Awards Ceremony (1)
Static crackled—
A signal chirped from the radio Manager Kim Min-su was holding, and a staff member’s voice came through.
“You may enter now.”
This was already his third time experiencing it.
The 57th Korean Arts Awards ceremony was underway.
The first time I came, Jin-uk hyung and So-hyun noona entered with me.
Yeon-woo had won the Rookie Award that year, while Son Jin-uk and Jin Yu-han had competed for Best Actor—Yu-han had ultimately taken it.
Come to think of it, I didn’t even know Yu-han back then.
A great deal had changed since.
At the second awards ceremony he’d been stuck deciding whether to sit with the Master Plan team or the Star Beyond the River team; in the end they’d arranged themselves with Yeon-woo in the center and the two teams on either side.
Back then Ji-eun noona and So-hyun noona were meeting for the first time.
Surprisingly, he’d discovered that Han So-hyun was completely overwhelmed by Seo Ji-eun’s energy and couldn’t hold her own against her.
The press had blared headlines about him becoming the first actor to sweep Best Actor awards in both the drama and film categories, but the truth was that last year he’d been so focused on planting a hacking tool on Jeong Tae-seon’s phone that the awards ceremony had been an afterthought.
And now it’s the third awards ceremony.
Even in the past year, much had shifted.
Until last year he’d been an actor under LN Entertainment; now he was both an actor and the practical leader of Saebyeol.
In moving nests, he had become the mother bird himself.
“Alright, then. Shall we go see the baby birds?”
“Huh?”
Yeon-woo smiled at Kim Min-su, who was asking back at the incomprehensible remark.
“Never mind. I’ll be off, then.”
The van’s automatic door slid open. The moment Yeon-woo stepped down onto the red carpet, so many flashes exploded that it felt like broad daylight.
Yeon-woo posed for the cameras, gave a brief interview, and then entered the hall.
Four years into his acting career, he now had a fair number of juniors of his own.
The moment he appeared in the venue, countless gazes locked onto him from every direction.
Senior and junior actors alike were watching the entrance of the industry’s hottest star.
A familiar figure approached from a distance.
“Hey, little brother.”
It was Maseok Do, who’d shot Master Plan with him.
“Seok-do hyung, how have you been? I heard you were filming in the States.”
“Wrapped the shoot, but the release is still a long way off. Anyway, it’s good to see you after so long. We should go camping again sometime.”
Seeing Maseok Do as consistent as ever, Yeon-woo gave a small smile and nodded.
After exchanging a shoulder clap and greetings with him, Yeon-woo followed a guide deeper into the hall. Several other actors came into view.
He offered brief nods of acknowledgment as he made his way to his assigned seat—the table for the White Blood team.
“Hey, you’re here.”
“Yes, Teacher.”
Jeong Cheol-min, dressed in a sharp black suit with a gold-accented bow tie, welcomed him.
The other expedition members beside him waved in greeting as well.
Gathered together in coordinated black-and-gold outfits, they projected a considerable aura.
“The captain has arrived.”
Dong-ha teased as he looked at Yeon-woo.
But just as Dong-ha said, the moment Yeon-woo took the center seat at the table, it felt as though the final piece of the puzzle had clicked into place—the harmony of the White Blood team was complete.
“Looks like they seated Ji-eun noona over here too?”
Seo Ji-eun was sitting next to Jeong Su-yeon.
She wasn’t part of the White Blood cast, so she would normally have been placed elsewhere, but since the only cast members of Sketch were Yeon-woo and Seo Ji-eun, they’d apparently put her at this table as well.
“Yeah. They probably took the shared agency into account too.”
It had been Seo Ji-eun who’d suggested matching the dress code; it would have been unfair if she’d ended up sitting alone.
Just then, Jin Yu-han appeared at the entrance.
He followed a guide for a few steps, spotted Yeon-woo and the others, then paused to exchange a few words with the staff member.
The guide radioed somewhere, nodded, and Jin Yu-han walked over to Yeon-woo’s table.
“Hm? Yu-han.”
“I asked if I could sit here. They said it was fine.”
“What about your musical team?”
Yu-han shrugged as if it were nothing and sat in the chair a staff member brought over.
“We’re not that close anyway.”
Yeon-woo huffed a quiet laugh at the answer.
This wasn’t a high-school sports day—who sat with their close friends? If the man himself wanted to sit here, there was no reason to stop him.
Jin Yu-han’s outfit was also black and gold, matching the Saebyeol actors, so he didn’t look out of place at all.
If anything, his addition only raised the table’s value further.
Everyone’s here except Jin-uk hyung.
Son Jin-uk, lead of last year’s drama Prisoner, couldn’t abandon his own table to come over.
Seeing Jin Yu-han sit with them in matching attire, the reporters and industry figures on the second floor began murmuring.
“Jin Yu-han’s contract is almost up, right?”
“Yeah. Has he already agreed to join Saebyeol?”
Reporters scanned for story angles, while agency heads who’d been preparing to snatch Yu-han if he hit free agency watched the table intently, trying to figure out what was going on.
But it was hard to deny the implication of his joining them.
