looking utterly unbothered. Lee Taeon rarely went out except for shoots, which actors found peculiar.

Seok Ryu swallowed his sighs. With such reckless malice, no wonder people didn’t stick around him. Brushing dirt from his palms, he stood and headed to the stationery store without glancing at Lee Taeon.

When Lee Taeon entered the quiet shop, staff screamed or bounced with excitement. Customers gaped, jaws dropped.

Seok Ryu went to the office supplies aisle, scanning notebooks. Yejun had told him to ditch old-fashioned items, but breaking a long habit wasn’t easy.

After deliberation, he chose a wine-colored hardcover notebook and a pen, heading to the checkout. At the counter’s edge, phone finger rings caught his eye. Made of metal with Iron Man and Spider-Man faces, they were the kind kids would love.

Seok Ryu paused, examining each ring. He’d received his paycheck recently. With nowhere to spend it, maybe he’d buy one…

Looking back, he’d only taken from Cha Yilhyun, never giving anything in return. If he’d repaid even a fraction before things turned out this way, how nice would that have been? Or at least if he’d accepted Cha Yilhyun’s gifts with joy… Back then, Cha Yilhyun’s overwhelming emotions felt daunting, and Seok Ryu was busy fleeing and hiding. Now, realizing his true feelings, he had to conceal them to survive.

“Some taste.”

Across the counter, Lee Taeon frowned. He held a film production book. In Cha Yilhyun’s The Lake of Gods casting file, Lee Taeon was cast as Munyul, a strategist. How someone so apathetic summoned fiery acting was a mystery.

“What’s wrong with it?”

Despite his words, Seok Ryu pulled his hand from the rings. He felt caught looking at something he shouldn’t. Lee Taeon leaned on the counter.

“Planning to steal and got caught?”

“Watch your mouth. Who’s stealing…?”

“Want me to buy it?”

His snide tone mimicked a benefactor.

“No thanks.”

Seok Ryu boldly picked the Iron Man ring and headed to checkout. Lee Taeon suddenly shoved the book at Seok Ryu and strode off. He grabbed a male customer’s wrist, snatching his phone. Checking it, Lee Taeon threw it to the floor. The man shrieked at the sudden assault.

“Agh! What—what are you doing?!”

“What? Teaching a peeping pervert a lesson.”

At that, staff and customers hurriedly hid their phones. Lee Taeon twisted his lips, hurling crude insults that made ears burn. Witnessing his rumored nastiness firsthand, Seok Ryu was stunned. The man, phone and psyche shattered, raged belatedly.

“I was just curious seeing a celebrity—what’s so wrong…!”

“Your face is freakishly curious too—mind if I snap it?”

“Call the police! I’m spilling everything to the press!”

The shouting man left staff flustered. Lee Taeon found the man’s threats laughable. As the situation escalated, Seok Ryu grew anxious. If someone called the police, the store’s CCTV could leak to the media.

It wasn’t long ago that Seok Ryu posted Lee Taeon’s autograph on Yejun’s SNS, and he worried sparks might fly to Yejun. Doping everyone in the store, including the man, was an option, but he neither wanted nor could do it for Lee Taeon.

Seok Ryu pulled Lee Taeon’s wallet from his pocket, handing all the cash and checks to the man. Lee Taeon looked incredulous.

“This is for the phone. Claim mental damages directly from the company. If this blows up, Songhyul won’t sit idly. You violated Lee Taeon’s portrait rights without permission.”

No one would want to fight Songhyul. The man grabbed the cash and broken phone, fleeing in a panic. Lee Taeon, still angry, chased after him. Dressed in black with a hood, he looked like a serial killer.

Seok Ryu hurriedly grabbed Lee Taeon, dragging him to a quiet alley. Lee Taeon scoffed, shaking his arm. Seok Ryu’s hand, clinging to his sleeve, dangled.

“Let go. Keep letting him slide, and he’ll get worse.”

“Now I see why your managers don’t last a month.”

“Do you nag your actor like this too?”

When Seok Ryu released his sleeve, Lee Taeon smoothed it out. Perhaps for the Munyul role, his hair was long enough to poke his eyes. He stared at Seok Ryu with a strange look.

“So how should I act to keep a manager longer?”

His tone was snarky, but his gaze was soft.

“How old are you that I need to spell it out?”

“I need it spelled out.”

Lee Taeon crossed his arms, daring Seok Ryu to speak.

“Treat them well, obviously. Acknowledge their hard work, praise them… They’re not pets or slaves but companions on a tough journey.”

