NG
"Yeon-woo! Your delivery was a perfect match for Pierre Choi. The second I heard it, I thought, This is exactly how I imagined Pierre talking in the script."
"Really? Thanks. Once break's over, you'll make your entrance, right? Our deer noona."
At Yeon-woo's words, Han So-hyun flashed a bright grin and threw up a V-sign with her fingers.
"Just you wait! I really love this role too, so I prepped hard. I'll show you the seductive allure of Jennifer the deer."
"Hahaha. Looking forward to it."
Break ended, and the script reading resumed.
Just as she'd promised, Han So-hyun delivered her lines in a calm, languid tone—the complete opposite of her usual bright, bouncy image—infusing every word with a sultry allure.
This side of her was so new and unexpected that even Yeon-woo's eyes went round as he stared at her.
From there, the mid-to-late sections of the reading proceeded smoothly. They got a solid feel for each other's acting styles and how their lines would mesh, and by the time the full script reading wrapped for the day, everyone was already looking ahead to the actual shoot.
A month after the reading ended, principal photography began.
The schedule was so packed that Yeon-woo skipped his university entrance ceremony entirely.
The moment he enrolled, he filed a leave of absence for the first semester of freshman year, then threw himself into filming for a full month. By now, nearly all the early scenes of the movie had already been shot.
Ryu Yeon-woo stood beside Maseok Do, both of them watching the monitor.
On the screen in front of them, Han So-hyun was pouring everything into her performance.
"Oh my, is this not how you do it?"
The golf ball traced a shallow arc before dropping weakly to the ground.
Jennifer, long hair swaying side to side as she tilted her head, was swinging with clumsy form at the driving range.
Park Kang-woo, clearly interested, approached her.
"Deer" Jennifer was deliberately getting close so she could swap out the SIM card in Park Kang-woo's phone.
"Miss, how about I show you a thing or two?"
Park Kang-woo handed his club to the black-suited subordinate standing behind him, his greasy voice sliding out as he spoke.
"Oh my, I'd love that. I definitely learned this before… but I just can't seem to get it right?"
She licked her lips seductively, planted the club on the ground, and subtly showed off her curves.
The corner of Park Kang-woo's mouth curled up as he stepped into Jennifer's bay and used "form correction" as an excuse to enjoy the harassment.
According to the research done by "Junk Dealer," the intelligence specialist among the experts Pierre Choi had assembled, there were three things Park Kang-woo simply could not resist.
Golf. Poker. Women.
This was one stage of the multi-layered operation Pierre Choi had designed—the role assigned to Deer.
Approach Park Kang-woo naturally and swap his SIM for the one Kwak Ji-chul had hacked.
After growing friendly over golf practice, Jennifer waited for the moment he took a drink of water, then used ghost-like sleight of hand to lift his phone, swap the SIM, and power it back on.
"Oh my, sir. You left your phone here."
Jennifer set the phone on top of the water cooler and called out to Park Kang-woo.
"Ah, look at me. Hahaha. The lady's so pretty I completely lost my head."
Park Kang-woo rolled his tongue around the word "lady" in that greasy drawl as he came back over.
Even looking at that face, Jennifer managed a sweet, smiling eye-crinkle with perfect composure.
This entire sequence was playing out on the monitor, and the scene being filmed was Pierre Choi and Kwak Ji-chul watching it from a small storage room—as if they were hacking a live CCTV feed.
"Cut. Take a short break, then we go again."
Director Park Chan-hong's flat, expressionless voice cut through the set.
Ryu Yeon-woo let out a sigh. Maseok Do clapped him on the shoulder, stood up, and stretched.
The staff still hadn't voiced any real complaints—Yeon-woo had been nothing but friendly and attentive since day one of the shoot—but the lack of progress was starting to wear on everyone.
Cinematographer Kang In-chan, who had worked with him on the previous project, came over and quietly kneaded Yeon-woo's shoulders in silent encouragement before walking off.
Even that kindness felt like pressure today. Yeon-woo, uncharacteristically, was starting to fray.
What do I do. Isn't there something more creative I can try.
They had been re-shooting this scene all morning.
The reason for the endless retakes was none other than Ryu Yeon-woo's string of NGs.
From Summer's Closet through Spring's Lover—hell, even his commercials—Yeon-woo had almost never needed a second take. Now he was stuck in a loop, and the reason was simple.
It wasn't entirely his fault. The problem was the script.
As Director Park Chan-hong had stressed during the table read, he was a director who celebrated actors' autonomy and on-set improvisation above almost everything else.
This entire scene—Jennifer and Park Kang-woo's pre-shot footage playing while Pierre Choi and Kwak Ji-chul watched it as if monitoring a live hacked CCTV feed—was pure ad-lib.
The stage direction said only: "Pierre Choi and Kwak Ji-chul exchange dialogue while looking at the CCTV."
Park wanted free, spontaneous lines born from actors who had fully become their characters on set. For Yeon-woo, who had always analyzed every stage direction with meticulous care and performed with total diligence, it was a brutal wall.
Am I just not creative enough?
As the director's "okay" still refused to come, Yeon-woo began blaming the version of himself who had lived both lives with nothing but earnest discipline.
"Everyone, let's break for lunch!"
