The Stage Where Real Actors Gather

“Just call me Director Jjang and I'll be grateful. And don't go doubting me with ‘that old geezer is doing a drama based on a web novel?’ I've read my fair share of web novels myself. So trust me and follow my lead, alright~.”

It was the exact same introduction I'd heard at the Pachehi script reading. Director Jjang had taken on Strange Tales (Gimyo-dam) as his next project. Writer Pi had apparently already known, and Ju Jun-seo and Chu Ga-eul turned to look at me.

“Director Jjang….”

“We already agreed we'd do the next one together, didn't we?”

It was a line that brought back a phone call from days gone by. From ten minutes to a full hour, from a web drama uploaded to InTube to a series aired on an actual broadcast station, from eight short episodes to a sixteen-episode miniseries.

“Ugh, how is the next lead actress supposed to survive this? Director, your favoritism is way out of hand.”

“Well, the writer's staying on, at least.”

The growth was dazzling. Chu Ga-eul grumbled and grumbled, but privately she seemed genuinely happy that the people around her were doing well.

“Who's playing the male lead? You must have at least a rough idea in mind.”

When Ju Jun-seo asked, Director Jjang paused to think for a moment.

“This time, too, I'll have no choice but to bring in someone with a decent level of recognition for the male lead. You've all heard, right? JC ENM is taking on sole production. It's our second gamble after Pachehi, and….”

Pachehi had at least been able to cover its production costs through product placement.

But this Strange Tales (Gimyo-dam) was a venture with no revenue to speak of — a dangerous gamble in the most literal sense.

“Since we're targeting the overseas market, I'm thinking it'll probably be an idol.”

More or less what I'd expected. This was the exact moment right before the great upheaval of the new media market — the era when idols were charging into the acting world more actively than ever.

“Anyone have someone in mind for our lead? Just throw out a few names you think could bring out the best chemistry with themselves, and I'll go make the pitch.”

Director Jjang posed the question to me, and I pretended to mull it over before answering.

“Anyone would be fine. I'm good with anyone.”

Playful jeers erupted — what kind of answer is that?

'But I mean it.'

Truly, it didn't matter who took the male lead role. There was nothing to worry about.

Because….

'I pulled this skill last time, you know.'

Watching the live broadcast of the Seoul International Drama Awards, Ryu Risa's eyes sparkled. She was waiting to admire her own work, which would be appearing on stage shortly.

“Why is it that I can never manage to see the finished product like this!”

It was the nature of a stylist's job: when a client was attending an event rather than a photoshoot, seeing the fully assembled look on the day itself was nearly impossible. The coordinator would pick up the outfits the night before or in the early hours of the morning and head straight to the venue.

“This kind of thing? Obviously I should be the first one to see it.”

Grousing to the assistant beside her, Ryu Risa fixed her gaze on the screen.

'She must have liked it a whole lot….'

Seeing her like this was an extremely rare occurrence. Unless it was a legendary styling that would draw a gasp of awe from anyone who saw it, Ryu Risa simply enjoyed her work in moderation and got the job done.

She loved fashion — she was never the type to love a human being.

'Do Gyeo-ul's script reading is tomorrow. I wonder if she'll be like this again tomorrow.'

A flicker of curiosity crossed the assistant's mind. In the corner of the office sat a blue box.

A box containing the several outfits Do Gyeo-ul would wear in front of the cameras tomorrow.

Ryu Risa didn't spare it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠so much as a glance, caring only about when on earth Han Yeo-reum would appear.

“There she is!”

Han Yeo-reum, walking the red carpet, bore — naturally — the unmistakable touch of Ryu Risa and Dokgo Gyeol's hands. A pale pink dress layered with veil upon veil of chiffon, hair pinned up neatly, and delicate accessories glinting softly against it all.

“As expected — a Ryu Risa original!”

Ryu Risa covered her mouth as she ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠gazed at Han Yeo-reum, savoring every detail like a connoisseur. Then she tipped her head back toward the ceiling and sighed.

“But this girl goes and takes on the weirdest projects for her next work — she's got my hands and feet tied completely!”

Her frustration was understandable. In the upcoming Pachehi spinoff, Han Yeo-reum was once again playing a student. And only for a few minutes in the first episode, at that.

The most she could hope to work with were the sneakers, the schoolbag, and — if she was lucky — a scarf.

If she slipped and went too far, she might well end up consumed as a meme by the discerning high-school subscribers ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of K-teen dramas.

'And the other one is a period drama, so….'