After blurting it out, Seok Ryu bit his lip, feeling he’d misspoken. It seemed he’d unwittingly voiced his desires for Yejun. Lee Taeon smirked knowingly.

“Getting treated like a mutt, huh?”

“Even mutts are treated differently by different people. Some value them more than family or friends.”

“Then you’re treated like a slave.”

“You’re the one treating managers like slaves.”

Seok Ryu couldn’t define his relationship with Yejun. Yejun didn’t see him as a slave or treat him like a pet. It was clear they shared a bond beyond master-servant, holding each other’s lives.

Did Seok Ryu want to meet his destined master, or just become human through one? He no longer knew. Imagining himself as truly human once felt thrilling yet terrifying. Now, he couldn’t picture anything.

Dealing with Lee Taeon for barely ten minutes felt like running a ten-hour marathon. Once The Lake of Gods filming began, Yejun would face Lee Taeon daily. Handling this ticking time bomb was already a headache. One taste of Lee Taeon’s nastiness, and Yejun’s respect would vanish.

As Seok Ryu stared, Lee Taeon’s brow crumpled like foil.

“What?”

“I’m just relieved you refused to judge the audition.”

It would’ve turned the audition into a funeral. Seok Ryu handed Lee Taeon the book and headed to the officetel.

💎

“K Cinema says they’ll sell to us if we settle on a price. Winple won’t hold out if Songhyul crushes them with market share. They’ve been staggering under financial deficits for years trying to keep up.”

“They should rename their company Sparrow. Haha!”

While executives traded lame jokes, drunk on victory, Cha Yilhyun propped his chin, doodling eyes, nose, and mouth on a graph. Songhyul was all smiles, while other companies frowned.

Cha Yilhyun rolled his chair to the large window and parked. Tiny cars and people moved like toys on fixed schedules. The monotonous view and noon sun seeping through his shirt brought boredom.

“Movies and dramas are boring.”

Executives’ eyes snapped to Cha Yilhyun. Director Kwak, reviewing documents, sighed inwardly. Cha Yilhyun had a knack for veering off course at peak moments.

“Got something specific in mind?”

Cha Yilhyun rocked his chair on its legs.

“How about a comprehensive platform? Watch videos, see stars’ live broadcasts, shop for merch.”

“Similar platforms are common now and won’t stand out. People hate signing up for multiple services.”

“Link it with Songhyul’s platform. One ID: videos on the left, shopping on the right. Maybe hold a directors’ contest for aspirants. Members vote for winners, who debut as official directors.”

“YouTube exists—why would people participate?”

“Give winners prize money, toss coupons to voters.”

Secretary Yang and the executives scribbled Cha Yilhyun’s words frantically. But Kwak looked skeptical.

“Most of our staff are tied up with The Lake of Gods. We can’t pull more.”

“Hire more.”

“We just hired a ton for The Lake of Gods. Adding more will create redundant staff.”

Songhyul was all-in on The Lake of Gods, a make-or-break chance to dominate domestic and international competitors. Executives seemed to agree with Kwak’s objection. Cha Yilhyun frowned.

“Anyone who doesn’t like it can leave. I’ll do it alone.”

As the mood chilled, the casting director slammed the table.

“I’m all in. It screams blockbuster! Why not shake up the video platform industry?”

“Just give us the direction, and we’ll draft a proposal.”

Executives quickly aligned with the casting director. Kwak didn’t argue further, but his face showed discontent.

After the meeting, executives filed out. The casting director approached Cha Yilhyun, respectfully offering documents.

“This is a rookie I scouted. Please approve the contract.”

As Cha Yilhyun skimmed the contract, the casting director rambled excitedly.

“Sir, I struck gold this time! In all my years in this industry, I’ve seen every kind of beauty, but this guy’s magnetic charm is a first. Sure, he doesn’t fit conventional beauty standards… but would I personally bring you this contract otherwise?”

Cha Yilhyun signed with an indifferent expression. The casting director bowed repeatedly and left. Kwak stood, approaching Cha Yilhyun.

With too many eyes during the meeting, he hadn’t asked earlier.

“Is this about Park Yejun?”

Cha Yilhyun looked up a beat late, questioning with his eyes.

“You suddenly got interested in a comprehensive platform.”

“Is there another reason?”

Kwak watched Cha Yilhyun walk down the hallway. The CEO’s abrupt change still felt unfamiliar.

The day Park Yejun was called to the CEO’s office, Kwak thought it was over. When Cha Yilhyun reappeared after days of absence, he was a different person.

