PTK Ch 1

There was no sensation in his frozen fingertips. The hot pack handed to him by a junior staff member had long lost its warmth. He tried cupping his hands and breathing into them, but the situation didn’t improve much. For sixteen hours now, he had been left exposed to the biting cold of late autumn. The only thing to rely on was a single bonfire lit in a drum.

The filming, halted due to equipment failure, showed no signs of resuming. The lead actor was throwing a tantrum, as irritable as could be. He surely wasn’t unaware of their precarious situation, scraping by day-to-day with last-minute scripts, yet he insisted on coming back to shoot tomorrow. It was the manager’s job to soothe and placate the childish complaints.

The wrappers of the bread provided as a late-night snack were strewn carelessly about. The extras, outside the camera’s frame, began dozing off, leaning against anything they could find. Those who grew bored of even that curled up tightly, engrossed in mobile games. The set, as always, was a relentless sequence of waiting.

Knowing it was futile, Euihyun rubbed his stiff, frozen hands together. He also repeatedly rubbed his ears, which seemed to have lost all feeling. His throat felt stiff with the onset of a cold. Should he at least drink some hot water? He eyed the tea table set up to one side but dismissed the thought. The moment he shifted, the heavy costume sagged, reminding him of its forgotten weight. The bulky design, which ignored the movement of joints, came with an equally heavy helmet as an added option. He recalled the struggle he’d had in the restroom earlier. In the end, he swallowed dryly to quell his immediate thirst.

The scene he was to perform today was number 23, just one. It had no significant lines, but he didn’t mind. He accepted the endlessly stretching waiting time with composure. After nearly a decade in the acting business, there was no set situation he couldn’t understand.

“Scene number 23, we’re doing a shot test! Please get ready.”

Finally, the floor director holding the call sheet shouted. The long wait was coming to an end. The extras, who had been napping, opened their bleary eyes. The staff scattered around the set began gathering near the camera one by one. The directing team bustled about, assigning positions to each actor and checking their movements to match the shooting composition.

They were about to film a chaotic battle scene where countless soldiers clashed. Nearly a hundred actors filled the camera angle without a single gap. Even a slight turn of the body caused shoulders to bump and weapons to tangle. Coordinating so many people to move in sync was no easy task. Even if most did well, one or two mistakes would inevitably lead to a reshoot.

The supervising producer, through a megaphone, repeatedly urged them to fight fiercely but not to stand out individually. Everyone nodded, but the shot test wasn’t entirely satisfactory. They lost count of how many rehearsals they went through before the actual shoot.

“Please, let’s get it right in one go! We’re going for a shot!”

The floor director stepped out of the frame and shouted. All the actors froze in their positions.

“Scene number 23, take one!”

The slate was clapped. Immediately, the director, peering through the viewfinder, gave the cue. The actors positioned at both ends of the frame surged into action, intertwining in an instant.

“Hraaaah!”

“Yaaaah!”

A chorus of war cries erupted. Blood splattered and screams rang out as spears and swords clashed fiercely. Euihyun, too, dove fearlessly into the orchestrated chaos. Brandishing a spear as long as his height, he stabbed and slashed at the oncoming enemy soldiers one by one. The secondary camera weaved through the tangled actors, capturing the frenetic battle.

It was then.

“…Ugh.”

A sword swung from behind struck Euihyun’s right shoulder. The unexpected weight made his body stagger. The other actor, holding the sword, seemed more startled by Euihyun’s pained groan.

“Cut!”

The atmosphere, reminiscent of a real battlefield, dissipated like a lie. The actors adjusted their disheveled costumes, awaiting the director’s approval. Those who had fallen, bleeding, sprang back to life effortlessly. Meanwhile, the extra who had accidentally hit Euihyun approached and asked if he was okay. Euihyun gave a faint smile and nodded.

“Looks good!”

After a long pause, the director finally gave the okay. The cast and crew, without anyone taking the lead, shouted in unison.

“Thank you for your hard work!”

The set, having just wrapped the group scene, was a whirlwind of activity. The staff preparing for the next scene and the actors hurrying to leave created a chaotic atmosphere.

Having removed his makeup, Euihyun returned all the props he’d used and headed for the crew’s designated vehicle. The assistant director was giving instructions to some staff members heading back to Seoul first. It seemed like important information, but hardly anyone was listening. Half were already fast asleep, and the other half were on the verge of collapse. Still, the assistant director stubbornly finished his spiel and belatedly noticed Euihyun.

“Euihyun, what’s up?”

“Excuse me, but would it be okay if I hitched a ride on this one?”

“Didn’t you bring your car?”

“No. I figured I’d be too tired to drive after shooting.”

“Fair enough. There should be a seat inside.”

The assistant director nodded toward the vehicle. Euihyun bowed slightly and boarded the bus. The staff, some with hats pulled over their faces, others with heads bowed, were already in deep sleep mode. Careful not to wake anyone, he took an empty seat at the front. The window side was piled high with filming equipment, but he didn’t mind. With all transportation to Seoul cut off at this hour, he was grateful to have secured even one seat.

The bus rumbled as if it would depart any moment. The heater, turned on early, radiated warm air. A thick wave of exhaustion washed over him. His body, rigid from tension and cold, began to relax rapidly. It felt like he’d been thoroughly beaten. There wasn’t a single spot that didn’t ache.

His breathing grew deeper. His eyelids became increasingly heavy. Planning to catch a brief nap, he crossed his arms and closed his eyes. Just then, someone called out to him. Opening his eyes, he saw the extra he’d filmed with earlier, half-standing on the bus steps, looking at him.

“Yes. What’s the matter…?”

“I think you got hurt because of me earlier. This is something I’ve used once, but you can keep it and use it.”

He handed over a pain relief patch. The hesitation in his fidgeting fingers was palpable, as if he was embarrassed by the already-opened corner. Euihyun accepted it instinctively, bowing his head. His body half-rose without him realizing. The older man apologized again before hurrying off.

Euihyun stared at the retreating figure of the extra. He felt uneasy for not saying it was okay. Meanwhile, the driver boarded, and the door, which had been open, finally closed.

The bus soon entered a single-lane road shrouded in darkness. With no passing cars and only faint streetlights, the road was pitch black. The headlights alone traced its path, proving its existence.

A persistent silence filled the bus. Only the sound of heavy breathing and snoring mingled, with no other movement detectable.

Leaning back deeply into the seat, Euihyun felt the bus’s vibrations course through him. The heater restored his body temperature, and he could feel his entire body gradually loosening. His mind grew hazy. Moving even a single finger felt daunting.

Just as he was about to let his fading consciousness slip away, the murmurs of the staff in the back pierced his dulled ears.

“I want to watch a movie. The one with Cha Yiljoo is coming out soon, right?”

“I can’t even remember the last time I went to a theater.”

“Then make some time. We’re supposed to be in the culture and arts industry, so even if we don’t have time to sleep, we should at least keep up with cultural activities. If there’s no input, how can there be output? I saw his arrival photos yesterday, and it made me want to see it even more.”

“Whose arrival photos?”

“Who else? Cha Yiljoo. He came back to promote the movie.”

“It’s more like a visit than a return. He doesn’t even live here and is always gallivanting abroad.”

“True.”

“They’re probably scrambling to cast him for variety shows, right?”

“I’d be fine with the chaos if I could just see his face up close.”

“Same here.”

The latest news about a certain celebrity was the topic. To those in the industry, and even to the general public, his name alone explained everything.

His debut was meteoric. Euihyun vividly remembered that time. The news reported that a Korean had been nominated for Best Actor at the Venice Film Festival. The fact that his film wasn’t Korean drew even more attention. Though he didn’t win, few actors could claim such a dazzling debut under the spotlight.

They were in the same profession, yet he seemed to exist in an entirely different realm. It didn’t even spark envy.

“…….”

Before he knew it, Euihyun had opened his eyes and was quietly staring at the swaying bus ceiling. He wasn’t thinking anything in particular.

Some time passed. A sudden vibration buzzed in his pocket. The caller displayed on the screen was Yoon Hyungjin, currently the most sought-after director in Chungmuro. Years ago, through a mutual acquaintance, Euihyun had acted in his debut film, and they’d since maintained a close, brotherly relationship. Come to think of it, hadn’t he mentioned today was his birthday?

Lowering his voice as much as possible, Euihyun answered the call.

