The Model Answer Sheet's Comeback

The script reading venue was packed with a crowd that far exceeded even the shutter-happy Reporter Wi's expectations.

"Oh, there's sunbae-nim!"

"Of course I had to come. It's Do Gyeo-ul, after all."

"Fancy running into so many familiar faces here."

Reporter Wi, camera in hand, exchanged pleasantries and caught up with a senior reporter from another paper. Everyone's attention was fixed on a single question: could Do Gyeo-ul actually break the so-called curse that haunted child actors once they grew up?

"Honestly, back in the day it was 'child role? That's Do Gyeo-ul' and 'Do Gyeo-ul? She does child roles.' It was the Do Gyeo-ul era, plain and simple."

A memory that let her memorize an entire script by heart despite her tender age, a composure utterly beyond her years, and a performance that was neither stiff nor overdone. And above all, she was the daughter of Do Mun-jeong, the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠beloved youth star of a generation.

Every condition imaginable had aligned itself in Do Gyeo-ul's favor.

"Exactly. Ten out of ten scripts casting a child role in this country went straight to Do Gyeo-ul."

Which meant there was no one else it could have been. Child roles never carried much weight in a drama, so there was little reason to gamble on an unknown rookie.

Just as the venue hummed with reporters trading tidbits about Do Gyeo-ul—

Click.

The reading room door swung open, and—

Click-click-click-click-click—!

Amid a frenzy of camera shutters, Do Gyeo-ul made her entrance. No one wanted to miss a single frame, not even of her taking her seat, and the room churned out scene after scene through their lenses.

Accustomed to all this, Do Gyeo-ul offered a small smile.

"Hello, everyone. Thank you so much for coming. I'm the director of Beyond the Closed Door—"

The director began the introductions, and the moment Do Gyeo-ul brought her lips to the microphone, the density of the room shifted, as if on cue. One hundred percent pure concentration locked onto her, hanging on every single word she would utter.

"Hello. I'm Do Gyeo-ul, playing the female lead of Beyond the Closed Door. Thank you for being here today."

It had been a while since anyone had heard Do Gyeo-ul's voice, and it carried a faint unfamiliarity—perhaps a touch more mature now, perhaps more refined. One thing was certain: the vocal technique reaching their ears felt different.

'She did step away for a while to study... but it sounds like she's come back having researched something entirely new.'

Reporter Wi tilted her head for a moment. That deep, resonant tone welling up from the back of the throat carried on and on. And when Do Gyeo-ul began reading the script, the skeptical gazes of the reporters began to change.

'...Why is she better than before?'

'She's gotten more natural, too.'

The senior beside Reporter Wi was no less impressed. Do Gyeo-ul's acting had grown in ways that defied every expectation for someone coming off a hiatus.

'Has Do Gyeo-ul ever given a performance like this?'

But Reporter Wi felt something else along with it—a vague sense of wrongness. She was good, undeniably; she had grown, undeniably. Yet something about it defied definition, a feeling that refused to be pinned down.

"This one's going to be a hit."

While Reporter Wi sat lost in thought, the senior next to her broke the silence. She nodded along in agreement. Whatever her misgivings, the girl was objectively good.

"She's memorized the whole script again, I see."

"Well, she is Do Gyeo-ul."

Winter—no, Gyeo-ul—had committed the entire script to memory with her trademark superhuman recall, just as she always had. That unwavering diligence had the reporters already filing glowing first drafts of their articles.

"That concludes the script reading portion. Thank you all so much for your focus and attention. From this point, the cast will be taking a few questions."

The brief reading gave way to a press conference-style Q&A, with every question zeroing in on Do Gyeo-ul rather than the production itself.

"I have a question. Beyond the Closed Door is being partially pre-produced, and I understand you're filming alongside your studies. A provincial location shoot will be grueling—was there a particular reason you chose not to take a leave of absence?"

The first question was, naturally, aimed at Do Gyeo-ul. She answered with a smile.

