CHAPTER 030: Screen Test
CHAPTER 030: Screen Test
A filming set without Ryu Sunho.
It was the beginning of autumn, when the heat had finally eased and cool breezes had started to blow, yet the actors’ passion burned hotter than ever. Everyone was giving it their all, grinding their souls into their performances.
All of this dramatic energy existed because of Ryu Sunho.
The drama’s ratings were currently on a steep upward climb, and no one could deny that the explosive early momentum had been overwhelmingly driven by Ryu Sunho.
“This is why people do dramas. When a set is headed for a flop, the atmosphere itself is hell. But look now—there isn’t a single staff member snapping at anyone.”
“I went to a restaurant yesterday and they even gave us extra service. Makes you actually enjoy acting. Seriously.”
On top of that, there was the outstanding performance shown by a twenty-one-year-old rookie.
That alone had become a massive stimulus to every veteran on set.
…Damn it. If I don’t want people saying I’m getting pushed aside by a rookie, I need to get my head straight.
Since when did my acting become this mechanical? I should start over from the beginning too. Stop hiding my emotions.
In the end, Ryu Sunho was both a wake-up call and a fatigue reliever to everyone.
“Cut! That was good!”
With Director Chae Wongi’s hearty signal, a break was given.
Park Juwon walked over to Team Leader Jo Sehun, who had just arrived on set.
“Why are you so late?”
“Ah, sorry. Had something to take care of at the company.”
“Sunho’s stuff? I’m getting jealous, you know?”
“Go ahead, then.”
“Tch, no fun when you react like that. But seriously, what’s got you so busy?”
“Ah, there’s a new movie coming in. You know, the one Sunho chose after turning down Director Yoon Kyunghwan’s project.”
At those words, Park Juwon’s gaze changed.
Ryu Sunho’s eye for things.
The guy who had accurately predicted the premiere ratings and flipped the board with a promotional strategy no one saw coming.
That guy had rejected a lead role offered by an A-list director and instead chosen a debut project by a rookie director?
He did say back then that the script was better…
“Did you read the script too?”
“Of course I did.”
“So? Is it better than Director Yoon Kyunghwan’s?”
“It’s a different grain. Director Yoon’s work feels like a franchise. Something everyone can enjoy without strong likes or dislikes. But this one…”
“But?”
“It feels like a stubborn chef. Creative, highly polished, but the flavor isn’t familiar. A movie that pushes hard on pure artistry.”
“So what’s the conclusion?”
“It’s good. Fresh. But risky. Critics will love it, but I’m not sure about the general audience. It’s basically all or nothing. Well, Sunho should experience something like this at least once.”
The moment he heard that, Park Juwon felt anticipation rise.
Because his vague faith in Ryu Sunho leaned closer to “all” than “nothing.”
A full-on artistic film… plus a Ryu Sunho pick. Doesn’t that mean we could even expect awards at film festivals?
A surge of ambition to win awards welled up.
At the same time—
Thanks to Ryu Sunho, my acting form has clearly leveled up.
Maybe Ryu Sunho was the catalyst that could draw out his own potential to the fullest.
That thought led to another desire—to work together once more.
“Hyung, is there an open spot in that movie’s cast?”
“What? You’re going in too? You usually rest at least a year after finishing a project.”
“The weak Park Juwon is dead. So, is there a spot or not? Actually—show me the script first.”
At that moment, long hair slipped between them like a ghost.
It was Seo Yoonha.
“Show it to me too.”
At the same time, the TvM Variety Department.
The conference room was unusually tense today, and there was a reason for it.
It was the day of a new program planning meeting convened by Yeom Jaeho PD, a living legend of TvM variety shows.
A star-making machine. Trustworthy. Yeom Jaeho.
The titles following him were dazzling.
He was the one who single-handedly brought TvM variety, once in a slump, back to the top.
The programs he had directed— , , and others—were loved by all age groups, and he had a knack for gathering stars from completely different fields and igniting raw, explosive chemistry.
Pop-culture critics said this about him.
His strength wasn’t limited to ratings alone.
Yeom Jaeho had an almost uncanny ability to discover a star’s hidden charm and sculpt it into a character the public couldn’t help but love.
Once Yeom Jaeho took his seat, the meeting began in earnest.
“So for now, the format is a restaurant business competition overseas?”
“Yes.”
“Then the cast composition is crucial. Since we’ll split into two teams, we’ll need a leader with restaurant experience for each.”
“And we should add a couple of young, pretty kids who can help with cooking.”
“Throw in a comedian for each team to handle the mood.”
“Then for the last slot, someone with foreign language skills and a good face would be perfect. They’ll need to pull in customers.”
As various celebrity names were mentioned for each position, writer Jeong Gaeul raised her hand.