He seemed to finally recognize Park Yejun’s worth. Since founding Songhyul, Cha Yilhyun had never marketed an actor so aggressively. While his changed attitude was a relief, it also felt unsettling.

Unlike his past joy in recklessly stirring things up, he now seemed like someone desperately seeking tasks. Kwak pushed aside his thoughts and followed Cha Yilhyun.

💎

“Some taste.”

In the empty office, Lee Taeon boldly opened a display cabinet, touching a fighter jet model. It was finely crafted but still just a toy.

“Hands off.”

The CEO’s door opened, and a low voice strode in. Cha Yilhyun headed straight for the cabinet, frowning at fingerprints on the glass. Secretary Yang wiped them with a lens cloth, glaring at Lee Taeon.

“Why keep people waiting?”

Lee Taeon tossed a brazen remark and sprawled on the sofa. Director Kwak entered, sitting across from him.

“Shoot a phone ad.”

“Why me?”

Lee Taeon replied the moment the words left Kwak’s mouth. Expecting this, Kwak continued calmly.

“Listen, it’s a good deal. Three-year exclusive contract, 15 billion won fee, global ad exposure, plus sales royalties. We proposed a collab with you and Park Yejun, and the advertiser agreed. It’s up to you now.”

In short, it was a strategy to sell Lee Taeon with Park Yejun attached. Lee Taeon’s recent action film broke 10 million viewers. Praised overseas, his value skyrocketed.

Since his debut, he’d only known success, receiving countless ad offers, all of which he rejected. His first ad would be a sensation, and a prime chance to boost Park Yejun’s fame.

“Nope.”

Lee Taeon gave the expected answer.

“Forgot the contract clause about no activities outside acting?”

Back then, they thought he was a gutsy rookie flexing. Kwak hadn’t expected Lee Taeon to become such a monstrous actor or stick to that clause so long.

“Staff assaults, DUIs, frequent no-shows—you’ve damaged the company’s image, clear contract breaches. We overlooked them, so behave.”

“You’re acting like it’s a favor when it’s the company’s job.”

“Then you shouldn’t have brought up clauses either.”

“Let’s do it by the law then.”

Lee Taeon’s gaze sharpened. Kwak clicked his tongue.

“That’s why I hate dealing with cunning beasts.”

Threats would backfire on someone who hit harder when pushed. Park Yejun needed Lee Taeon to make a splash in advertising. Hitting a wall from the start gave Kwak a migraine.

“Cleaned up your messes, and you’re ungrateful.”

Cha Yilhyun, standing by the cabinet, spoke. He walked over, sitting across from Lee Taeon.

“I worked hard packaging your stale acting, so I deserve some packaging fees.”

Hitting a sore spot, Cha Yilhyun made Lee Taeon’s eyes blaze. Lee Taeon’s method acting was praised for instantly immersing audiences. But over time, critics called his style repetitive. He chose varied roles, but a branded image was hard to shake.

Lee Taeon, briefly stiff, sneered.

“My premium acting packaged your money-soaked films. Critics don’t call Songhyul’s factory films trash for nothing.”

“You know I packaged them as premium, no matter the lead or director.”

Cha Yilhyun, chin on his hand, mused to himself.

“You can replace the contents, so why cling to contract clauses now?”

Despite his relaxed tone, Cha Yilhyun’s eyes were razor-sharp. Lee Taeon leaned back, arms crossed.

“What’s this about?”

“Not about doing something—it’s about stopping you.”

Lee Taeon’s glare turned lethal. It was a threat to dry up not just the Munyul role but all future roles for Lee Taeon, even those with Director Choi, his long-time collaborator.

The more he learned about the CEO, the less Lee Taeon wanted to deal with him. If Cha Yilhyun were just an owner using actors for profit, he’d be more human.

Instead, he seemed like a pervert who got thrills from placing his assembled toys in desired setups. Only those who’d felt it would understand the filth.

Lee Taeon played tough, but even winning a lawsuit wouldn’t be a true win. No matter how big he was, he didn’t have the backing to take on Songhyul’s CEO. His thirst for acting was still strong.

One ad would bring far more benefits than reasons to resist. But submitting to the CEO twisted his gut.

“On one condition. I’m Lee Taeon—caving to company pressure without a fight is embarrassing.”

Cha Yilhyun wrinkled his nose, muttering.

“Don’t wanna hear it.”

Having secured a fair stake in the power struggle, Lee Taeon leaned back leisurely.

“Assign me a manager. One I choose.”