Crank-Up and the Contract
At Director Kim Han-su’s call of the final cut, the restaurant lights went dark. Yeon-woo stepped out from where he had been hiding off to the side, carrying a cake prepared in advance.
The sound supervisor quickly backed him up, piping music through the connected speakers.
“What? When did you all get this ready?!”
So-hyun’s eyes reddened at once; the tip of her nose stung.
Her previous project, a historical drama, had been a commercial success and even brought home awards, but the atmosphere on set had never been particularly warm. By scale, Summer’s Closet was the smaller production, yet the shooting environment had been so good that So-hyun’s affection for this one ran deeper than for anything she had done before.
The lights came up again, soft and gentle. Director Kim Han-su rose himself, phone in hand.
“Our three leads, gather up. Let’s get a commemorative shot.”
“Come on, Director. With all these good cameras around, you’re using a phone?”
Jin-uk glanced around the set as he spoke, and the staff laughed.
“Commemorative photos are supposed to be taken on a phone. Haha.”
Yeon-woo carried the cake over to the two of them. With So-hyun in the middle, the three stood together.
“All right, here we go. One, two, three.”
Click.
Even standing still, the three of them looked like a painting. Delighted, the director asked for one more.
“Just one more. One, two, three.”
Click.
“Eek!”
So-hyun’s small shriek rang out with the shutter. At the exact moment of the shot, Yeon-woo had scooped a bit of whipped cream from the cake with his finger and dabbed it lightly on her cheek.
“Yeon-woo, you—!”
The leads’ lively energy set the whole set blooming with laughter.
“Wow, Director. This photo is so natural and good. We could’ve used it as a drama poster. A little late for that, though.”
“It really is. It was a fine piece of work. Thank you, everyone, for all your hard work.”
Director Kim Han-su nodded over the photos and offered his own thanks to the assistant director.
“Aigoo, Director. Every time we shoot I feel it—I respect you.”
There was nothing of flattery in the assistant director’s words, only sincerity. Kim Han-su smiled.
Staff members smiled in turn, exchanging words of hard work with the colleagues around them.
Then the youngest among them, Yeon-woo, called out.
“Directors! Hyungs, noonas! Extra performers too—let’s take a group commemorative photo! One proper shot of us looking normal before the wrap party!”
“Hahaha. Can’t very well ignore our maknae’s orders.”
Cinematographer Kang In-chan moved first, and the staff began to gather.
“Cast members, over here! We’re all in this one!”
The extras who had been seated at the tables behind Seo-jun and Yeo-reum rose awkwardly at Yeon-woo’s call and started to assemble. Tables were shoved aside to clear space; soon several dozen people had come together.
In the center stood writer Choi Mi-hyeon—visiting for the final shoot—along with the supporting cast, Director Kim Han-su, and the three leads. Staff and extras formed ranks around them.
The camera team set up a tripod, connected a remote to the field camera, then hurried back into the frame and shouted,
“Look at the monitor over there—we’re taking just one. Don’t close your eyes. If a bunch of closed-eye shots end up circulating on Stargram, we’re not taking responsibility.”
“One, two, three.”
Click.
And so filming for Summer’s Closet came to an end.
The irony that lingered was that the only person who had closed their eyes for the commemorative shot was the camera-team staffer who had pressed the remote.
It had already been two weeks since the final shoot wrapped and Yeon-woo returned to Daejeon.
Before anyone quite noticed, Summer’s Closet had aired through episode six.
Given the genre, the drama’s reach depended less on ratings than on social media. Short clip after short clip circulated everywhere, and its popularity kept climbing. Interest in Ryu Yeon-woo—who had appeared like a comet—grew right alongside it.
In his previous life Yeon-woo had been a timid student who lived as if he barely existed, so even across elementary, middle, and high school he had few friends who remembered him clearly. Anyone who did know him would never have connected that boy with the Yeon-woo who had lost the weight. Reporters therefore never dug deep; the only information they could gather on a surface level was his school life in Daejeon after the transfer.
Stories of Yeon-woo as the perfect son—excellent grades, glowing evaluations from classmates—kept surfacing, and YouTubers who thrived on issues gleefully spread every one of them. Lately he had become such a blue-chip name that simply stamping “Ryu Yeon-woo” on a thumbnail guaranteed a baseline view count.
Because Yeon-woo himself stayed off social media, Seong-sik’s Stargram account—where everyday photos of him occasionally appeared—saw its follower count explode. Buoyed by the passionate support of Seong-sik’s “fans,” Seong-sik began dropping by Yeon-woo’s house almost daily, snapping candid shots and appointing himself exclusive photographer.
“Man, this is fun. Maybe I should become a photographer while I’m at it.”