He’d done a small-theater production that had drawn some attention, but he hadn’t shot any films or dramas with them last year. There was no reason for him to match dress codes and sit with actors from another agency unless something was already decided.
Without meaning to, Yeon-woo had just issued a declaration of intent to the industry: he was taking Jin Yu-han.
The lights dimmed, and the host’s voice rolled out.
“Thank you to all our distinguished guests for joining us. We will now begin the 57th Korean Arts Awards ceremony.”
With the announcement, the massive screen at the front of the stage began playing a rapid montage of key scenes from the films, dramas, musicals, and plays of the past year.
“Ah! That was me just now!”
Han Byeol, seated beside him, pointed at the screen. Yeon-woo smiled.
“The camera directors love spontaneous reactions. They probably caught that finger just now.”
Han Byeol hastily pulled her hand back.
Yeon-woo tilted his head at the sight.
“Why? Being on camera is a good thing.”
“No! It’s embarrassing…”
Dong-ha poked her shoulder with a mischievous grin.
“Oho, so Han Byeol gets embarrassed about something?”
“There are so many other actors here today, and people I’ve only ever seen on TV are all gathered in one place… it just feels embarrassing.”
“But you know what?”
“What?”
Dong-ha quietly pointed at Yeon-woo beside him and continued.
“The person all those actors you mentioned are staring at the most curiously is this hyung right here.”
Just as Dong-ha said, Yeon-woo had felt the gazes pouring in from every direction since he’d entered the hall.
Last year the attention hadn’t been this intense.
But after turning both Sketch and White Blood into mega-hits, his subsequent moves had been, in a way, eccentric.
He’d left with a handful of LN staff to found an agency, so people had assumed it would be a one-man operation. Instead he’d begun absorbing famous actors one after another, growing larger by the day. Industry figures and fellow actors alike couldn’t help but fix their eyes on this black-and-gold table.
While the surrounding tables buzzed with talk about the Saebyeol Entertainment group, the table itself was quiet—like the calm eye of a storm at the center of the Korean entertainment industry.
Yeon-woo looked over his fellow actors, then shifted his gaze to the stage.
I hope our actors take home a lot of awards today.
The first name called to the stage was Han Byeol’s.
“The candidates must be feeling the same nerves I felt last year. And now, the announcement. Congratulations to the winner of Best New Actress in a Drama—Han Byeol of White Blood.”
The moment her name was called, cheers erupted from the audience seats on the third floor.
The volume of the roar made several actors turn in surprise toward the gallery.
Apparently a good number of fans, buoyed by the drama’s popularity, had been hoping for Han Byeol’s win.
She’d been so busy watching the other actors that she hadn’t expected to win herself; she shot to her feet with wide, startled eyes.
“Congratulations, Han Byeol.”
“Our youngest is getting an award!”
“Wha—me?!”
Only when Yeon-woo and the others stood to congratulate her did it seem to sink in. Tears already welled in her huge eyes, making them sparkle.
She hadn’t even finished middle school yet. What awards had she ever received besides perfect-attendance certificates?
No—she’s been missing school for shoots, so she probably never even got those.
Yeon-woo escorted the still-dazed Han Byeol the few steps to where the red carpet began.
On stage she walked with slightly vacant little steps toward the presenter.
She wasn’t doing anything particularly special, yet soft laughter rippled through the actors in the audience at how adorable she looked.
“Congratulations, Miss Han Byeol.”
“Th-thank you!”
She bowed deeply, accepted the award, and stepped up to the microphone.
Normally bold and sharp, Han Byeol found herself completely floored by her first-ever awards stage.
“Um, hello. I’m Han Byeol.”
Thud.
“Ah!”
Bowing her head in greeting at the mic, she bumped her forehead against it.
Laughter burst from the seats again.
They weren’t laughing because the bump was funny. In a space packed with adults, the very sight of a girl with twin braids was simply too cute.
The broadcast cameras caught Yeon-woo watching her with a fond, fatherly smile, then panned across the other Saebyeol actors beside him.
Han Byeol collected herself and continued.
“First of all, thank you to Senior Ryu Yeon-woo for making it possible for me to stand here today…”
At her words the camera swung back to Yeon-woo.
Some might have found it odd that she mentioned Ryu Yeon-woo first when there was a director and other cast members, but the industry people in the room knew the real story and simply nodded.
Ordinary viewers might not think so, but industry insiders knew better than anyone how disastrously Korean fantasy productions had performed until now.
That was why they believed the project could never have succeeded without Ryu Yeon-woo.
In fact, when production news first broke, most had thought it might become a stain on both CEO Kim Ju-seong’s success story and actor Ryu Yeon-woo’s career.
For someone who’d walked onstage looking half-dazed, Han Byeol delivered her acceptance speech with surprising clarity and poise.
When she came back down to the Saebyeol table, the agency’s actors hugged their youngest once more.
“I really, really thought I was going to die of nerves.”
“Aww, did you?”
Seo Ji-eun patted Han Byeol the way one would soothe a child.
Other awards followed, and in the meantime Yeon-woo rose and followed a staff member backstage.