“Hey, hyung.”

“Where are you?”

“Mungyeong. Just wrapped up work.”

“You punk, didn’t I tell you today’s my birthday?”

He knew full well that an actor had no control over the set, yet he still teased. From the other end, the laughter and banter of already-drunk people spilled over. It couldn’t be, but it almost felt like the thick smell of alcohol was coming through. Slurring incomprehensibly, Director Yoon soon switched to playful whining.

“You’re coming straight here, right?”

“We’ll see.”

“What do you mean, ‘we’ll see’? I’m waiting until you show up, got it?”

The call ended as abruptly as it had come. Euihyun sighed softly, leaning back from his forward tilt.

The air inside the bus had grown stuffy. The only sound reaching his ears was the occasional snoring. The earlier whispers had quieted. Even the bus’s jolts on the uneven road felt like the rocking of a cradle. Euihyun crossed his arms and closed his eyes. At some point, his consciousness faded completely.

“Goodbye. Thank you for your hard work!”

The suddenly lively atmosphere signaled their arrival. Euihyun, who had been sleeping like the dead, dragged his now-heavier body upright. Barely able to open his eyes, he bowed repeatedly to the staff disembarking one after another. In their half-asleep state, no one could tell who was who.

It was already 3 a.m. Director Yoon’s birthday had long passed. Messages that arrived while he slept were riddled with typos, vividly conveying the state of the party. Going now would surely mean getting stuck with cleanup. His mind was already at home, lying down.

Mulling over a text received an hour ago, Euihyun finally hailed a taxi.

“To Cheongdam, please.”

The taxi sped along the empty road. In the back seat, Euihyun could barely keep his eyes open. He was so exhausted he couldn’t even discern the genre of the music playing or whether the lyrics were in Korean or a foreign language.

The party venue was surprisingly easy to find. While every nearby shop was quiet, one place was brightly lit. Stepping inside, Euihyun hurriedly covered his ears. Even if they’d rented the place out, the music was so loud it threatened to burst his eardrums. The floor was a mess, littered with spilled drinks and food scraps.

The crowd, caught up in their own revelry, didn’t notice the new arrival. Even Director Yoon, who had vowed to wait for him, didn’t recognize Euihyun at first. Euihyun shook hands with a few familiar faces and approached the near-unconscious director.

“Hyung.”

“Oh, our Actor Jung is here?”

Only then did Director Yoon spot Euihyun, grinning as he slung an arm around his shoulder. He pulled over a glass—whose, no one knew. It looked like a beer mug with dried foam, but he tried to pour tequila into it. Euihyun calmly stopped him and picked up a nearby beer.

“This is fine.”

Director Yoon nodded excessively, then tilted his bottle. When Euihyun joined the toast, he chugged the tequila straight from the bottle. Moments later, he collapsed onto the table with a thud. Euihyun, sipping his lukewarm beer, startled and propped him up.

Even with the host passed out, the party raged on. It was truly a wild dawn. It seemed best to find somewhere for Director Yoon to lie down, but there was no one to help.

Glancing around, Euihyun took matters into his own hands. He slung the limp director’s arm over his neck and hoisted him up. Struggling, he climbed the stairs to the second floor.

He pushed some tables together and laid Director Yoon on them. Noticing him shivering from the alcohol, Euihyun draped his own coat over him. By then, his legs were trembling, and his vision blurred yellow. His shoulder throbbed unbearably. The pain, forgotten while supporting the director, had resurfaced. Rolling his shoulder, he remembered the pain patch in his pocket.

He went to a nearby restroom. Pulling his sweater aside, he saw his swollen, red shoulder. By tomorrow, it would likely be a purple bruise. He wondered if it was okay to apply the patch but stuck it on anyway. The patch’s sharp scent and heat spread. While he was at it, he applied the remaining one to his upper back and stepped outside.

“…….”

The chaos downstairs continued. The loud music made the floor thump. He had no desire to go back down.

Watching the now-fast-asleep Director Yoon, Euihyun dragged two nearby tables together. He climbed onto them unsteadily and lay down. Bending his legs to keep them from sticking out, he closed his eyes. He thought the noisy atmosphere would keep him awake, but sleep overtook him instantly.

“…Ugh.”

Upon waking, he couldn’t tell if it was a dream or reality. The scattered tables and chairs were unchanged, but the surroundings were eerily quiet. The dim window suggested little time had passed. Checking Director Yoon’s spot, he found it empty. Disheveled chairs near the stairs hinted at his whereabouts.

His body ached from the brief nap. His mind remained foggy. Sitting dazed for a while, a sudden chill made him shiver as he stood. The sensation of his feet touching the floor felt off. His empty stomach, briefly soothed by the beer, grumbled. Rubbing his sore belly, he descended the stairs.

The first floor looked like a typhoon had hit. Scanning the chaotic room, he froze. His gaze locked onto one table. Amid empty bottles and food scraps, a man sat alone. His upright posture, leaning against the chair, didn’t suggest drunkenness.

The man gently touched the bottle in front of him. The meaningless gesture drew Euihyun’s attention. As he stared, the man slowly turned his head. The face that met his was strikingly familiar. And that made it strange.

Why was he here, now? Had he been invited by Director Yoon too? If so, why hadn’t he left this deserted place? Looking around again, there was no sign of anyone else. Euihyun could excuse himself for dozing off upstairs, but he couldn’t fathom why this man remained. Unsure whether to ask outright or stay silent, he hesitated, rolling his eyes. The man spoke first.

“Looks like I’m late.”

“…Uh, yeah. They were probably waiting for you.”

He answered reflexively, quickly adding, “Maybe.”

“Really?”

The man gave a light laugh at the uncertain consolation. It was a pleasant smile, one that could make him the center of any room. Yet it didn’t feel arrogant or superficial.

Euihyun’s gaze, lingering on the man’s profile, shifted to the chair he sat on. He intended to leave at the right moment, but he couldn’t. His coat, which he’d draped over Director Yoon, was now hanging on the man’s chair.

Whether aware of it or not, the man continued fiddling with the bottle. In the awkward silence, each second dragged on. When the man looked at Euihyun again, some time had passed—or perhaps it was less than a minute. He extended a hand for a handshake and introduced himself briefly. His hand was long and clean.

“Cha Yiljoo.”

He added with a hint of openness.

“Your face looks pretty familiar…”

He seemed accustomed to putting others at ease. Euihyun took his hand briefly and released it.

“Jung Euihyun.”

“Right, Euihyun, wasn’t it?”

He’d likely respond the same to any unknown actor. The tactic was obvious, but not unpleasant.

Would it be okay to leave now? Euihyun glanced at the chair’s backrest, searching for the right words. Even without eyes in the back of his head, the man couldn’t miss such an intense stare.

“You must be tired. You should head out. I came with the intention of staying, so I’ll have one more drink.”

Cha Yiljoo picked up Euihyun’s coat and handed it to him. It was rightfully his, but Euihyun felt oddly embarrassed. As he hesitated to take it, Cha Yiljoo suddenly said, “Been filming a historical drama lately?” When Euihyun’s expression asked how he knew, he smiled faintly.

“The smell.”

It wasn’t meant to tease, surely. Yet Euihyun’s face suddenly felt hot. The patch’s scent, which he’d grown used to, seemed overpoweringly strong. Instinctively stepping back, he mumbled an excuse.

“Got a little hurt during filming…”

“Have you been to the hospital?”

“No. It’s not that serious. Just some startled muscles.”

Cha Yiljoo studied Euihyun, who was earnestly explaining. His eyes curved gently, making Euihyun feel at ease rather than uncomfortable. That calm gaze held him in place. Being stared at so openly, he couldn’t just walk away. Euihyun fidgeted with his coat’s hem for a while. Then Cha Yiljoo quietly suggested.

“If you’re up for it, want to have a drink?”

Drinking with a stranger wasn’t unfamiliar. Even if it was just the two of them, it was the same. Usually, such occasions had a clear purpose—bonding, strengthening business ties, or at least passing the time. So what was the point of this moment?

When Euihyun just stared blankly without responding, Cha Yiljoo asked again.

“Got another schedule after this?”

“The last shoot was it.”

A satisfied expression followed the prompt reply. Cha Yiljoo pulled out the chair beside him and urged again.

“Sit.”

