The Actor Gallery Opens
The audition hall buzzed with tension. A long table faced the stage where the judges sat in a row. The coffee had long gone cold, and the evaluation sheets were covered in nothing but repeated scribbles of “Hold” and “Fail.”
“What a shame.”
“Right? It’s hard to put into words. How should I even describe it…”
Yun Song-i nodded at Lee Tae-ryun’s comment, her expression thoughtful.
Lee Tae-ryun was the director for KBC Drama Division 2 and one of the rare freelancers granted special permission to work outside the network. This play, Flowers Fall, was exactly that kind of exceptional project.
“Director, why did you choose a play of all things?” Yun Song-i asked with a sigh.
“Exactly. What can you expect from kids with no talent?”
Lee Tae-ryun tossed the evaluation sheet onto the table with a flick of his wrist.
“Looking at these kids right now, they don’t even have the basics, let alone emotion. The foundation is completely missing. What do you think, Writer Yun?”
Yun Song-i smiled confidently. “I’ve been watching their eyes closely. That’s where the talent shows, you know? Every once in a while, you see someone whose gaze is just… different.”
“Oh, Writer Yun. How many auditions have you seen that you’ve already developed an eye for actors?”
She shrugged at the director’s teasing. “When you follow me around long enough, you pick things up naturally.”
Yun Song-i smiled again. She was a drama writer who had just entered her third year. Her name had never yet appeared properly on a script, but everyone in the writers’ room knew exactly who she was. She had sharp instincts, excellent skills as an assistant writer, and above all, genuine talent as a creator.
“I’m counting on your debut work, so keep at it. Think of the play adaptation as valuable experience.”
“This isn’t experience, it’s pure suffering.”
“I’m enjoying myself, though?”
Despite his words, Lee Tae-ryun’s face looked exhausted.
“What kind of director takes on a play just to avoid PPL in his next drama?”
At Yun Song-i’s half-joking complaint, Lee Tae-ryun opened his mouth.
“It’s only a month anyway. If I endure this one month, I can cut out those annoying product placements in the next project. Sound good?”
A masterpiece required at minimum an outstanding director and a brilliant writer. Lee Tae-ryun’s team already had both.
“Well, since I’ve taken it on, I have to make it the best play possible. In that sense, the current crop of actors is… truly the worst.”
He was using his own name to draw crowds, yet Lee Tae-ryun was determined to create the finest production he could.
“Maybe they’re too focused on matching the role? The important thing is becoming the character itself, not just acting it.”
“Oh? Looks like you really have been learning direction by osmosis.”
“Should I direct, then?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
Lee Tae-ryun tapped the script of Flowers Fall lightly as he spoke.
“Every single one of these auditionees completely fails to understand the material.”
“This kind of work demands pushing emotion to its absolute limit,” Yun Song-i replied. “There are plenty of kids who can act sad well, but that single note of sadness isn’t enough. I’m not sure how to explain it better.”
A staff member asked with a puzzled look, “But in Flowers Fall, Min-woo can’t stay by his lover Ha-rang’s side because of his dream, and he ends up failing to achieve that dream either, right? So isn’t it supposed to be incredibly sad?”
Yun Song-i nodded. “Well… how should I put it? It feels like they’re acting memorized emotions. They’ve never actually experienced it. They cry on cue, but it just looks like good technique.”
The staff member laughed. “At that age, how many of them could have gone through a heartbreak or failure like Min-woo or Ha-rang? They shouldn’t have to. It’s the age for dreaming.”
Yun Song-i chuckled along with him. “True. It’s just my perspective as a writer.”
Lee Tae-ryun let out a long sigh.
“That’s exactly what they need to create. Even if they’ve never experienced it, they have to perform as if they have—in front of an audience. No, as if they’re experiencing it right now. That’s what makes an actor.”
“Still, I’m looking forward to the next group. Kim Chan-uk needs no introduction, of course.”
At the name Kim Chan-uk, the staff member squealed.
“Kyaa! Kim Chan-uk? The idol actor! I’m a fan!”
Yun Song-i answered with a wry smile. “He is an idol actor, but his fundamentals aren’t bad.”
“My head hurts.”
While Lee Tae-ryun pressed his temples, the staff member looked at the list and asked, “And there’s also an actress named Lee Se-rin? She’s the daughter of the late Lee Myeong-hwa, right?”
“Yes. She was famous even as a child actor. Her tone control at that age was quite impressive.”
Lee Tae-ryun spoke quietly. “Lee Se-rin… That should be worth watching.”
In his memory, a young child actor appeared, tearfully delivering a scene so powerful it made the entire crew hold their breath. Perhaps because she was the daughter of the great Lee Myeong-hwa, her meticulous performance had left a deep impression despite her young age.
“And the last one is Kim Doyun? Never heard that name before,” the staff member said, tilting his head.
“Most people haven’t,” Yun Song-i added indifferently. “Still, even among the nameless applicants, you occasionally find a gem. Very occasionally.”
Was this a chance?
It didn’t take long for him to accept the situation. His overworked, creaking joints no longer hurt; instead, they moved with the smoothness of oiled machinery. The scenery around him was vivid, exactly as he remembered it from that day.
It was clear. He had returned twenty years into the past.
Then why? Why this exact moment?
To fulfill the dreams he never achieved? Bullshit. It was telling him to quit acting and live an ordinary life so he could finally fulfill the filial duties he had neglected.
At first, in his confusion, he had tried to leave the hallway. He wanted to abandon the audition, abandon everything, and live without ever doing something so futile again.
If this was truly a second chance at life, he had planned to live steadily. Normally. Just like everyone else.
A normal life, huh.
What stopped his steps was a brutally simple truth: he didn’t know how to do anything except act.
In his previous life, the only reason he could occasionally send his mother some spending money was thanks to the bit parts, extra roles, and web drama shoots he had desperately clawed his way into.
…No. Let’s not lie to ourselves.
The moment he realized this was an audition hall, his heart had already begun to race. He hated that fact.
I never wanted to feel this kind of emotion again.
That was why he made a vow. This would be the last time.
In the past when he had been at his most pathetic, in front of the director he respected most, he would end it all with the very acting that had kept him going until now.
If he was going to give up anyway, he might as well pour everything into it one final time. Then he would cleanly say goodbye to the twenty wasted years.
While he was steeling himself with that resolution, the door to the audition room opened and a voice called out.
“Applicant number 76, Kim Doyun. Number 77, Lee Se-rin. Number 78, Kim Chan-uk. Please come in.”
“Number 76, Kim Doyun!”
Before him stood a face that was both unfamiliar and painfully familiar.
Director Lee Tae-ryun. The same face from that single meeting twenty years ago.
He had returned. To the very audition hall where his life as an actor had first begun—and where it had been utterly denied.
It was at that moment.
“Ugh.”
A throbbing pain surged behind his eyes as if they might burst. His vision blurred like his brain’s circuits had overloaded.
And then—
“Huh?”
If there was one thing different from the past, it was this.
> [Actor Gallery access has been unlocked]
> [Unique Ability: Director's Eye has awakened]
Title: Unlocked the [Actor Gallery]
This time, the renowned actors from another world were giving him advice.