Perfect Audition 2 (1)
“Perfect! It’s done...!”
Looking back, while Kang Min had been pouring his passion into Unbelievable over those four weeks, the MBS vice president’s office had been a constant funeral parlor.
The “but” from the Pavlov’s Experiment Station episode had turned the world upside down.
Once that had somehow settled, the Korean-Hitler fiasco had the broadcasting ethics committee freaking out and passing a warning measure in just fifteen minutes—a downright insane turn of events.
They’d endured even that, only for the public to start brawling over some rookie named Jo Yun-a, turning everything into a chaotic mess.
A string of horrific incidents that even the almighty vice president couldn’t help worrying might turn his head into Kim Kang-hyun the department head’s.
—But now, all that could be forgotten.
The vice president laughed heartily for the first time in ages as he eyed the report on his desk.
“If it’s Han Ye-seul—if it’s that Han Ye-seul PD—then even that madman Kang Min will have to hold back!”
“Exactly! Wasn’t it proven in the second half of Unbelievable?”
“Right! This’ll be a huge win for our MBS! We beat that madman!”
“Yes, sir!”
The variety department head beside him burst into laughter too. He had no direct ties to the drama department, but those four weeks with Unbelievable had nearly made all his hair fall out, just like everyone else.
No doubt, in the entire history of Korean broadcasting—not just MBS—no single actor had ever caused this much havoc.
But the Human Quartet or whatever was finally over.
And even Kang Min, who’d tormented them so, had planted his roots back at MBS again—though not in Revenge of the Heirs.
It was like coughing up a decade’s worth—no, a century’s worth—of phlegm. How could they not laugh?
A victory more perfect than perfect!
“Only one thing bugs me—the writer. Out of all people, a rookie...”
“What can we do if that madman’s fixated on her? And she’s got solid family creds. She’ll handle the basics, at least.”
“True! Her actress sister’s one thing, but her big sis is practically legendary as a playwright. She must’ve learned a thing or two.”
The vice president smacked his lips and nodded. Fair enough—better than her throwing tantrums over Unbelievable.
Plus, the other side was cooperative.
When Kim Kang-hyun, after skimming the script draft, suggested, “The loop gimmick aside, isn’t the story itself kinda bland? We should spice it up,” Han Ye-seul had replied in under ten seconds: “Absolutely, though it’s not my intention, if that’s what the higher-ups want, I’m happy to discuss.”
A stellar producer who’d even gotten a government commendation recently, this earnest about communication—how could the project fail? The vice president couldn’t help but feel pleased.
···Of course, Han Ye-seul was even more pleased.
You told me to revise it! You said revise it! Not my fault anymore!
Han Ye-seul beamed as she watched Kang Min and Yoo Ji-min the writer mutter, “Dying twice is kinda weak,” “Shall we go for three times, then?”
And two weeks later,
Kim Kang-hyun screamed the moment he saw the new, utterly “spicy” script.
He shot to his feet and bellowed.
“Han Ye-seul! Where the hell is Han Ye-seul?! Get her in here now!!”
“Han Ye-seul’s at Ilsan.”
“Why?!”
“Casting.”
“.......”
“Department head?”
The department head slumped back into his chair in a daze.
His face was like a proud barbarian whose heirloom sword had turned into an iron golem.
#
The production of Die to Live had proceeded in a rather unique way compared to other dramas, from the start.
The chief producer was an outsider to begin with, so there was no so-called “judging panel” linking CP, PD, cinematographer, head AD, casting director, and the like.
Instead, it went like this.
“We should cast the female lead first. Got anyone in mind?”
“C-Can an actor really step up for something like this?”
“You’re the one who kicked off the project—what’s with the sudden hesitation? The writer’s a rookie, the staff are all guys. It’d be weirder if you didn’t step up, Kang Min-ssi.”
“Hmm.”
Kang Min pondered briefly, but no one came to mind.
Well, if he had to think... there were a few, but···
Yun-a’s probably swamped these days. Too tough. Bom... that’d be awkward too. How could I ask a favor of my thriving little sis now that I’m the big bro?
After a thought process that would’ve had them screaming “No!” if they’d heard it, Kang Min coolly concluded.
“No one in particular.”
Han Ye-seul’s response was equally cool.
“Then open auditions it is.”