His tone held no force. Yet Euihyun felt drawn, as if compelled, and followed. As he sat, Cha Yiljoo picked a clean glass and placed it in front of him. Then he tilted the bottle he’d been toying with, pouring whiskey.

“Let’s have just this one and call it a night.”

He set a reasonable limit, mindful of overwhelming his companion. Euihyun nodded and took a sip of the whiskey. It burned his mouth and throat before warming his stomach. The lingering cold melted away like a lie.

He finished the rest of the whiskey. Cha Yiljoo, who had been gazing at the amber liquid sloshing in his glass, gave a faint smile.

“Feels like I’m keeping someone who wants to leave. Should we call it now?”

“No, I’ll wait.”

Euihyun hurriedly waved his hands. He quickly filled his empty glass with water too. As if truly intending to stay, he rested his idle hands neatly on his knees. Puppy. At Cha Yiljoo’s low murmur, Euihyun, who had been staring at his glass, scratched his earlobe. He thought he’d heard something, but it was too soft to be sure. Cha Yiljoo tilted his glass as if he hadn’t said anything. Maybe exhaustion was making him hear things.

“Historical dramas must mean a lot of location shooting?”

As Euihyun tilted his head, Cha Yiljoo suddenly asked. Glad for a conversation topic, he answered eagerly.

“Pretty much.”

“Traveling to far-off sets, getting made up, and waiting—it’s more a battle with time than acting, isn’t it? Especially in this weather, it must be tough in many ways.”

“That’s done as of today.”

“Done? Is the show wrapping up soon?”

“Actually, I filmed my character’s death scene today. The show’s still got a ways to go.”

“Midway exit. I haven’t experienced that, so I can’t say I get it… Don’t you feel reluctant?”

Euihyun shook his head immediately.

“No. It was set from the start. ‘A loyal character who meets their end.’ I might feel a bit wistful, but there’s nothing to be upset about.”

“But you’re human.”

Cha Yiljoo offered an unexpected counter. How could he not want more? As if urging him to drop the clichés and reveal his true feelings.

Euihyun looked at him, puzzled. The man still wore a calm smile, not the type to throw out pointed remarks so casually. Maybe he’d said it without much thought, and Euihyun was overreacting. He must be more tired than he realized.

“How much a character is needed in a story is something the producers know better than the actors. Wanting more doesn’t make it happen. If I contributed, big or small, that’s enough for me.”

“Hmm… Euihyun, you talk like a textbook. What’s next? Any projects lined up?”

“I’ll start looking now.”

“Now, huh. No vague ideas about genres or roles you’d like to try?”

“No. Actors don’t choose the characters they want to play. They play the characters they’re chosen for.”

Perhaps Cha Yiljoo wouldn’t understand. After all, he must always be flooded with offers for roles.

Cha Yiljoo propped his chin on his hand and gazed at Euihyun. There was nothing pathetic or shabby about this man who said he’d take on any role offered to him. What made him different from those who accepted every job just to make money?

The conversation paused for a moment. Euihyun, sitting awkwardly, glanced out the window. The gradually brightening sky and bare branches vividly displayed the season’s starkness. Even the quiet morning air felt bleak. Just watching it seemed to transmit the outside cold vividly. Euihyun instinctively hunched his shoulders and muttered absentmindedly.

“…Doenjang jjigae.”

Cha Yiljoo’s hand, lifting his glass, froze. Startled by the random remark, his eyes widened before crinkling as he let out a chuckle. Only then did Euihyun snap back to reality, letting out a soft “Ah.” He’d been lost in his thoughts and mumbled something, but he couldn’t recall exactly what. Judging by Cha Yiljoo’s reaction, it clearly wasn’t a comment suited to the moment.

Cha Yiljoo suddenly leaned his upper body toward Euihyun. Then, in an unexpectedly familiar tone, he added a remark.

“It’d be delicious with some ssamjang and fresh green peppers. Fluffy rice would be nice too.”

“…….”

“Doesn’t this time of year make you crave that sort of thing?”

Euihyun bowed his head deeply. He’d definitely said something strange. His ears felt like they were burning.

Cha Yiljoo, now much closer, didn’t pull back. His presence and scent filled the space around them. The artificial smell of his lotion blended with his natural scent, creating a distinctive fragrance. Even without looking up, Euihyun could tell from the soft, tickling sound of his breathing that he was smiling.

“Do you cook your own meals?”

“…Yes.”

“That’s impressive at your age. Stews like that are tough to get just right.”

“It’s not impressive. I’ve just been living alone for a long time… It’s only edible enough.”

“Not everyone can do that, so it’s impressive. Was it kongnamul?”

“Sorry?”

“When you’re seasoning it, I heard adding a spoonful of broth gives it a richer flavor.”

When Euihyun looked at him puzzled, Cha Yiljoo explained that he’d heard it from a regular restaurant. The awkward, stiff atmosphere seemed to ease instantly. Even though they were continuing a conversation that didn’t quite fit the situation or the person, it felt natural.

“I’m jealous.”

“Do you like Korean food?”

“I miss it, more like. It’s been a while since I’ve had a home-cooked meal.”

Cha Yiljoo didn’t give him time to dwell on the meaning of those words. He simply raised his whiskey and offered again.

“Shall we have one more?”

As promised, the two finished one more drink each and stood up. They left the bar side by side, and the cold air rushed at them. The chill creeping over their bodies could have been unpleasant, but after being steeped in the heavy smell of alcohol, it felt refreshing instead.

Euihyun planned to warm up with a hot shower as soon as he got home and cook some doenjang jjigae. After eating, he’d give in to the drowsiness and sleep until he couldn’t anymore—a slice of heaven. Lost in these pleasant thoughts, he suddenly glanced back.

Cha Yiljoo was smoking a cigarette in front of the bar. There was no need to wait until he finished it. Catching his eye, Euihyun gave a slight bow.

“I’ll head out first then. Take care.”

Cha Yiljoo, cigarette between his lips, nodded briefly. Even as Euihyun turned, he could feel Cha Yiljoo’s gaze on his back. That’s why, after a few steps, he glanced back. Cha Yiljoo didn’t seem to have anything more to say. Neither did Euihyun. He bowed again and strode toward the bus stop. The subway would be faster, but today he could afford to take it slow. Ever since he was a kid, Euihyun had loved sitting on the bus, watching the world pass by outside.

There was still quite a wait for the first bus. He was walking, prepared to wait, when a voice suddenly called out, “Euihyun.” Turning, he saw Cha Yiljoo following a few steps behind.

“Did you call me?”

“Yes. Didn’t you bring a car?”

“No, I came straight up after filming.”

“Then let me give you a ride.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“My manager’s coming soon, so just wait a bit.”

Despite Euihyun’s refusal, Cha Yiljoo pressed on. Was there really a need to extend such kindness to a drinking buddy met by chance? If their destinations weren’t even in the same direction, it would only waste his time. Euihyun considered declining again but soon let the thought go. Cha Yiljoo’s warm smile and “Let’s go together” were impossible to brush off.

Cha Yiljoo lit another cigarette. He subtly offered his pack to Euihyun, who shook his head and said he’d quit. When Euihyun declined firmly, Cha Yiljoo didn’t push further. But why hadn’t Euihyun been able to do the same earlier?

Pale smoke drifted into the air. Euihyun’s eyes followed its trail aimlessly, letting time slip by.

Some time passed. Cha Yiljoo flicked his cigarette into a nearby trash can. Right on cue, a sedan pulled up in front of them. Cha Yiljoo personally opened the back door on Euihyun’s side. Then he circled the car and got in through the opposite door.

At his urging to get in, Euihyun slid into the seat next to Cha Yiljoo. The driver’s face, briefly visible in the rearview mirror, looked quite young. A road manager, perhaps. They could have chatted casually, but Cha Yiljoo and the driver exchanged no words. Not even the usual “How much did you drink?” prodding.

Euihyun cautiously glanced at Cha Yiljoo. Leaning deep into the seat, he had turned his head toward the opposite window. With his face out of view, Euihyun couldn’t tell if he was asleep or watching the passing scenery.

It was uncomfortable. The tense air, the suffocating silence. Where was the man who’d been so effortlessly charming just moments ago? It felt like sitting next to an entirely different person.

Euihyun turned his gaze forward. He needed something to distract himself. Scanning the overly pristine car interior, his eyes soon fixed on the audio system. It had a CD player, rarely used these days. A CD, half-inserted in the slot, caught his attention. What kind of music was on it? A vague curiosity stirred.

