Cold, Hard Cash and Crispy Milk Donuts
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
Madame Hwang Dongbun was staring down at me with profound discomfort. Her reaction was distinctly out of the ordinary.
"Don't you ever show that acting to anyone else."
"Why?"
"Strange rumors will start flying, won't they? And our sponsorships will dry up."
Now that's a critical issue.
Our dear director fundamentally operated in nun cosplay, but when faced with cash, pride meant nothing. Depending on the faith of the prospective donor, she would seamlessly shapeshift between Protestant, Catholic, Buddhist, and Won Buddhist. It was a critique entirely worthy of her pragmatic spirit.
Regular sponsorships are more important than anything else, after all.
Once trust is broken, earning it back is nearly impossible. Watching Madame Dongbun had taught me firsthand just how grueling it was to maintain regular patrons.
I need to start collecting subs too.
In live streaming, beyond one-off donations, there was the sacred monthly subscription. Viewers paid a set fee each month to support a creator, earning ad-free viewing and special perks in return. When it came to customer retention for long-term subscribers, I was studying Madame Dongbun closely.
When do I get my own subs, though?
Real-life subscriptions technically existed in the form of child sponsorship programs, but I doubted I would qualify for those. What prospective foster sponsor would open their wallet if I looked them in the eye and declared, "I'm gonna be a top-tier live streamer!"
Then again, I had no desire to fabricate sob stories to swindle people. My conscience drew the line at fraud.
Idle thoughts kept churning through my head, all spurred by the fact that the judges had stared at me in stone-cold silence during the audition.
Did they hate it?
The dialogue should have continued, yet both judges had clamped their mouths shut. In my past life's experience, when an audition panel froze like that, the outcome was almost never good. I had hurriedly salvaged the atmosphere with an ad-lib, but the lingering unease refused to fade.
Judging by Madame Dongbun's unsettled reaction, my performance hadn't been terrible.
My vocal tone was dialed in nicely, too.
I had listened to recordings over and over, fine-tuning the technique to make it as skin-crawling as possible. I had calibrated my physical presence down to how I would read on camera from different distances. All of it rehearsed to perfection in the Dream Theater, that bizarre soundstage I visited every time I fell asleep.
Subjectively, I only get about three hours a night in there, but I've certainly put them to good use.
Now I took full advantage of the space, but at first, I had no idea what to make of it. Imagine waking up in an eerie, inexplicable void when you're just an infant who can't even hold your own head up. Anyone would have lost their mind.
Truth be told, back then I thought I had been abandoned yet again. Dumped twice before my first birthday! For a while, I genuinely wondered if my baby face was just that hideous—though looking in a mirror eventually disabused me of that notion.
Regardless, a good tool was a good tool. I used the time to practice endless streamer banter so the audio never went dead, worked on exaggerated reactions for receiving donations, and tested diverse vocal registers without worrying about blowing out my vocal cords. Beyond the warm circle cast by the central campfire, I hadn't dared to explore.
The place felt like an abandoned ruin untouched by human hands for centuries. Step even a few paces past the firelight, and a bone-chilling, suffocating cold rushed in to swallow you whole. If I could stoke the campfire, perhaps I could venture further, but I wasn't reckless enough to mess with it.
What if the fire goes out? It's not worth risking my life just to explore a creepy ruin.
It was already serving my needs perfectly well as a rehearsal stage.
"Could the first applicant please step back inside?"
Director Lee Changseop called the candidates in one by one. Most emerged with slumped shoulders and drooping heads, while a few came out lost in contemplative thought.
"Looks like he's giving individual feedback," Madame Dongbun remarked, returning from a quick reconnaissance before I could even ask. "Letting them know how he viewed their acting and what the result is."
He's surprisingly thorough.
Plenty of indie auditions wouldn't even bother sending a rejection text, let alone face-to-face notes.
Soon enough, my turn arrived.
"Miss Donga, please come in."
Lee Changseop greeted me as I walked into the room. His expression was noticeably stiff.
What's with that face? Did I actually bomb?