“A public audition for the lead? That’s pretty rare, right?”
“Maybe in films, but almost never in dramas.”
Dramas usually scout the writer first, then the lead actor, then draw up the proposal. Those two carry the weight.
But this situation was anything but normal, to anyone’s eyes.
No, from the get-go, a batshit script where the two protagonists die thousands of times across the drama—if they shopped it around agencies asking, “Anyone interested~?” they’d be lucky to get just a “Eek?!” in response.
In cases like this, the cool, chic move was to host auditions and act like you had options.
Han Ye-seul took it a step further.
“Let’s blast the script everywhere and do a full public call. Draw all the media spotlight. Our image is hot right now—they’ll spin it however.”
“I-Isn’t that going too far, Han PD? Even so, there’s no precedent for—”
“This drama is the precedent! Go play with your Janissary figurines!!”
“It’s a 1/72 scale plamo...”
Shim Yoo-hyeon, who’d officially taken over as VFX team lead a week ago, grumbled and averted his eyes. Han Ye-seul clutched her head, as always.
Whatever the internal squabbles, when the Unbelievable and Public Service Ad Quartet power duo of Kang Min and Han Ye-seul put the lead role up for public auction, the industry flipped.
To them, this was provocation on steroids.
“They could pick any lead, but auditions?!”
“Just for show?”
“Kang Min and Han Ye-seul aren’t the type for that! They’re dead serious!”
“Who’s free on our roster?!”
“Call everyone! Even sticking a foot in is a win!!”
Established actors generally shunned public auditions. Get picked? Break even. Rejected? Humiliated.
But things were different now.
“Kang Min’s lost it for real! Smashed 40% with his debut King and Sovereign, hit 25% in just four weeks with Unbelievable and exported overseas, got a prime minister’s commendation from the PSA... No clue what’s next!”
“Twenty years in this biz, and I’ve never seen a monster like him.”
“And his partner’s Han Ye-seul! Black Forest is coming at minimum...!”
“Black Forest with Kang Min? Invincible!”
The bait was just too tempting.
Regardless of Kang Min’s own thoughts or MBS’s internal mess, his track record was flawless. Han Ye-seul was more than capable of backing it up. Who wouldn’t crave a ticket to paradise?
The risk of slurping seaweed soup at auditions? Worth it.
“Kang Min’s image right now—he turned down Choi Bong-man’s love call publicly, ditched the Ray Mary ambassadorship, shot that PSA, scouted and groomed Jo Yun-a out of nowhere, and he’s still agency-less...”
“For an artist like that, people won’t bat an eye if he picks someone else!”
“Exactly!”
They figured Kang Min’s “artistic temperament” would offset any backlash from rejected actors.
Sure, top stars like Seo Bom, Yoo Ji-yu, or Jin Seo-hye were a stretch, but anyone below? Manageable.
There was a minor speed bump, though.
“The script’s a bit weird, huh?”
“Nah, Kang Min aside, Han Ye-seul wouldn’t greenlight it without thought. And it’s a rookie writer—probably ran the numbers. Good family too.”
“Right?”
Even that was overshadowed by Han Ye-seul’s rep(?). No more hesitation.
That’s why, the moment Die to Live’s audition schedule dropped, small agencies, mid-tiers, and even the big five scrambled into action.
They raced full throttle for this no-risk jackpot.
But of course,
the actors’ side was a whole different story.
#
“What a shitshow.”
Seventh-year actress Choi Na-kyeong let out an irritated sigh amid the swarming audition waiting room.
She didn’t hate the multi-actor lounges where she got senior treatment, but this was next level. Fresh-faced newbies she’d never seen mixed with somewhat-known second- and third-years like it was Sindorim Station at rush hour—total chaos.
A few jumped up with hasty “Hello, sunbaenim!” greetings, but with the crowd, they were a minority. Choi Na-kyeong had to deliberately weave through, shoving her face in faces, to squeeze out some respect.
Finally unable to take it, she stormed out and vented.
“What the hell? So many randos?!”
“···They didn’t restrict eligibility. Mid-to-small agencies probably sent ’em just in case.”
“They’re seriously auditioning all these nobodies? Kang Min or Han Ye-seul—total idiots?!”