Meanwhile, traffic on the road began to build. Early commuters were starting to appear. If they weren’t careful, they’d get stuck in rush hour. His home was still quite a distance away, but he hurriedly requested a stop.

“Could you drop me off around here?”

The driver slowly pulled the sedan to the roadside. Once the car came to a complete stop, Cha Yiljoo opened his eyes. Euihyun quickly opened the door and stepped out, offering a vague thank-you.

“Thank you for the ride.”

He bowed and closed the door. Immediately, the backseat window slid down. Cha Yiljoo, leaning out through the gap, held out his phone. The gesture’s intent was clear without checking. Euihyun stared blankly at him before slowly entering his number into the phone. It might just be a polite gesture, but having accepted a ride, he had no grounds to refuse.

Cha Yiljoo looked at the screen and pressed the call button. As expected, Euihyun’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

“Let’s meet again if we get the chance. I enjoyed today.”

Cha Yiljoo remained courteous to the end. When Euihyun mumbled a “Yes,” he smiled silently and raised the window. The sedan sped up, gliding back onto the road. Euihyun stood rooted to the spot, watching it disappear among the other cars.

It felt like he’d dreamed with his eyes open.

He didn’t know how long he’d slept. His consciousness had been offline for quite a while. Sleeping deeply without dreams suggested the accumulated fatigue had been significant. He’d need to start exercising again soon. Acting seemed to be a cycle of building and breaking down the body.

Hunger, forgotten in sleep, roared back with a vengeance. After getting home, he’d tackled overdue laundry and showered, only to be hit with overwhelming drowsiness. The last thing he remembered was crawling into bed, too exhausted to move a finger. He must have slept at least ten hours, so it was no surprise his empty stomach was protesting.

He got up and headed to the bathroom. Washing his face to shake off the grogginess, he turned on the TV out of habit. Any channel, any program—it didn’t matter. The moment it powered on, the silent, temple-like apartment finally felt alive. He rummaged through the fridge, pulling out zucchini, green onions, and tofu. As he closed the door, he grabbed some fresh green peppers too.

He deftly prepped the vegetables and dissolved the traditional doenjang paste. While the jjigae simmered richly, the TV chattered tirelessly in the background. Euihyun was just checking the stew’s seasoning when the program caught his attention. Spoon in hand, he was drawn to the TV.

A daily evening culture show was airing. On Fridays, it typically bundled entertainment news, but today it was all about Cha Yiljoo. From his arrival footage to the plot and his role in an upcoming film, official interview clips, and his planned domestic schedule post-promotion—it was practically a special feature. Cha Yiljoo, constantly on screen, stood under dazzling lights. Even “superstar” seemed an understatement. That must be his true self.

His considerate demeanor, pleasant smile, and unintrusive gestures during the interview were the same as the Cha Yiljoo from that dawn. Yet he felt like a completely different person. Perhaps that impression stemmed from the stark distance between them—one inside the screen, the other outside. Not all fish in the same water are the same.

Euihyun stood in front of the TV for a while longer. He only noticed the jjigae boiling over much later.

🎥

It wasn’t there. No matter how many times he checked, it was the same. He always carried it with him, so he couldn’t guess where it might have been lost. It had definitely been with him when he changed in Mungyeong.

The set, the crew’s vehicle, the roadside, the taxi, the party venue, Cha Yiljoo’s sedan, and the journey home. Retracing that day’s movements, he sighed. It felt hopeless. Even if he’d dropped it somewhere, would an item lost three days ago still be there? It wasn’t expensive, but it could fetch a few pennies if sold, which made him reluctant. Yet he couldn’t just resign himself to it either.

He sat in a daze for a long time, overwhelmed by the futility. Normally, he’d have noticed the moment it was gone, so why hadn’t he? The question lingered belatedly.

Just then, his phone rang. Checking the caller ID, he pressed the answer button.

“Yes, this is Jung Euihyun.”

— Euihyun, it’s me. How’ve you been?

The familiar voice belonged to Lee Seokmin, a casting director. Without an agency, Euihyun relied on him for new projects. Seokmin’s wide industry connections came with high fees, but he was trustworthy, avoiding issues like double-casting.

“Hello, Manager. Everything okay?”

— Same as always.

“You must be busy. What’s up?”

— When have I ever called without a reason? There’s a drama airing on KBC around December, I hear. Eight episodes. I got the synopsis and script yesterday, and there’s a role that’s perfect for you. How’s your schedule? Free?

An eight-episode drama slotted for year-end was predictable. Either a previous show’s success led to an extension, throwing off the schedule, or a rival network’s hit delayed a follow-up. Either way, a stopgap eight-parter rarely drew viewer interest.

That didn’t matter much to Euihyun. Short dramas, though less mainstream, often had experimental structures, characters, and plots. That was enough. It piqued his interest.

— I’d like to discuss details in person. Got time? I’m meeting Producer Bae briefly today about this project. You’ll need to meet him anyway, and there’s a contract to sign. Can you come over?

Euihyun glanced at the clock on the wall.

“I can be there by 2.”

— Great. Come to KBC’s drama department. Ask for Producer Bae Gukhyun, and someone will guide you.

“Got it.”

The call ended quickly.

Euihyun checked the time again and got ready to leave. The lost item still nagged at him, but he couldn’t stay fixated on it. The broadcasting station came first. If it was meant to be found, he’d recover it eventually, whether now or later.

A final glance at the clock showed it was already 1 p.m. Time was a bit tight. He hurriedly put on his shoes but paused and went back inside. After slightly rearranging the potted plants scattered around the apartment, he left without lingering.

“Ugh, damn it…”

It had been a while since he’d visited KBC’s headquarters. He should’ve double-checked, but he forgot to bring his access pass. It was a useless item for rookies or lesser-known celebrities, but he felt uneasy. His bad feeling was spot-on.

“What brings you here?”

The security guard’s tone was wary. Euihyun’s rummaging through his pockets at the gate must have seemed suspicious. He explained his purpose honestly.

“I’m here to meet Producer Bae Gukhyun from the drama department.”

“Are you an actor?”

The guard’s skeptical look confirmed it again. It could’ve been humiliating for some, but Euihyun was used to it. The public didn’t remember every actor. Even those who worked closely with celebrities didn’t recognize them all.

The problem was that saying “Yes” wouldn’t resolve it. He considered calling Seokmin and pulled out his phone.

Just then, a commotion erupted behind him. The calm atmosphere turned chaotic. The guard’s gaze, previously fixed on Euihyun, shifted somewhere over his shoulder. Euihyun, without much thought, turned to see what was drawing attention.

“…Oh.”

He let out an involuntary gasp. Cha Yiljoo was approaching. Perhaps for an interview, he was accompanied by three or four reporters. As their group reached the gate, their eyes met. Or so it seemed—Cha Yiljoo was wearing sunglasses, so Euihyun couldn’t be sure.

Should he acknowledge him? It would be polite to greet him, but with so many eyes around, he hesitated. They weren’t particularly close, and he didn’t want to put Cha Yiljoo in an awkward spot. He debated briefly, but it was pointless. Cha Yiljoo’s gaze, which had briefly landed on him, quickly moved away.

Cha Yiljoo flashed his signature smile at the guard behind Euihyun.

“Could you open the gate, please?”

The guard gladly complied. Cha Yiljoo, his manager, stylist, and the reporters filed through. Euihyun remained outside, watching them disappear.

It was only natural, wasn’t it?

Sharing a drink once didn’t make them friends. They hadn’t bared their souls to grow close. Thinking back, Euihyun couldn’t recall Cha Yiljoo sharing much about himself. They’d exchanged numbers at his initiative, but that was it. They hadn’t contacted each other since. Maybe there was no need to debate whether to greet him at all.

He wasn’t upset if Cha Yiljoo didn’t recognize or ignored him. He only regretted not asking if he’d seen his lost item.

While he was lost in thought, the guard turned back to him. “What did you say you were here for?” he asked again. But he didn’t get to hear Euihyun’s reply this time either. A woman suddenly rushed toward the gate, breathless. She swiped her access card and was about to pass through when she stopped abruptly. Her face, turning to Euihyun, was full of surprise.

“Actor Jung?”

“Oh, Reporter Kim.”