“After looking at your selfies? You’re not photographing Yeon-woo—Yeon-woo just happens to end up in the frame.”
Jun-su, of course, could not let Seong-sik’s self-praise pass unchallenged.
“I’ll take a bunch and only post the ones Yeon-woo clears—one a week.”
Seong-sik let Jun-su’s jab go in one ear and out the other—or rather, never heard it at all—lost in the photos.
After hanging around Yeon-woo’s place for a good while, Seong-sik and Jun-su headed home. The next day arrived.
Today was the day Yeon-woo would visit LN Entertainment with his father.
After the final shoot, at the wrap dinner, Jeong Cheol-min and Son Jin-uk had put their heads together, then sat down right there with LN Media people over drinks. After a certain amount of discussion they had decided to sign with LN Entertainment. Cheol-min, authorized by Yeon-woo’s father, was to help with Yeon-woo’s first contract. Yeon-woo trusted the character of his first acting teacher completely; that made it possible.
Jin-uk had cheerfully bundled his own contract talks with help for the adorable younger brother he had gained through the project, raising Yeon-woo’s valuation a notch and checking for any poison clauses. Through that process they had settled on terms with LN Entertainment that compared quite favorably to the other agencies that had approached. Today was the day to sign.
The three of them rode together in Cheol-min’s car and arrived at the LN Entertainment building. Shortly afterward Yeon-woo met the agency’s CEO, Kim Ju-seong.
“So this is how I get to meet the hottest actor of the moment. And it’s a pleasure to meet your father and Actor Jeong Cheol-min for the first time as well.”
A middle-aged gentleman with a clean, well-groomed impression and neatly pomaded hair rose from his seat, offered a courteous greeting, and extended his hand. Satisfied with the good first impression, they exchanged greetings and concluded the contract smoothly.
“It is an honor for our agency to welcome such a fine actor. Ryu Yeon-woo is still young—he will only continue to grow from here.”
Ryu Cheol-ung answered the CEO’s words.
“You looked after him in so many ways even during his first shoot, and now you’ve given us such favorable contract terms. As a father whose son is just entering the entertainment world, I am truly grateful.”
“Haha. Our agency is operated directly by LN Media, one of the country’s leading production companies, so we have no intention of squeezing unreasonable profits out of actor management. That would be like cutting open the goose that lays the golden eggs.”
Joining LN Entertainment was not compulsory, of course, but actors under the agency inevitably appeared more frequently in projects planned by the parent company. From LN Media’s perspective that meant greater industry influence—mutual benefit. For a rookie like Yeon-woo, it also meant ready access to work whenever he wanted; that could only be an advantage.
“Well then, as stipulated in the contract, we understand you will pause project work until you reach adulthood and focus on your studies.”
“Yes. Thank you for the consideration.”
Yeon-woo answered the CEO.
“Given how excellent the actor’s academic record is, from the agency’s standpoint this is something we welcome with both hands—it only helps the actor’s image.”
Summer’s Closet, which had only just begun airing, would finish on March 1st, including a Lunar New Year hiatus in the middle. Even if Yeon-woo stayed off projects until the college entrance exam, that was only about eight months. Compared with the average rest period other actors took before their next project, the difference was not large.
“For anything you need during the break, simply go through Team Leader Jeong, who has been handling you so far.”
Everyone rose with the CEO and shook hands. The three men got back into Cheol-min’s car and returned to Daejeon.
From the next day Yeon-woo went straight back to his ordinary life, balancing exercise and study. Of course the internet—especially among younger users—was in an uproar, and even a trip to the neighborhood supermarket now required a hat and mask if he did not want to be recognized. Yet the diligent, regular habits that had carried over from his previous life had not gone anywhere.
Bodyweight training and disciplined study, just as before debut. Occasional meetings with school friends. And above all, the steady acting practice he poured time and care into. The only real difference from his previous life was that he watched more dramas for the sake of that practice.
Summer’s Closet had already aired through episode ten; ratings kept climbing and hit 13.7 percent—already the highest among JNBC dramas from the previous year. The drama team’s group chat brought nothing but good news every week as the show kept breaking its own records.
Against that atmosphere Yeon-woo maintained his regular life. On an ordinary Saturday afternoon he would have headed to Jeong Cheol-min’s acting academy for practice of one kind or another. His parents had gone out early for a couples’ gathering; So-hyun had likewise left first thing for plans with friends. Yeon-woo was alone at home, waiting for the gas-inspection visit.
Ding-dong.
He had been getting ready slowly in his room when a sound came from the entrance. Assuming the inspector had arrived, he stepped into the living room—only to realize it was not the doorbell but the door-lock opening.
“Huh? So-hyun, you’re back already?”
His younger sister came in through the front door. Two friends followed right behind her.