She was the writer who had spoken with PD Go Kangmin from before.
“How about Ryu Sunho?”
“Ah, him?”
“Not bad. Good visuals, young, and he’s gaining popularity these days.”
Yeom Jaeho scribbled something with his pen.
Ryu Sunho—he’s a solid card. Among rookies these days, he stands out the most.
The problem, however, was his position.
“Can he cook?”
“Not sure about food, but he does make cocktails. He was surprisingly skilled.”
“Cocktails? That’s interesting. And that could actually be a weapon. You can’t run a food business without alcohol.”
“And that’s not all.”
Jeong Gaeul continued.
“Recently, on a live commerce broadcast, they sold turnips, and using an idea Sunho suggested, they sold out in forty minutes.”
“What? Turnips, not even fruit?”
“Come on, that had to be scripted.”
“I couldn’t believe it either, so I asked PD Go Kangmin directly. He said it was 100% real. Sunho came up with the ‘peach turnip’ idea on the spot and proved it with a sell-out. The staff on site were so shocked they supposedly bit their tongues.”
Of course, PD Go Kangmin had never actually said “bit their tongues.”
But this was where a broadcast writer’s skill came into play—adding just the right amount of MSG to make the subject shine.
And it worked.
Yeom Jaeho’s eyes gleamed with interest.
“If that’s true… the team that gets him would be starting with a massive advantage. He’s basically a cheat character, isn’t he?”
At that moment, another writer, who didn’t usually get along with Jeong Gaeul, cut in skeptically.
“But isn’t he a bit ambiguous? We’re doing entertainment, not real business. His recognition is still lacking.”
It was a fair point.
Above all, this was a variety show filmed overseas.
The picture they wanted was clear.
National pride.
Does our food work overseas?
Do foreigners recognize our celebrities?
Foreigners’ reactions providing proxy satisfaction for viewers—that was the core appeal.
Yeom Jaeho thought for a moment, then said,
“Let’s keep it open for now. Casting isn’t urgent yet. We still have time.”
As the meeting wrapped up, and Jeong Gaeul was making a disappointed face, Yeom Jaeho PD stopped as he was leaving the room and asked,
“Still, check one thing for me. See if Ryu Sunho knows any foreign languages.”
Tuesday, Nine Film production company.
A calm, refined atmosphere filled the space—completely different from drama or variety sets.
Inside the meeting room, guided in by a staff member, sat CEO Park Kyungsu and several film-related personnel. Director Ji Seongwoo was there as well, his expression more relaxed than before.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Ryu Sunho.”
A brief, peculiar silence.
It was CEO Park Kyungsu who broke it.
“You look much better in person than on screen.”
He smiled lightly, as if easing the mood, but there was a subtle gaze of appraisal in his words.
The man sitting beside him spoke up, introducing himself as the head of the production division.
“I’ve been enjoying your work lately.”
“Thank you.”
“There’s something I’m curious about. Kang Seoho is a pretty intense character… how did you prepare for him?”
A probing question.
This wasn’t just a pleasant visit to stamp a contract. That realization hit instantly.
“I thought that after being burned, his anger and pain shouldn’t be shown as simple ‘evil.’ There had to be an inner logic the audience could accept first. So I tried to give every action a reason.”
“But Kang Seoho’s image is very strong, which worries us a bit. Our film’s Jeong Dogyun is a much more inward-focused character.”
“Hmm…”
He paused, as if thinking.
“That’s something I can resolve by showing you.”
A brief but delicate silence followed.
“Then we should see it.”
CEO Park Kyungsu smiled.
“Shall we head straight to the screening room?”
Nine Film’s screen test room.
In the dark space, lit by only minimal lighting, a heavy silence hung.
In front of me were only a small table and a chair.
Beyond them, in the darkness, three men and a camera watched me.
At the center sat CEO Park Kyungsu.
Beside him, the head of production.
And in the farthest corner, Director Ji Seongwoo.
Cold calculation.
Sharp suspicion.
Desperate expectation.
Three gazes of different weight pressed down on me.
“If you’re ready, we’ll begin immediately.”
The head of production’s voice cut through the space, cold and flat.
The requested performance was the opening sequence of .
It was a scene where Jeong Dogyun—who had lived locked away in his room for a long time due to trauma—paradoxically reveals his desire to be recognized.
A crucial introductory scene demanding delicate inner acting and restrained emotional expression.
“Yes. I’ll begin.”
After steadying my breath,
I sat down on the small chair.
And I changed my eyes.
In that instant, ‘Ryu Sunho’ disappeared.
A narrow, dark room.
Jeong Dogyun sat quietly at a desk.
On the desk lay a worn school notebook and an old recorder.
On the notebook’s cover, three characters were scribbled crookedly in pen.
