Forest of Flowers (6)
Under the thunderous applause, Han Da-sol wore a bewildered expression. She couldn’t quite grasp what she had just accomplished. She had immersed herself in the performance so deeply that her sense of reality had grown dull.
This was an experience so new it would be fair to call it her first in life. The sound of someone calling her name pulled her back to her senses.
“Senior, that was amazing.”
“Thank you…”
After the director called cut, Woo Dan-wol and Han Da-sol gathered beside Director Seo Yeon-soo to review the filmed footage.
“I… did all that?”
“Da-sol, don’t you remember?”
It felt like nothing more than a dream. She could recall the sound of the camera rolling and the general memory of the scene, yet the crucial acting moments felt strangely hazy. That didn’t mean her memory had been severed—no, that wasn’t it either.
It had been exactly like a dream. She felt as if she had lived a brief life as that character. That was how Han Da-sol perceived it.
When she actually watched the replay of her own performance, the acting was so masterful she would have wanted it played at her own funeral. The surrounding applause, the lavish praise, and the moment Woo Dan-wol raised a thumbs-up in approval made her decide to stop overthinking things.
“I’m the best…”
“You are, sunbae.”
“I’m a real master…”
Han Da-sol stared blankly at her own footage. She looked a little slow on the uptake, like a dazed puppy, but Woo Dan-wol praised her with complete sincerity. Although he had guided her using his own ability, the performance had sprung from the genuine skill she had spent years sharpening.
Even without this particular scene, Han Da-sol would have delivered acting like this someday. He had simply accelerated the timing.
Once her inferiority complex transformed into confidence and became pride in her own abilities, her entire aura brightened.
Just like a puppy that had received praise! At the same time, she faintly sensed something else.
“…?”
“Ah, never mind…”
Those quick, sidelong glances at him were filled with caution. There were so many geniuses in the world. How could she have unleashed all her feelings of inferiority on him alone, kicking her blankets at night in regret over her own thoughts and behavior?
Han Da-sol felt a wave of belated remorse. But filming continued. They were already racing through mid-July, which meant they had completed nearly half the entire shoot in just one month.
Ordinary broadcast dramas usually began filming six to eight weeks before airing. When editing was factored in, the schedule was always tight.
Yet this was a Netflix drama. Even so, Director Seo Yeon-soo carried an urgent mindset. Platform dramas typically filmed an entire season before release.
They usually took about six months before launching. Forest of Flowers, however, was proceeding in a slightly unusual manner.
Because they were shooting in the style of a conventional drama, they had managed to film nearly half the series in a single month. In other words, they didn’t merely have breathing room—they were practically drowning in it.
Although more time remained, after discussions with Netflix and the relevant parties, they had agreed to release the show in three months—cutting the usual six-month window in half.
It was an unusual decision, but both Director Seo Yeon-soo and Writer Ko A-rin were satisfied. A shorter filming period meant reduced costs, and the resulting benefits would naturally follow.
Back on set, Woo Dan-wol was staring at the script, deep in thought. Was it the sweltering summer heat? No.
The issue concerned the character and the story’s direction. Forest of Flowers was rated for audiences nineteen and older. That in itself wasn’t a problem.
But in the final scene of the distress episode, something felt slightly off. Before stepping onto the set, Woo Dan-wol sank into serious contemplation.
“Noona.”
“Yes, Dan-wol?”
As the agency’s sole actor, when Woo Dan-wol spoke up, CEO Lee Hye-ri answered at once. She would normally ask first if an actor seemed troubled, but she never interrupted him when he wore that particular expression. She knew it meant he was contemplating his craft.
Woo Dan-wol understood this, so he asked without hesitation. Discussing the problem together would be far more effective than wrestling with it alone.
“There seems to be an awkward section in the script.”
“Oh? Where?”
It was a sensitive, delicate matter. In the narrow entertainment industry, writers poured blood and sweat into every line of a script just to survive. And here he was calling part of it awkward.
The writer always offered Woo Dan-wol a warm, almost maternal smile, but she was otherwise known as one of the writers actors feared most—at least within the top five.