“Please watch your mouth. Kang Min’s the real judge here. You know nailing this fixes your last flop? Tone it down during the audition, at least—”
“I’m seventh year! They should bow to me! Cocky rookies thinking they can judge seniors just ’cause they’re hot right now!”
“Sigh.”
Her manager didn’t bother pointing out she was the same age as Kang Min. In showbiz, it was all about results and tenure.
Besides, Choi Na-kyeong wasn’t just talk. No top star, but her dramas had solid reps, and she’d carved a niche.
Though the last one tanked harder than ever.
That’s why she swallowed her irritation and stayed.
“Anyone with eyes’ll pick me. All these randos otherwise.”
She snorted.
“Once I’m cast, though, time to lay down the law. PD might pamper me, but sixth-months should greet seniors properly. Screw that···!”
“Your call.”
Her manager shrugged.
She had the clout for kimchi soup dreams, and he was pissed too—shoving a big-five seventh-year into a communal pen with newbies.
They oughta treat her right.
And showbiz faces were more political than politicians.
Plenty shared Choi Na-kyeong’s gripe, despite similar tenures.
Public audition or not, this right?
I’m fourth-year with supporting leads, treated like trainees...
PD’s young—doesn’t know industry etiquette.
I’m mid-tier with the vets—Kang Min should’ve considered that!
Performing for a green junior and getting judged? Few veterans weren’t miffed.
“Don’t like it? Don’t enter,” was moot—they’d been agency-pushed.
With seniors stewing silently, juniors toed the line.
The auditions kicked off in that slightly ominous vibe.
And twenty minutes later,
Choi Na-kyeong, poster child of the malcontents, started sniping at Kang Min indirectly.
#
“I’m not sure what kind of acting Kang Min-ssi is exactly looking for.”
“Hm?”
Kang Min looked up from the judges’ table. A sharp-featured actress was frowning.
She was trying for mild tones, but the probing edge slipped through. Her personality, apparently.
She glanced around for agreement.
“Right? We need some direction on acting style, even if not full directing, to do it properly.”
“You’ve seen the script, I assume.”
“Beyond the script—‘die as realistically as possible’? What’s that? Who judges that? It’s vague. I bet all applicants want clearer guidelines.”
“Hmm...”
Vague?
Just die realistically—that’s it?
Kang Min tilted his head, scanning for her name.
Let’s see... Choi Na-yeon? Kinda familiar...
“Choi Na-kyeong. Seventh year,”
Han Ye-seul whispered beside him, frowning.
“Decent skills, but bad rep on personality. She was on the shortlist for talent, but... maybe drop her.”
“Why?”
“Gotta spell it out? She’s polite enough to me, but she’s dissing you. Picking sides openly—and picking the wrong power player···”
“Haha, good one. Doesn’t that mean I’m the power player? How could I invade Han PD-nim’s turf? She’ll rein it in before then.”
“...Pardon?”
Han Ye-seul gaped blankly as Kang Min pondered briefly.
Then decided.
“Fair enough. An actor can ask for direction. Ignoring her’d be rude.”
“Wait, hold on. Yeah? You’ve been thinking that all along? That was you reining it in?”
“Sorry, but do you all feel the same? That the direction isn’t clear?”
“That was reining it in...!”
Unlike Han Ye-seul, Kang Min’s last words boomed for all applicants to hear.
Choi Na-kyeong and the malcontents nodded like it was obvious; others eyed their seniors.
Choi Na-kyeong smirked triumphantly as Han Ye-seul bickered softly with Kang Min, something off-kilter.
Perfect! No way he’ll micromanage other roles if he’s unsure of his own!
Seasoned senior calling out the arrogant junior’s mistake.
Han Ye-seul PD arguing softly—something wrong.
These little things built influence, position. Neophyte actors couldn’t touch veteran savvy.
With this crowd, I’m the only pick anyway. Fine. Young PD, rookie writer—pressure for more screentime later.
Kang Min’s rep was real; leverage it, and her last flop vanishes.
Coming to auditions sucked, but value···
Choi Na-kyeong sneered, plotting her starring turn.
Until, that is,
Kang Min nodded as if she were spot-on.
“Got it. If Choi actress says so, I’ll demo some guidelines, humble as they are.”
“Uh, yeah...?”
“Gurk···!”
“?”