[Jeong Dogyun]
He slowly opened his mouth.
His lips were parched, making even speech cautious.
“…Jeong. Do. Gyun.”
He murmured softly, then pressed the recorder’s play button.
—Mr. Jeong Dogyun?
—Dogyun, you’re not alone. You know that, right?
—Alright, shall Dogyun try next?
The voices in the recorder were all different, yet all somehow awkward.
One was a news anchor, one a line from a TV drama, another from an online educational video.
They were clips stitched together—scenes where the name “Jeong Dogyun” appeared on TV or YouTube.
Click—whirr—click—
He put on his earphones and listened to the voices on repeat.
Imagining someone calling his name.
At that moment, shouting erupted from beyond the door.
—Why is he locking the door again? How many times do I have to tell him to come out and eat?!
—Guess he prefers being alone. Just leave him be!
Dogyun curled up beneath the chair.
But his hand still clenched the earphone cord tightly.
And in a tiny voice, almost a whisper, he said,
“…It’s Jeong. Do. Gyun.”
He played the recorder again.
—Jeong Dogyun, well done.
Dogyun’s silently sobbing face melted into the words flowing through the earphones.
After the acting ended, the screen test room was damp with heavy emotion.
Everyone looked at Ryu Sunho, who had been Jeong Dogyun just moments ago, caught in waves of feeling.
Ryu Sunho straightened his hunched shoulders and let out a long breath.
With that single exhale, Jeong Dogyun’s hollow, withdrawn gaze vanished, and the clear eyes of twenty-one-year-old Ryu Sunho returned.
That moment of transition became the trigger that broke the silence.
“…Hup…”
The first to break down was Director Ji Seongwoo.
He quietly removed his glasses and wiped his reddened eyes.
“The Dogyun who was trapped in text… he’s exactly how I imagined him…”
He couldn’t contain his awe at seeing the person he had pictured in his mind for years come alive and breathe.
The head of production, who had watched with a skeptical eye, was frozen in shock.
His mind was in chaos.
This is insane. How is this possible? There isn’t even a trace of Kang Seoho’s madness. This is a completely different person. Those hunched shoulders, the trembling fingertips, those empty eyes cut off from the world… how can that come from a twenty-one-year-old rookie?
He swept his gaze between Ryu Sunho, Director Ji, and CEO Park Kyungsu in disbelief.
His expression was colored with awe and bewilderment, as if he were facing a monster he had never seen before.
CEO Park Kyungsu, who had observed everything, was the quietest—but his expression was the most dynamic.
Resting his chin on his hand, he stared intently at Ryu Sunho.
Behind eyes tinged with appreciation, a sharp scale was constantly weighing.
Buzz, star power, and acting that shakes the soul. This isn’t a risk—it’s a typhoon that’ll flip the board.
After savoring the thrill for a moment, he spoke softly, neatly concluding the situation.
“Director Ji Seongwoo.”
“…Yes, sir.”
“You chose your actor very well.”
Then he turned his head toward Team Leader Jo Sehun.
“Proceed with the contract immediately. We’ll match the terms.”
The next day,
The air at Nine Film’s offices was still buoyant, as if the excitement from the previous day hadn’t fully faded.
Especially around the production team, it was practically festival-like.
There was only one topic of conversation.
The rookie who had passed the screen test—Ryu Sunho.
In front of the editing room monitor, several staff members gathered, replaying footage of Sunho’s performance from the day before over and over.
“Wow… I seriously got chills. This is my fifth time watching today, and it still takes my breath away.”
“Especially when he curled up and whispered his own name. I almost cried there.”
“You have to look at the details. The moment the acting starts, his shoulders subtly roll inward. And whenever he’s anxious, he fidgets with his fingertips. That’s not acting that comes from memorizing a script—he planted the character inside himself.”
“Where did a monster rookie like that even come from?”
“If we release just a bit of this as a teaser, online communities are going to explode.”
Everyone nodded at the marketing team member’s comment.
Right then—
The head of production, who had been pacing nervously while on the phone, suddenly jumped up.
His face was a mix of excitement and panic.
He rushed into the CEO’s office, nearly kicking the door open.
“S-sir! CEO! This is bad!”
CEO Park Kyungsu, who had been reviewing documents while basking in yesterday’s triumph, frowned.
“What is it, causing such a fuss this early?”
“I think we need to hold auditions.”
“What are you talking about? We’ve already signed the contract. Don’t tell me you saw that performance yesterday and still have something to say?”
A chill crept into the CEO’s voice.
The head of production waved his hands frantically.
“No, no! Not for Ryu Sunho! I mean… the role of Professor Baek.”
“Professor Baek?”
“Seo Yoonha and Park Juwon—both agencies officially contacted us saying they want to do it!”
“…What did you just say?!”