If she flew into a rage, the smoothly running set could be thrown into chaos. Yet after hearing Woo Dan-wol’s concern, Lee Hye-ri simply looked uncertain.
“It’s… ambiguous.”
“Right?”
Quoting Woo Dan-wol’s words, it was undeniably an overstep.
When an actor analyzed the script and found questionable areas, discussing them with the creator—Writer Ko A-rin—was standard practice. How wonderful it would be to deepen their understanding of the role through questions and debate, then translate that into performance?
But what he had said was that it felt awkward. If it were simply a matter of not understanding the character’s actions or psychology, they could have smiled and talked it through. However, to call a script born from endless revisions and agonizing reflection awkward? To suggest its quality was lacking? That would be stepping on the writer’s reverse scale.
Yet the part Woo Dan-wol had pinpointed stemmed from the difference in values between the world he once knew and this one.
“Dan-wol, are you sure you’ll be all right?”
“It’s only acting.”
This could easily spark controversy. Instead of a positive image, it might invite malicious comments or backlash. Lee Hye-ri was truly worried for him.
But no parent can defeat their child, and no celebrity can defeat their fans. Although she was the CEO of his agency, before that she was simply a fan of the actor Woo Dan-wol.
She had watched his sincere passion and love for acting for more than a month now. Her mind ran rapid calculations. From the company’s perspective, there would be no real damage. If anything, they might even leverage it as noise marketing.
Given his mindset, it would probably be fine. In fact, he would likely tell her she was worrying over nothing and suggest they go eat meat together.
“There could be problems… Does it bother you?”
“Not at all. At worst… I don’t really have any strong opinions about it.”
“You really should have been born a woman.”
“Please don’t say such terrible things, Noona.”
With a bright smile, Woo Dan-wol stepped out of the van first. Watching his retreating back, Lee Hye-ri let out a helpless laugh. Yes, the existence of a man who could think that way. As a woman, she doubted he understood just how fortunate that was.
Meanwhile, once he reached the set, Woo Dan-wol first greeted Han Da-sol, the person he had grown closest to.
“Noona, hello.”
“Hi. It’s all starting to wind down, isn’t it?”
“It really is.”
Han Da-sol seemed a little reserved. She looked like a puppy that desperately needed to go outside, but Woo Dan-wol knew exactly why.
In the footage shot so far, Jin Da-yeon had fallen in love with Kang Min-hyuk. Combined with her natural acting style and Woo Dan-wol’s ability, she had been able to perform true Method Acting. Yet it wasn’t without side effects.
Because it was a technique that demanded complete immersion—becoming one with the character—it affected not only Jin Da-yeon but Han Da-sol herself. In other words, Han Da-sol had developed romantic feelings for Woo Dan-wol as a man.
Knowing this, Woo Dan-wol deliberately maintained a cool attitude toward her.
This person likes me? Of course, he found Han Da-sol an attractive woman. A dog-like actress with beautiful features. In his previous life, any man would have fallen for that type without question.
However, the feeling was coming from the role, not from Han Da-sol herself. He hadn’t peeked into her heart, but that was how he saw it.
Weren’t there countless cases of actors falling for each other while immersed in their roles, only to date, break up, and in extreme cases even divorce once filming ended?
“I’ll go speak with the writer for a moment.”
“Sure, go ahead!”
Han Da-sol acted as if nothing was wrong. Yet the way she watched Woo Dan-wol walk away resembled a girl completely smitten.
No, no… This is a filming set…
Han Da-sol was an adult. She was even two years older than Woo Dan-wol. She wasn’t a child who didn’t understand her own heart, but she remained confused about whether these feelings came from the role or from her true self. Therefore, she had resolved to hide them as much as possible on set. …Of course, everyone except her had already noticed.
Woo Dan-wol let out a short sigh. No matter how close and comfortable they had become, anything related to work required caution.
“Um… Writer?”
“Oh! Dan-wol. Is something the matter?”
Writer Ko A-rin, whose only task on set was jotting down sudden inspirations while watching the actors perform, answered. The question that followed her casual greeting—phrased like a simple “Did you eat?”—carried quite a shocking weight.
“Writer, I’d like to discuss a possible script revision…”
“Pardon?”
Her face began to cloud with bewilderment.