Euihyun recognized her too. It was Kim Jihee from Chungwha Daily. She’d recently gained public recognition through regular appearances on KBC’s entertainment show. Their connection predated her fame.

Kim Jihee scanned him from head to toe, tilting her head.

“What are you doing here?”

“I have a meeting with the casting director.”

“Inside?”

“Yes.”

Euihyun gave an awkward smile. Kim Jihee instantly grasped the situation, catching the guard’s alternating stares between them. As a frequent visitor to the station, she and the guard were acquainted.

“Reporter, do you know him?”

“Man, you don’t watch TV, do you? Not even recognizing Actor Jung. Wasting your life as a station guard.”

Kim Jihee teased playfully. The guard muttered, “What, am I supposed to watch dramas?” but opened the gate. Euihyun bowed and stepped inside.

Kim Jihee kept checking her watch, walking briskly. Even so, she poured out questions like a waterfall: “How’ve you been?” “I watched your drama—you died heroically.” “Got your next project lined up?” Euihyun answered her rapid-fire queries moderately and asked about her in return.

“What recording do you have today, Reporter?”

“Call me noona.”

“…Haha.”

“Well, a recording’s a recording. I’ve got an interview with Cha Yiljoo.”

Euihyun nodded softly with an “Ah.” By then, Kim Jihee was practically jogging.

“You wouldn’t believe how arrogant he acts just because he’s a big deal.”

“Cha Yiljoo?”

“No, not him—his manager. Honestly, Cha Yiljoo’s manners are better than the rumors. I’ve never seen someone that successful stay so warm. But his manager? Total jerk. Seriously, is Cha Yiljoo the star, or is he? Normally, a daily paper like ours offering an exclusive would at least get a meeting. The interview could be handled by the manager or submitted in writing, but you’d still show up to seal the deal. Why? Even if reporters’ clout is at rock bottom these days, there’s no upside to crossing us. Plus, you know our editor’s temper? Once he latches onto someone, he grinds them to dust. Loves being treated like a big shot too. Apparently, he personally called to meet, thinking he’s dealing with a global actor, but Cha Yiljoo’s manager said they’re too busy, so if we want an interview, come to the waiting room. Not even an exclusive. I got chewed out by the editor for nothing. If I don’t bring back a scoop this time, our team’s future is toast. The poor interns will be picking at Cha Yiljoo’s crumbs, calling him the devil. Then his fans will dig up our kids’ info and tear them apart. Meanwhile, the real culprit gets off scot-free.”

By the time she finished her rant, they’d reached the hallway splitting toward the production department and studios. Kim Jihee made an exaggerated pout.

“It’s so hard to make a living, Actor Jung.”

“But you’ll do it fairly and well. Hang in there.”

“Yeah, I will. Let’s grab a meal sometime, okay?”

Kim Jihee hooked her pinky with Euihyun’s for a moment before letting go. “You better,” she said, waving as she hurried off. For all her whining, she’d survived seven years in this industry—under a notoriously tough boss, no less. Her complaints were closer to theatrics. Euihyun had never met anyone, man or woman, as sharp and resilient as her.

Watching her disappear, he resumed walking. Upon reaching the drama department, he was guided to a meeting room. Inside, Lee Seokmin and Producer Bae sat side by side.

“Hello.”

“Hey, you’re here! Sit.”

Seokmin beamed, gesturing to the seat across from them. Euihyun bowed again to Producer Bae, who was staring at him, and sat. A script was handed to him immediately. He started with the synopsis. Meanwhile, Seokmin and Bae exchanged silent glances, sizing him up. Soon, some unspoken agreement passed between them. Seokmin then drew Euihyun’s attention.

“What do you think?”

“It looks good.”

“Let’s be frank—it’s not a blockbuster. It’s a last-minute fill-in because another drama got extended. But if done well, it’ll get your face out there.”

Producer Bae laid out the situation candidly. Even the producer wasn’t optimistic about the project. A seasoned actor might pass, considering their resume. Low ratings could dent an actor’s image, lower their value, and make future projects harder to secure. Perhaps that’s why Seokmin emphasized the one clear upside.

“But it’s a lead role, sort of.”

“Sort of, yeah.”

Bae chuckled and shook his head. Undeterred, Seokmin pressed on.

“You’ve got to give it your all, okay? I didn’t call anyone else—I went straight to Jung Euihyun. The moment I saw it, I knew this was yours.”

“What’s that, Manager? That’s how it was?”

Bae teased Seokmin playfully. Seokmin laughed, saying, “You left it all to me, didn’t you?” The mood was far from tense. Declining wouldn’t bring major consequences. But anyone who knew Euihyun could guess his answer.

Jung Euihyun was an actor who never said no. No matter the role or demand, he never refused. That’s why casting directors facing tough situations never forgot him. This time was no different.

“Yes. I’ll do my best.”

🎥

“So we won’t see you for a while?”

The man handed over a beer bottle, already looking wistful.

“It’s only eight episodes—it’ll be over quick.”

“Ugh, let’s see if I can survive without your face.”

He gave Euihyun’s shoulder a playful nudge, full of familiarity. It was Jang Daewoong, the owner of a cozy bar in Itaewon. His main gig was acting, but he appeared more often as a regular panelist on cable shows than in dramas or films. What made him a household name, though, was something else: the first openly gay celebrity. That was the label the public used for him.

Around the time his face began to gain public recognition, he mentioned being blackmailed by a long-time acquaintance. He said that once you start being swayed, you’d have to keep being dragged around, and rather than living in constant fear of exposure, he chose to confess everything himself. From then on, negative gazes followed him wherever he went, but he had no regrets. He said it was stifling to have to act like someone he wasn’t even off-camera, and that he was actually happier and more relieved now.

Recently, he’s been focusing more on his bar business, including this place, Kok Bar, rather than appearing on broadcasts. The reason this place, among all the bars operated by Jang Daewoong, is the most special is because it’s exclusively for members who are personally close to the owner. If Euihyun hadn’t been pegged by Jang Daewoong as having a unique sexual identity, he likely wouldn’t have even known a place like this existed.

There wasn’t a single customer in the hall. It was still a long while before the bar opened for business. Even so, Euihyun always came around this time. And then he’d leave before the business even started.

Most of the members who frequented the bar were well-known figures who sought a place to relax here. Jang Daewoong, too, had opened the place with the aim of fostering wholesome interactions. He’d repeatedly told Euihyun that it wasn’t such a burdensome place, but it was no use. For some reason, Euihyun didn’t even try to make friends, let alone find a partner.

Jang Daewoong picked out only the dried bananas from the mixed nuts. It was Euihyun’s favorite snack. Normally, he’d quietly munch on those alone, but after fumbling around for a while, he popped an innocent almond into his mouth instead. As he crunched on it, he seemed unaware that it wasn’t a banana chip. His eyes were just blankly open. Glancing at him, Jang Daewoong suddenly spoke up, “What’s up?”

When Euihyun gave a clueless look, Jang Daewoong pressed on as if to say, don’t play dumb, hitting the nail on the head.

“You’ve been lost in thought since earlier. What’s on your mind?”

“I wasn’t thinking about anything.”

“You’re a terrible liar, and yet you try to dodge. What’s up? Did you meet a guy you like or something?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Your face looks completely down in the dumps.”

“It’s just… I lost something.”

Jang Daewoong crossed his arms and gave Euihyun a thorough once-over. It wasn’t hard for him to deduce what Euihyun meant by the “something” he’d lost.

“You’re talking about that, right? The necklace.”

Euihyun nodded with a surprised expression. Jang Daewoong’s keen eye was always sharp, but it was impossible not to notice something Euihyun always wore.

“No clue where you might’ve lost it?”

“There are a few places I can think of, but it happened to go missing when I was shooting on location.”

“Then the standard move is to retrace your steps. What was your last schedule the day you lost it?”

“As I said, it was on location…”

“No, I mean your personal schedule. Did you go straight home after the shoot?”

Staring intently at Euihyun, Jang Daewoong suddenly smirked. He’d read the answer in Euihyun’s flustered eyes. Euihyun confessed honestly.

“I stopped by a place in Cheongdam. It was Director Yoon’s birthday.”

“Oh, right? I was too busy and just called, but you went after filming? Wasn’t it practically over by then? Did you just pop in and leave?”

“No, it’s just…”

“Who was it?”