"Transitioning from child actress to adult actress gave me a great deal to think about. No matter how long I've been acting, I found myself wondering—am I actually any good at this? That was the worry weighing on me."

The composure beyond her years remained intact. Do Gyeo-ul was like a masterfully painted classic: nothing for the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠eye to fault, beautiful enough to satisfy the most discerning taste, answering only with responses crafted to delight.

"So I decided against taking time off. I learn so much not only from my professors, who have far longer careers than I do, but also from my classmates, whom I grow alongside. However much of a struggle it may be, I want to greet our viewers with a better version of myself and better performances."

Once again, Do Gyeo-ul's answer drew fond smiles from the reporters' faces. When the reading ended, those who had been filing articles from their seats stretched out their stiff bodies.

"The story looks solid, honestly. And the clichés are a plus."

"What ratings do you think it'll pull?"

"Well, let's see... going off pure gut feeling..."

One reporter, who through long years on the entertainment beat had developed an uncanny knack for predicting premiere ratings, spoke up.

"Around five-point-four."

That was leagues above the network average—and it meant Do Gyeo-ul's comeback project was being tipped as the flagship drama of the second half of the year.

'Wow. Do Gyeo-ul again.'

My phone screen was stuffed to the brim with articles about her. Everyone was fixated on her first project as a grown actress, having graduated from child roles. Ages ten to eighty, disregarding age, disregarding gender.

'It's just... all Do Gyeo-ul, everywhere.'

I glared at the status window floating before my eyes.

The mission remained exactly as it was. Which meant a single Rookie Award from a drama awards ceremony wasn't enough to satisfy it.

'...Fair enough, I suppose. Can't be helped.'

The Seoul International Drama Awards may be international, but half the prizes go to foreign productions and foreign actors.

Meaning my foothold in Korea was still shaky. There was no way I could fill a quota of a hundred thousand people on that alone.

'When am I ever going to clear this mission?'

The next Pachehi ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠spinoff probably wouldn't have enough firepower. Ju Jun-seo and I only appear in episode one, and even then just for the opening stretch. The lead is Chu Ga-eul now, after all.

'Basically a cameo situation.'

So, next on the schedule: Music N, where I'm currently a fixed MC.

'Styling segments could net me a light trending topic now and then... but that's a different vibe from the Iconic Rookie image.'

Then what about a Blu-ray crowdfunding campaign? Web drama Blu-ray funding is still a novelty, so maybe that could cement the "iconic" branding. If we do it, I'd better make sure the package is loaded with value.

'Iconic. Iconic...'

My thoughts kept spiraling into a tangle.

My next project, Strange Tales, doesn't air until next summer. I'd love for Faster Than the Law to hit theaters before then, but given the nature of film production, a delay of several years wouldn't be strange at all.

"..."

Do Gyeo-ul kept pulling ahead, and I felt a stagnant unease, as if I'd been left frozen ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in place.

I tightened my grip on the cue cards in my hand. This was the JC ENM production center in Ilsan, where my weekly music program was filmed.

'One thing at a time. Just nail what's in front of me.'

Getting gloomy this early would only cost me.

'And who am I, again?'

As always, I coached myself in front of the mirror. A habit I'd picked up recently—and remarkably cost-effective.

'Han Yeo-reum, winner of the Jury Special Newcomer Award at the Seoul International Drama Awards.'

There we go. A brief session of self-indulgence, and my nerves settled a little. My fellow MC, the idol I host alongside, hadn't arrived yet.

Having the waiting room all to myself? Not bad at all.

"Live broadcast, Music N! Your MCs, Han Yeo-reum and Seo I-deun!"

I began reciting the lines printed on my cue cards like dialogue from a script, and bit by bit, the anxiety started to melt away.

Today, too, there were cameras pointed at me. There was a broadcast where my name could be spoken aloud.

'That's enough. No problem at all.'

But I had overlooked something. This was a live broadcast—and a double-MC setup, meaning my performance alone couldn't be the whole story.