In truth, Lee Changseop's tension stemmed entirely from a parting warning by Kwon Taeseong.
'You don't think she'll turn down the role, do you?'
Having watched every applicant, no one came remotely close to Hwang Donga. He and Kwon Taeseong had reached unanimous consensus within seconds.
'She's the one, no question.'
'Obviously. Assuming she doesn't refuse.'
'Why would she refuse?'
'Who knows? Her guardian didn't look pleased with the material.'
Recalling Madame Dongbun's demeanor, Changseop had to admit Taeseong was right. She had looked uneasy before the audition and downright horrified after seeing the demon-possessed performance.
'You'd better offer the best terms you can manage,' Taeseong had advised.
Changseop desperately wished he could match the rate of an elite, top-tier child star, but he was currently surviving on a single packet of instant ramyeon a day. The production budget was razor-thin. Furthermore, he couldn't get a read on Hwang Donga at all; she possessed an unsettling maturity, yet showed none of the usual childish thirst for fame.
She seems so adult, yet she doesn't appear hungry for acting itself.
Swallowing hard, he slid a contract across the table—one drafted with the absolute maximum compensation his meager funds could muster.
"I would truly love to work with you, Miss Donga. If any of the terms are unsatisfactory, please tell me. I will adjust whatever I can."
Hwang Donga looked at the numbers, and her eyebrows nearly shot into her hairline.
Hold on, this is actually generous.
It was higher than the pay I used to scrape together doing bit parts in my previous life. Factoring in inflation, this was more than respectable for an indie short.
Madame Dongbun glanced over the contract and flashed a subtle OK sign with her fingers.
He must have liked my audition a lot more than I thought.
Even so, one crucial clause needed revising.
"I have a request, Director."
"What is it, Miss Donga?"
"The contract says payment will be wired to a bank account. Would it be possible to receive it in cash instead?"
I had seen the horror stories on the evening news: deadbeat biological parents suddenly crawling out of the woodwork to empty the savings accounts of orphans they had abandoned years ago. Who knew what kind of deadbeats had spawned this body? If my earnings sat in a bank account under my legal name, some stranger might legally swipe every cent.
That would be catastrophic.
"And preferably as soon as possible."
Money lost its purchasing power over time. It was best to pocket the cash while it was fresh and warm.
Judging by the director's grimacing face, however, his funds were tied up in immediate production expenses.
"I don't have that much liquid cash on hand right this second... It's scheduled to clear in a little while, but..."
If you want someone to part with cash, you have to cut their expenses in return.
"You don't need to shoot my scenes in chronological order."
"Excuse me?"
Shooting in narrative order was ideal for actors, but it was a massive drain on time and money. Commercial productions often scrambled their shooting schedules to maximize location rentals and crew efficiency. While amateur actors struggled to maintain emotional continuity out of sequence, seasoned veterans handled it without batting an eye.
I wasn't a veteran yet, but my technical acting didn't suffer much whether scenes were shot backward, forward, or sideways.
If the director had planned a chronological shoot just to accommodate a young child, he would burn extra cash renting spaces and hiring crew across multiple days. I could eliminate that waste.
"Are you serious about that?" Changseop asked, wide-eyed.
Under normal circumstances, Lee Changseop would have dismissed the offer outright. But having witnessed Hwang Donga's terrifyingly precise control during the audition, he felt she could actually pull it off. It was a gamble, but one with monumental upside—every won saved on scheduling could be funneled into hiring better crew or polishing the final cut.
Their interests aligned flawlessly.
And so, Hwang Donga walked away clutching an envelope stuffed with crisp, beautiful paper money.
"I will contact your guardian regarding the detailed schedule shortly!" the director called out behind us, but the words bounced straight off my ears.
Can you blame me? My pockets were practically bursting with cash.
"Madame Dongbun."
I fanned myself with a thick stack of banknotes, letting the nostalgic, metallic scent of cold cash waft under my nose.
"Care for an allowance?"
Madame Dongbun took one look at the bills waving under her nose and promptly delivered a sharp knuckle-knock directly to the crown of my head.