“…”

He clammed up under the subtle interrogation. Jang Daewoong raised an eyebrow in surprise, then flashed a sly grin. “Something’s up,” he said, leisurely crossing his arms and staring at Euihyun as if he could see right through him. But the story he’d hoped for didn’t come. Euihyun just avoided his gaze, sipping his beer.

Jang Daewoong nodded exaggeratedly, as if to say he got it.

“Alright, fine. It’s your privacy, so I won’t pry. If there was someone you hung out with until the end that night, wouldn’t it be worth checking with them? Even if not, you’ve got nothing to lose. Does it cost money to ask?”

He added, “You must’ve exchanged numbers, right?” It’s not like Euihyun hadn’t thought of that. It was a clear purpose, just a quick question to confirm and be done with, so it should’ve been fine. That is, until he ran into Cha Yiljoo earlier that day. The memory of passing each other without a greeting, despite locking eyes, kept making Euihyun hesitate.

If he couldn’t find the necklace elsewhere, he’d have to contact Cha Yiljoo eventually. By then, Cha Yiljoo might not even be in Korea. But it wasn’t an item he could just write off as gone.

After some deliberation, he took out his phone. He carefully tapped out a message, letter by letter. Jang Daewoong, leaning over to watch, chimed in with an encouraging “That’s it, that’s it.”

The message was finished quickly. Still, Euihyun read and reread the short text, scrutinizing every word. There were no typos, yet he couldn’t bring himself to hit send.

“Submitting an exam paper?”

Jang Daewoong frowned disapprovingly.

“Stop moping and send it. It’s not like you’re asking for a favor. Why overthink it?”

Growing impatient, he suddenly pressed Euihyun’s finger down. The send button was tapped, and the message flew off to Cha Yiljoo before Euihyun could stop it.

Euihyun stared blankly at the “message sent” screen, then set the phone down. He flipped it over so the screen faced the table. His face, feigning calm, was tinged with a strange tension.

🎥

A suite in a luxury Seoul hotel. Clothes strewn carelessly on the floor trailed all the way to the bathroom. The shower stall was fogged up with steam, with only a vague silhouette flickering inside.

Soon, the sound of water stopped, and the closed door opened. The steam that had filled the space dispersed in an instant. Emerging from it, tying a robe, was none other than Cha Yiljoo. Water dripped steadily from his soaked hair. Unfazed, he crossed the living room and sank into a chair by the window.

“You’ll catch a cold if you don’t dry your hair before sleeping.”

Manager Han approached with advice. Cha Yiljoo, draping a dry towel over his face, merely waved a hand.

“I think you got a text earlier.”

While putting on a jacket, Manager Han tapped away at his phone, dropping the hint. As expected, Cha Yiljoo, sprawled lazily, showed no reaction. Han reiterated to dry his hair and sleep well, then headed for the door.

“Spreading your number around everywhere, and that fancy number—who’d you give it to?”

Grumbling audibly, he fiddled with the phone like it was a toy, responding to Cha Yiljoo’s personal messages on his behalf. He even tacked on mismatched emojis. Whether Cha Yiljoo appreciated the effort or not, he didn’t say a word. Han glanced at him, shook his head, and quietly left.

Cha Yiljoo remained still for a while after. It was only later that he recalled Han’s mention of the message. On his way to the bed, he picked up his phone by the window. There was one unread message. After a moment of thought, he dragged the message icon. A neat sentence appeared.

Hello. This is Jung Euihyun. I lost an item a few days ago, and I was wondering if you could kindly check inside your car?

“…‘This is’ what?”

He muttered under his breath, then chuckled. His gaze suddenly shifted to the minibar. A necklace was loosely draped over one of the wine glasses. Staring at it, Cha Yiljoo tossed the phone aside and headed to the bedroom.

He never sent a reply.

🎥

Once the casting was finalized, everything proceeded smoothly. An eight-episode mid-length drama typically goes into pre-production.

Today was the first step: the script reading. Euihyun, who arrived early, reviewed his tattered script while waiting. He’d memorized not only his lines but also his co-star’s, yet he still felt uneasy. Until he fully embodied the character, he was plagued by chronic tension and anxiety. But perhaps pain can be addictive, as that subtle trembling and unease wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

The drama, titled Monster, begins with the disappearance of a convenience store clerk. As murders with no apparent connection between victims—regardless of gender—repeat, a special investigation team is formed. But the investigation keeps hitting dead ends, dragging on, while the killer mocks them by committing increasingly brutal murders.

Euihyun’s role was the culprit, “Jeongwoo.” A young man with little to his name and no formal education, but possessing an untainted innocence. Someone who wouldn’t even kill a small insect, making him above suspicion. The story, driven by gruesome crimes and the elite investigation team’s pursuit, shifts its focus to “Jeongwoo” in the latter half.

Though he’d been contemplating “Jeongwoo” since accepting the role, Euihyun hadn’t found a clear interpretation. Despite having portrayed a wide range of characters, this role felt particularly challenging. Could he convincingly depict a character who seems like a societal underdog but transforms moment by moment into a monster devoid of reason or morality? The psychology eluded him, causing both worry and excitement for the new challenge. His fingertips trembled faintly, just like his first day in front of a camera.

“Hey, Euihyun-ssi, you’re here already?”

A sudden voice made him turn around. Producer Bae and the production team were entering the meeting room. Euihyun stood and bowed to each of them. Bae PD, seeing him so stiff, handed him a bottle of water, saying, “Why so tense?”

“Have you looked over the script?”

“Yes.”

“How’s it feel? Think you can pull it off?”

“It’s my first time with a character like this, so I’m not sure. Please guide me.”

“Guide a ten-year veteran? You’ll figure it out.”

Bae PD laughed heartily, patting Euihyun’s shoulder.

“The writer’s coming today, so if you have any difficulties, we can discuss them together.”

“Yes, understood.”

“Let’s do this.”

Euihyun shook Bae PD’s outstretched hand. Around then, the actors started arriving. The room quickly grew lively. After exchanging greetings and catching up, the script reading began in earnest.

Bae PD introduced himself, the production team, and the writer first. Awkward self-introductions, statements of intent, applause, and laughter followed. The initially stiff atmosphere eased as the reading progressed. Tense silences were broken by someone’s witty ad-lib, sparking laughter. As they laughed and bantered, their initially mismatched rhythms gradually aligned.

Before he knew it, it was over. A long exhale escaped, like finishing a marathon. He’d gone through two bottles of water, yet his throat was parched. As he looked for something to quench his thirst, the actor playing “Team Leader Lee” handed him a water bottle.

“Good job. If you perform like that on set, it’ll be a hit.”

“Seriously. With that innocent face, I wondered if he could pull it off, but his line delivery was top-notch.”

Another middle-aged actor chimed in, then asked if Euihyun wanted to join them for lunch. He had no special plans afterward, and it was lunchtime. There was no reason to turn down the rare kindness from seniors.

Just as Euihyun was about to agree, the room grew chaotic. The air seemed to shift toward one direction: the entrance. Actors and staff leaving the room all turned their attention to one spot.

“Hello.”

At the center of their gazes, an unexpected figure greeted them. Euihyun’s eyes widened slightly as he followed the crowd.

“Hey, Cha Yiljoo-ssi! How’d you get here?”

Bae PD greeted him warmly. Cha Yiljoo shook his hand casually, unbothered by the attention on him.

“I heard Euihyun-ssi was practicing his script, so I stopped by to cheer him on.”

The gazes fixed on Cha Yiljoo instantly shifted to Euihyun. Standing there dumbfounded, Euihyun was at a loss. He must’ve misheard, but Cha Yiljoo’s smiling eyes were clearly directed at him. That couldn’t be right.

People’s thoughts seemed to align. The middle-aged actor beside him asked, “You’re close with Cha Yiljoo?” Others sent curious glances.

They weren’t close, not like people assumed. But denying it outright might put Cha Yiljoo in an awkward spot. As Euihyun hesitated, Cha Yiljoo drew attention again.

“You must’ve worked hard practicing. It’s modest, but please have this.”

On cue, Cha Yiljoo’s managers set down boxes they’d been carrying, filled neatly with coffee and donuts. Cha Yiljoo personally handed some to the PD and crew, flashing his signature gentle smile.