Period dramas came with their own dedicated hanbok designer. Stripped of her work by the costume team and the hanbok designer, Ryu Risa had grabbed her assistant and whined that all the genuinely fun stuff got snatched out of her hands.

'Normally, I should be putting more energy into the Do Gyeo-ul side of things….'

Ryu Risa had been signed on as the head stylist for Do Gyeo-ul's first romance project, Beyond the Closed Door.

Personal feelings were personal feelings; work was work. As always, Ryu Risa was a professional.

She had immersed herself in the analysis, from reference boards to the atmosphere of the piece — but that was as far as it went.

“See this? I knew it would end up right next to the Best Dressed title. You know Han Yeo-reum, right? All of it — every bit — thanks to Ryu Risa's razor-sharp, brilliant eye.”

For that Ryu Risa to be enjoying herself this much, Han Yeo-reum was the only one. And that despite the fact that Han Yeo-reum was far from the only actress at the Seoul International Drama Awards to have passed through her hands.

“Ah, done watching. Back to work!”

“You're not going to leave it playing? Aren't you curious whether she wins?”

Ryu Risa, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠who had already switched off the screen without anyone noticing, picked her tablet back up. At her assistant's question, she gave a amused little snort, as if to say why would you even ask that.

“Why watch something so predictable? Takes all the fun out of it.”

God, I'm shaking. Shaking. Shaking so hard I could die. I have no idea what state of mind I was in when I walked that red carpet. Director So, watching my hands tremble uncontrollably, looked genuinely alarmed.

“Should I get you a Cheongsimhwan? It's a calming pill — the traditional kind.”

“No…. I'm— I'm fine.”

I had a feeling even a Cheongsimhwan wouldn't be enough to settle me. My whole body kept going rigid no matter what I did. My heart thundered on and on, all the way until an usher guided me to my seat.

'This is different from the Leel Awards….'

These weren't prizes handed out simply for being trendy and iconic celebrities.

This was a gathering of real actors — a stage where you were judged, and won or lost, on your acting and your work.

'…I want it.'

I want to win. Whatever it might be, I wanted my name engraved on that gleaming trophy.

The unbearable weight of expectation swelled inside me. No matter how rationally I tried to think, my heart refused to be calmed.

'Maybe it's because Do Gyeo-ul is the MC tonight.'

I'd known since before the broadcast. Part one would be hosted by Do Gyeo-ul and Myeong Je-ha.

Perhaps because she was right there in front of me, a desire to prove that I, too, was an actress came boiling up from somewhere deep. I knew it was pointless. And still. And still, I wanted it.

'…Except the competition is absurdly stacked.'

To ease the tension, I pulled out the list of awards in my head and ran through it.

'One Daesang. Three work prizes — Best Short, Best Miniseries, Best Long-form. A Directing Award, a Screenwriting Award, Best Actor, Best Actress, four individual excellence awards. Best Hallyu Drama, Outstanding Hallyu Drama, Hallyu Best Actor, Best Actress, and a Theme Song Award. Five in the Hallyu categories alone….'

But the more I thought about it, the further I drifted from any realistic chance of winning. And how could I not?

“To be invited to such an illustrious occasion — I always knew our work would be recognized.”

“Getting carried away this early would be a problem, Shimona.”

Foreign tongues drifted in from every direction. It was the Seoul International Drama Awards, after all — a stage that judged overseas works alongside domestic ones. China and Japan, of course, but also Thailand, Taiwan, the Czech Republic, Canada, all the way to the United States.

'Ah, that actor… I know him.'

The middle-aged actor from the season-format healing drama that came to mind whenever anyone mentioned Japan was in attendance, and so was an actor who, a few years from now, would carve his name into Taiwanese youth cinema with a single stroke.

And that wasn't all. Even the actors currently holding down the top spot in Korea, the ones driving the Hallyu wave across the world, were here.

Separate from my desperate longing to win, my head coolly registered the truth: my chances were close to nil.

'I mean, just look at the nominees….'

Two works that would be counted among the finest Korean dramas of the next ten years. Actors who would take this year's Grand Prize in acting. And a work that would go on to sweep the overseas festival circuit.

“Yeo-reum.”

“…Yes.”

“Even if you don't win, as long as the public knows your name, that's enough….”

Director So said it, as if he understood exactly what was in my heart.

The seats began to fill one by one, and the camera lights flickered to life. Staff members with walkie-talkies bustled about, and by the time not a single empty chair remained—

White letters bloomed across the black screen at the front of the stage.