The assistant director's shout rang out—they'd stopped shooting for a rest, and since it was nearly noon, they might as well eat first.
Even as he trudged toward the meal, Yeon-woo kept turning the problem over in his head.
"It's okay, Yeon-woo. Chin up. Matching the director's expectations is never easy."
"Right? In the last film, how long was Actor Bae Seong-un's record? Four days?"
"Five days. That one scene inside the car took five days."
Staff members passed by offering encouragement, deliberately talking loud enough for Yeon-woo to hear that half a day was nothing compared to the previous shoot. The comfort didn't quite land.
Maseok Do plopped down beside the dejected Yeon-woo, tray from the catering truck in hand.
"Kid, it's fine. When I was a rookie I was terrible at ad-libs too. And this scene's ad-lib is way too long."
"I know, Seok-do hyung. It's so hard. Sigh."
Yeon-woo had to carry more than twenty seconds of pure ad-lib while staring at the screen.
Given the characters, Pierre Choi had to drive the conversation.
"Yeon-woo, think of it simpler. Back in school, when you were late and the teacher called you in and you had to make up an excuse on the spot—those lies you spun in the moment? That's ad-lib too."
The truth was, whether growing up as an orphan, working as an agent, or even after reincarnating into this new life, Yeon-woo had always lived by rules and diligence.
He had never once been called to a teacher's office to lie.
He nodded along to Seok-do's advice anyway, even though it didn't really land.
From the day he first started acting until now, Yeon-woo had relied almost entirely on the script—perfect analysis and thorough rehearsal. That very diligence had become the chain around his ankle.
Without touching his food, Yeon-woo walked to a quiet corner of the set, fretted for a while, then made a call.
The ringtone barely had time to sound before the line connected.
"—Yeah, yeah. Yeon-woo."
A voice came through the receiver, slightly muffled as if the speaker was chewing something.
"Teacher, are you busy?"
"—No. Ahem, ahem. I was just having jjamppong with Teacher Kim."
Jeong Cheol-min cleared his throat; the broth must have been spicy.
In moments like this, he was the one who gave Yeon-woo the most strength.
Yeon-woo explained the whole situation in detail.
Once he'd heard everything, Cheol-min forgot his jjamppong was getting soggy and fell into deep thought.
After a long silence, he finally spoke.
"—Yeon-woo."
"Yes, Teacher."
"—Do you remember the day you first came to see me?"
"With Dad? Ah—the day I went alone and took the acting test?"
"—Yeah. That day, when I threw all those tests at you, the acting you did wasn't as polished as it is now… but it was raw. No script. Just pure performance."
Yeon-woo listened in silence.
"—That day, when I said 'play a spoiled chaebol third-generation heir,' you became that role. When I said 'a limping retired soldier,' you became that one too."
"…Yes, that's right."
Cheol-min's voice continued through the phone.
"—That was the moment I knew you were a genius. How do I put it… it was like you possessed yourself as that person. There was this… desperation to it."
The instant Yeon-woo heard those last words, he flinched as if something had slammed into his skull.
The life of Ryu Yeon-woo that he had grown so used to.
The family he now truly thought of as his own.
The friends he still worried about—whether they were adjusting well at school.
The actors and staff he had come to trust and care for from the heart.
Manager Min-su, stylist Ye-eun, the countless people who now surrounded him.
And the identity of Jeon Su-hwan, the memories of his past life, which had gradually grown more distant.
Yeon-woo was happy in this life—but his past life was still part of who he was now, and those memories were precious.
A black-ops agent trained to infiltrate anywhere.
A field operative trained to handle any situation.
"Teacher. I really can't do this without you. You're the best."
"—Uh, uh-huh? Hahaha. Sounds like I actually helped. That's a relief, Yeon-woo."
"I'll come see you the second I get down to Daejeon."
Yeon-woo said goodbye to Cheol-min and hung up.
A resolute look settled on his face as he sprinted over to Manager Min-su.
"Min-su hyung! I need a favor. Please."
After lunch, the staff had returned to their stations and were checking equipment for the afternoon shoot.
Min-su came barreling through the studio entrance, drenched in sweat and gasping for air.
"Huff… huff… Got it."
He had clearly run full speed; he was still fighting for breath.
Yeon-woo slipped whatever Min-su had brought into his pocket, then clasped the manager's hands in both of his.
"Min-su hyung. Thank you so much. You're the best manager there is!"
Even while still wheezing like he might pass out, Min-su's mouth automatically curved into a smile.
He wordlessly stuck up a thumbs-up. Yeon-woo mirrored it, then swept his gaze across the set.
Then he strode purposefully into the center of the soundstage and shouted at the top of his lungs.
"I'll do better this afternoon! Looking forward to working with all of you!"
The sudden cry made every staff member checking gear freeze and look at him.
Then they broke into smiles and answered one after another.
"Fighting, our lead actor!"
"Pierre Choi, let's go!"
The post-lunch chaos settled, and shooting resumed.
"Scene number 34. Ready… cue."
At the director's word, the cameras rolled again.
Yeon-woo stared at the monitor as the footage played and locked in his self-suggestion.
I am Pierre Choi. The man who shows the duality of con man and big shot, of Condorff and Ronegan.
His eyes changed. He turned to look at Maseok Do, who sat beside him watching the same screen.