"Keep your allowance. Spend it on yourself."
"Then let's make a detour to the supermarket, Director. Time for me to flex a little."
"Flex? What on earth is a flex?"
"There are mysteries of this world that the older generation simply isn't ready for."
By the time I came to my senses, we were standing outside the market, and my head was sporting a fresh constellation of lumps.
Tsk. Enduring unpaid violence really doesn't fit my business model.
Still, considering how much free food she provided me daily, I decided to let it slide.
"Now then, let's seeee..."
I had decided to postpone buying computer hardware or streaming equipment for now.
The prices are absurd right now.
It wasn't that my acting fee was small—the minimum wage in this era hadn't even cracked four thousand won an hour. But buying a full desktop tower and an old CRT monitor would still hollow out my wallet in one go. Assembling a custom rig might save some cash, but...
How do you even assemble a motherboard?
One slip of a screwdriver and hundreds of thousands of won would go down the drain. My hands shook just imagining it.
Besides, the cost-to-performance ratio was abysmal. Mainstream internet live streaming was still years away. If I blew a fortune building a top-of-the-line rig today, by the time the streaming era arrived, it would be an ancient piece of junk unable to run a basic browser, let alone an online broadcast. It would look right at home gathering dust in an elementary school computer lab.
Hanging out at a PC bang is far more cost-effective for now.
Which brought me to the true prize of the day.
Crispy on the outside, light and moist on the inside, with a sweet, creamy dough that pulled with the satisfying chew of rice cake. As the paper-thin sugar glaze dissolved against the roof of your mouth, the whole pastry vanished like cotton candy. It was absolute magic.
My all-time favorite pastry. Compared to a crescent roll, its cost-effectiveness was lower, but in sheer deliciousness, it reigned supreme. Back in my past life, this was what I bought every time something wonderful happened.
I used to inhale twelve of these in one sitting.
Saliva flooded my mouth at the mere sight of the bakery display.
"You want to buy that?"
"Yes. Enough for all the kids at the orphanage to feast on."
Food was meant to be shared. Watching a chunk of my hard-earned cash drain away pinched my heart a little, but compared to the mountain of wealth I would amass as a future top streamer, this was pocket change.
For some reason, Madame Dongbun gazed down at me with an unusually tender look in her eye. She reached out and patted my bruised head. Her palm was warm and reassuring, though her fingers grazed right against the swelling.
"Ow, Madame! That hurts!"
"I swear, if it weren't for that foul mouth of yours..."
After watching the baker glaze the donuts through the glass window, I cradled a hefty box of freshly made pastries against my chest. Perhaps the cardboard had exceptional insulation, because even after walking for a good while, a gentle, radiant warmth continued to throb deep within my sternum. It was almost eerie.
What is this? Did bakeries back then pack hot packs into donut boxes?
As I tilted my head in confusion at the box, Madame Dongbun tossed out an offhand comment.
"Do you really love donuts that much? If you wanted dessert so badly, you should have just asked."
My ears must have deceived me.
What? Did she just say... dessert?
This wasn't a dessert. This was a meal! A hearty, perfectly balanced, budget-friendly meal capable of carrying a struggling bit-part actor through an entire day! It wasn't some flimsy after-dinner palate cleanser that left your belly rumbling!
"Madame Hwang Dongbun, Director of Hwangdong Orphanage. Pardon my French, but have you completely lost your marbles?"
"Back to the set."
I opened my eyes to the familiar soundstage.
Wait.
The flames of the campfire were burning distinctly taller. The time I could remain here had expanded.
What happened?
The fire was unmistakably larger. I stared into the dancing embers, trying to make sense of it.
Why did it grow?
I had no idea what could have triggered the change. If I had to name anything unusual, it was that strange, radiant warmth pulsing in my chest when I held the donuts.
What had happened between then and now?
I auditioned, and I bought donuts. In between, the only notable event was Madame Dongbun looking at me with that gentle, affectionate gaze.
Is human warmth the key?
I would definitely have to test that theory.