He greeted older actors with particular courtesy, more polite than even a rookie would be. With actors he knew, he exchanged brief pleasantries. Euihyun stood alone in the middle of the room, watching the scene unfold.

Only after a while did Cha Yiljoo approach Euihyun. Bae PD and the crew shouted their thanks and left the room. The remaining actors promised to grab a meal sometime and trickled out. Cha Yiljoo responded to each farewell with a smile.

Soon, only Euihyun, Cha Yiljoo, and his managers remained. Cha Yiljoo casually asked the still-stunned Euihyun, “All done with today’s schedule?”

“…Yes.”

Cha Yiljoo gave a satisfied smile.

“Then let’s go.”

The two settled at a nearby premium beef restaurant. They’d arrived with Manager Han, but by the time the table was set, he’d stepped out for a call, leaving just the two of them. It seemed he wouldn’t return until the meal was over, as the table was set strictly for two.

Cha Yiljoo placed a thick rib on the grill. His “This looks delicious” carried no pretense. Beef for lunch? Maybe he had a hearty appetite. Or perhaps living abroad made him prefer meat. Euihyun poured water into an empty glass, lost in such thoughts.

The meat sizzled as it cooked quickly. The smoke from burning marinade was swiftly sucked into the vent. A sweet aroma spread, teasing the senses.

Perfectly grilled, the rib gleamed even more smoothly, as if coated in honey. Cha Yiljoo placed a piece on Euihyun’s side of the grill.

“Do you usually eat together like this?”

“Yes, usually.”

Cha Yiljoo smiled softly at Euihyun, who’d finally spoken. It felt oddly embarrassing. Cha Yiljoo ordered two bowls of rice and even opened Euihyun’s rice lid, kindly urging him.

“Eat up.”

He piled a heap of meat onto Euihyun’s side. Staring at the growing stack felt awkward, so Euihyun hesitantly picked up a piece and put it in his mouth. True to its exorbitant price, it melted the moment it touched his tongue. The subtle marinade was just sweet enough, fragrant, and not cloying. Cha Yiljoo pushed all the grilled meat to Euihyun and began eating.

Euihyun quietly set down his chopsticks and gazed at Cha Yiljoo across the table. He had so much to ask, but didn’t know where to begin.

Cha Yiljoo’s demeanor was a stark contrast to a few days ago. At the broadcasting station gate, he’d passed without a greeting, and he hadn’t replied to the message. Euihyun had concluded he didn’t want further involvement. So why was he here now?

Questions welled up to his throat, but he couldn’t voice them. He couldn’t decide how to ask. The doubts he’d mulled over countless times refused to take clear shape.

“Curious? About why I ignored you back then?”

Perhaps sensing the intense gaze, Cha Yiljoo cut to the chase. With a smile that could disarm any guard, he looked straight at Euihyun.

Euihyun nodded honestly, not hiding his doubts. Cha Yiljoo grinned.

“You didn’t acknowledge me either, did you?”

“…Huh.”

The unexpected response left him stunned. It wasn’t wrong. If either had greeted first, it would’ve been fine. It didn’t have to be Cha Yiljoo. Yet Euihyun had unconsciously watched for his reaction, assuming he wasn’t the one to decide whether their connection continued or ended.

Euihyun stared blankly at Cha Yiljoo, feeling like he’d been hit over the head.

“When you didn’t greet me, I thought you didn’t want to get close. But then you sent that message a few days ago—sure, it had a purpose, but I thought I might’ve misunderstood.”

If that’s true, why didn’t you reply?

A new question arose, but Cha Yiljoo didn’t address it. Instead, he pulled out the necklace and handed it over.

“Is this it? The thing you were looking for?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I was worried it might not be.”

“Thank you.”

“I just picked up something lying around. No big deal. Seems pretty important, though? It looked a bit worn.”

Cha Yiljoo flipped the cooked meat, making a guess. Their eyes met over the hazy smoke. Euihyun subtly avoided his gaze, fiddling with the necklace.

“It’s… my mother’s.”

“Oh? You must be close with her.”

At the casual remark, Euihyun’s lips pressed shut. A bitter expression crossed his face, and he seemed to shake his head slightly. Why? Cha Yiljoo almost asked but stopped.

“By the way, did the doenjang jjigae from that day taste good?”

He swiftly changed the topic, as if unwilling to pry into uncomfortable matters. When Euihyun nodded, he flashed that warm, likable smile.

Staring dazedly at Cha Yiljoo, Euihyun snapped back at the sound of “This is gonna collapse.” Looking down, the meat was piled like a tower on the grill. Euihyun moved a few pieces to Cha Yiljoo’s side. Cha Yiljoo brought them to his mouth without hesitation.

Soon, the ordered doenjang jjigae arrived. Cha Yiljoo tasted the broth and tilted his head.

“All I see is zucchini and onions, but it’s so rich and clean. What makes it like this?”

He widened his eyes at Euihyun, gesturing to the pot as if urging him to try. Euihyun cautiously took a sip. As Cha Yiljoo said, it was refreshing yet refined.

“I think they made the broth with crab and clams first.”

“Really? You know your stuff, Euihyun-ssi.”

“I just… cooked a lot, often.”

Euihyun gave a faint smile. He faltered when Cha Yiljoo fixed him with a direct gaze. Was his expression off? He sipped water to avoid the intense look.

Cha Yiljoo didn’t press further. Whenever the conversation veered deeper, and Euihyun showed discomfort, he promptly shifted topics.

“By the way, no manager? I didn’t see one.”

“No. I don’t have the means.”

“Is your agency in such bad shape? Even so…”

“No, after my military service, my contract with the agency expired. I couldn’t renew, and for a while, my former manager helped even after leaving the company, but… it got tough for both of us.”

“So you’re not signed anywhere, no manager? How do you get cast?”

“There’s a casting director who finds work for me. I pay a small fee from my earnings to get roles.”

He didn’t know why he was spilling all this. It had nothing to do with Cha Yiljoo. Their conversation had been entirely about Euihyun—Cha Yiljoo asking, Euihyun answering.

To avoid another interview-like exchange, Euihyun took the lead.

“How long are you staying in Korea?”

“Actually, I’m heading to the airport now.”

“What?”

“The promotions for my new project aren’t done yet. I’m flying out tonight, so I won’t be back in Korea for a while. I figured I should see you before I go. I wanted to return the necklace as soon as I found it, but my schedule was tight. Still, it seemed important, so I had to deliver it in person.”

“Thank you.”

“Not saying it for thanks.”

“Then I’ll cover lunch today…”

Euihyun quickly grabbed the bill. But Cha Yiljoo reached over, covering Euihyun’s hand. Without much force, the bill was already in Cha Yiljoo’s grasp.

“No, I’ll pay today. Let’s grab a drink sometime.”

Just then, Manager Han returned. Cha Yiljoo stood, picking up his coat, and naturally handed the bill to Han.

As they stepped outside to say they’d eaten well, Cha Yiljoo spoke.

“We’re acquaintances now, right?”

Cha Yiljoo asked abruptly. Euihyun looked at him steadily, then slowly nodded. Feeling inexplicably embarrassed, he scratched the back of his ear.

Meanwhile, Cha Yiljoo’s car pulled up in front of them. Manager Han, having finished paying, gave a slight bow and got in first. As Cha Yiljoo opened the back door, he said, “Oh,” and pulled something out to hand to Euihyun. It was a CD case. Without a cover, it was impossible to tell what CD was inside.

“You seemed interested in it last time, so give it a listen. It’s pretty good.”

He added with a gentle smile. Euihyun stared at the CD, taken aback. Had he been that obvious? Caught off guard, he couldn’t even respond to Cha Yiljoo’s “I’ll get going” farewell. Cha Yiljoo slid into the backseat, and the door closed behind him.

Euihyun stood there blankly, watching the car merge onto the road and disappear. Even after a nice meal, he felt strangely spellbound.

What was that, exactly?

He didn’t know how long he stood there. It was only after quite some time that he felt his phone vibrate. It was a call from Kim Jihee. They occasionally exchanged greetings and had eaten together a few times, but they weren’t close enough for personal calls. So, he was at a loss.

“Yes, Reporter Kim?”

A loud inhale came from the other end. When he said, “Reporter Kim?” again, a rapid-fire barrage followed.

— Jung, what’s this about? How could you do this to me? I’m hurt.

“What do you mean…?”

— You’re saying you’re best buds with Cha Yiljoo?

What was this now?

He didn’t know where the misunderstanding came from, but it needed to be cleared up.

“That’s not true.”

— Not true? You know how fast rumors spread in this industry. There are tons of witnesses, so why deny it?

“We only recently met.”

— Fine, I’ll believe you. But let’s meet now.

“Now?”

— Got other plans? I’ll come to you, then.

“No, it’s not that…”

— Let’s have dinner. I’m treating, big time. How’d you know it’s my payday and drop this juicy tidbit? Sirloin, deal?

Euihyun glanced around the restaurant with a troubled expression.

“Well… I just ate.”

— Alright, alright. Then we’ll grab tea first, watch a movie, and then have sirloin.

With her pushing that hard, he couldn’t keep dodging. More importantly, he had to correct Kim Jihee’s massive misconception before it solidified.

Euihyun looked into the air, asking resignedly, “Where should I go?”

As if waiting, Kim Jihee shot back without pausing for breath.

— Where are you at?

Kim Jihee showed up in ten minutes. Parking haphazardly, she dragged Euihyun back to the same restaurant. The staff, seeing Euihyun, casually asked if he’d forgotten something. Unfazed, Kim Jihee claimed a spot in the innermost private room. Without even glancing at the menu, she placed an order.

“We’ll start with two servings of sirloin.”

“Reporter Kim, I just ate.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Ignoring Euihyun’s protest, she repeated to the server, “Please, go ahead.” The server left, and the door closed. Kim Jihee chugged water, her eyes never leaving Euihyun.

“Who’d you eat with here? Cha Yiljoo, right?”

She asked without giving him a moment to breathe. Euihyun nodded honestly. A triumphant smile spread across Kim Jihee’s face. She immediately pulled out her phone, notebook, and pen from her bag. By the time she’d launched the recording app and was fully prepared, the ordered meat and side dishes arrived.

The well-marbled sirloin sizzled as it hit the grill. Kim Jihee, seasoned from years in the field, deftly cut and flipped the meat. The perfectly cooked pieces were promptly transferred to Euihyun’s plate.

“Reporter Kim, you eat. I’m full…”

“You ate when Cha Yiljoo treated, but you won’t when I do?”

Kim Jihee pouted in protest. It was half-joking, but not something to brush off lightly. It seemed his luck with food was overflowing today.

In the end, Euihyun chewed on the sirloin, tasting nothing but its texture. Watching him fondly, Kim Jihee suddenly got to the point.

“So, how long have you two been friends?”

“There’s no ‘how long.’ We’ve only met twice.”

“Got it, twice in Korea… I heard Cha Yiljoo’s been in the U.S. all this time. Have you ever been to the U.S., Jung? Or did you get close through a mutual acquaintance?”

“We’re not close. I met him for the first time at a director’s birthday party recently.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Kim Jihee’s eyebrow furrowed, her expression one of disbelief.

“What’d you do when you met?”

“He arrived after everyone else had left.”

“And?”

“We had a quick drink.”

“There we go! Now we’re talking. What’d you two talk about over drinks?”

“Doenjang jjigae.”

Kim Jihee, who’d been snapping her fingers in excitement, froze. Her “What?” was practically a gasp. The fervor in her eyes turned vacant. As if to confirm, Euihyun doubled down.

“We talked about doenjang jjigae…”

“…And?”

“That’s it.”

Kim Jihee stared at Euihyun without blinking. Facing her crestfallen look, he felt like a culprit. Fidgeting with his fingertips and avoiding her gaze, she pressed on, incredulous.

“Then why’d Cha Yiljoo come looking for you?”

“I lost something back then.”

The reason Cha Yiljoo sought Euihyun out today was clearly the necklace. Sure, he’d confirmed they were now “acquaintances,” but that hardly counted as a bond.

“So he just returned your lost item, and you’re not best friends?”

Euihyun nodded.

“Not even in touch occasionally?”

“No.”

“And there’s little chance of staying in contact?”

“Probably.”

“…Ughhh.”

Kim Jihee let out a long sigh, closing her notebook. She tossed her phone into her bag carelessly. When she drank more water, it was as if she were downing soju.

As Euihyun quietly set down his chopsticks, she jumped, asking what was wrong.

“Eat, eat! We’re doing all this to live.”

She handed him a small wrap she’d made. When he reluctantly ate it, she stuffed a huge one into her own mouth. Worried she’d choke, he quickly poured her water.

“Oh, man.”

“But is it really that big a deal?”

“Huh?”

“Even if I were close with him. He’s not a woman, so would it even be news?”

“You think that’s how it works?”

Kim Jihee, cheeks stuffed, gestured for him to wait. After several chews, she swallowed the massive wrap and rinsed her mouth with water.

“It’s not news right now—it’s just intriguing. Cha Yiljoo’s got enough buzz and influence to be an issue-maker. But there’s nothing on him. No official word on his background, debut story, family, friends, or dating status. No rumors, either. He acts all refined and polite, but he could be a womanizer, or arrogant, or secretly shady. Maybe he’s got bad taste or a rich widow sponsoring him. But there’s none of that. Even close acquaintances could leak something, but no one claims to be tight with him. Other reporters say he’s consistent front and back, but can a person really be like that?”

Indeed, Euihyun had never heard a bad word about Cha Yiljoo. In an industry where fame breeds gossip, not once. The Cha Yiljoo he’d met didn’t seem like someone who’d spark rumors.

“Well, with so many eyes on him and still no dirt, I guess it’s true. You know how they say there are three things you can’t hide? Love? That’s for the dogs. Poverty, sneezing, and human nature. That’s the truth.”

Kim Jihee reached a tentative conclusion. Euihyun, listening quietly, brushed the back of his head. He didn’t know Cha Yiljoo well enough to add or subtract anything. But his impressions of him grew increasingly enigmatic.

Having struck out, Kim Jihee focused on eating. She devoured the food like she’d starved for days. Grilling the remaining meat, making wraps, and shoving them in her mouth—all flawlessly smooth.

“But why’s this place so good? I’m gonna have to work out hard today.”

She mixed rice with vegetables and doenjang jjigae, exclaiming in delight.

“I’ve been around here for years and never knew this spot. How’d you find it?”

“Cha Yiljoo suggested we eat here…”

The moment Cha Yiljoo’s name came up, Kim Jihee’s eyes lit up. She rummaged through her bag, searching for something. Catching Euihyun’s gaze, she burst out laughing, shaking her head at her “occupational hazard.”

Kim Jihee raised both hands, abandoning the scoop. Even then, she firmly told Euihyun, who was refilling her water, “Jung, next time, you better make me this antsy, got it?”

There was no trace of pretense. Euihyun didn’t reply rashly, just smiled quietly.

🎥

He stared intently at the CD he’d received. The groceries he’d bought were still sitting in their bags, untouched. The plan was to shower as soon as he got home, eat an early dinner, and review the script until bedtime. That’s how it would’ve gone if the CD case hadn’t fallen from the coat he’d carelessly tossed aside.

“…….”

He’d accepted it on impulse. He’d been curious about what music Cha Yiljoo listened to, but to think it was noticeable from the side. Embarrassment hit him belatedly.

He carefully opened the case. The CD’s surface bore the record label’s logo and the word “YANNI.” But those alone didn’t hint at the genre.

He lifted the thin disc and inserted it into the external CD-ROM connected to his laptop. Pressing play and unmuting the sound, a gentle piano melody flowed out. It wasn’t classical, but too subdued for jazz. New Age, maybe? He wasn’t well-versed in music, so he couldn’t be sure.

The sweet melody eased his tensed shoulders. He didn’t know why he’d been so wound up.

Did Cha Yiljoo listen to this kind of music to unwind? It suited his refined image perfectly.

Thinking it was time to tackle his neglected tasks, he stood up. Or tried to. If the calm melody hadn’t suddenly twisted out of nowhere.

Every song is a story, with its own turning points within a steady flow. Most are predictable variations.

But the melody he’d expected to stay warm and tranquil veered abruptly into an uncontrollable direction, bending and twisting. It was as fervent as flames surging without rhythm.

He hurriedly pressed the stop button, almost reflexively. His calmed heart started pounding erratically. When the melody filling the air vanished, goosebumps prickled his skin. He didn’t know why.

Euihyun sat there for a long while, as if he’d forgotten what he needed to do.