The Sudden Catfish
The first thing that caught my eye about the sudden catfish was his refreshingly tall stature. Fourteen years old and already 170cm? It was hard to believe, but seeing it in person made it undeniably real.
His shoulders are broad too... Looks like he trains consistently? No sign of the modern slouch—turtle neck or rounded shoulders. Just from his posture, he looked like a professional dancer. His limbs stretched out straight and strong. His proportions were utterly perfect.
And his face? "Is this kid really fourteen? How does he have just a hint of cheekbones?"
"Cheekbones? Looks totally round and soft to me."
"What? That's why you can't make it as a caddie. Learn from me—this one's got cheekbones for sure."
Opinions varied slightly from person to person. But they all boiled down to one word: handsome. Everyone felt the charm differently, but the fact of his good looks was undeniable.
And the appeal didn't stop there.
-He's a loner, he's a loner.
Like the song, you could tell the talent from the first line alone. Caddy team leader Shin Youngsuk didn't need to watch more—she sent the acceptance notice right away.
"I've gotta see this kid in person on-site."
The on-site interview for the public audition was next month. Honestly, Shin Youngsuk wanted to show him to the HideDream writer immediately. But that'd be unfair.
The moment this kid showed up at the audition, it'd lose all meaning. Shin Youngsuk was certain.
-[Congratulations, you've passed. Detailed schedule...]
The morning after submitting my audition application, I opened my phone and read the long acceptance text.
It explained where the audition was, what script to prepare—everything was laid out clearly, no confusion possible.
This actually worked.
I'd expected it, but imagination and reality hit different. Worlds apart.
I got up leisurely from bed and wandered over to Dad, who was taking his time with his morning routine.
"Dad, I passed the audition, so I might not be able to go to school next week."
"Mm."
"It's called HideDream, airing next year... I applied since they were casting."
"I see."
Dad's responses were the epitome of taciturn. It felt awkward to end the conversation there, so I added a bit more.
"Mom's almost got her clean bill of health, right?"
"Yeah, that's right."
"America really is the best for this."
In 2010, America led the world in cancer treatment. After much discussion, our family decided to admit Mom to a U.S. hospital. It cost a fortune, but the building in Bundang held up—it covered everything.
And it paid off immediately. Right after the diagnosis that her cancer was treatable, I could see her complexion improving rapidly on every video call.
"It's such a relief."
Dad's words came with a sigh of relief.
"Still, she'll be back in Korea by the time your drama airs."
"It's just the audition for now—I don't know if I'll get the role yet."
No sooner had I said that than Dad chuckled softly.
"Who'd pass on you?"
There wasn't a flicker of doubt in his eyes.
Time flew by to the day of the on-site audition. They'd filtered plenty, but the drama's massive scale meant tons of applicants still.
"Three thousand's way too many..."
"That's why the on-site takes a couple weeks—this is the minimum."
"Still..."
"What good's complaining from grunts like us? Keep your mouth shut and work."
"Yes, sir."
The KBC audition hall buzzed with activity. Prep for the auditions themselves wasn't much, but with the crowds and attention, there were endless details to handle.
"Public audition co-hosted by KBC, ST Ent, and Full Lady—reporters are everywhere."
"Worried about weird rumors or rigged game vibes..."
"We're stressed, but the judges must be freaking out."
"Yeah."
The staff's worries were spot on. The judges arriving at the venue didn't look thrilled. But they were only half right.
Their grim faces had a completely different cause.
...The writer's in rough shape today.
PD, say something to her.
You do it, Director—I'm powerless.
Youngsuk's handling it?
She got glared at for only cutting it to three thousand. That's 90% eliminations!
Four judges for three thousand applicants: HideDream PD, director, caddy team leader Shin Youngsuk, and writer Lee Minha.
As a KBC public audition, no ST Ent or Full Lady reps joined. But they'd submitted applicants too—and that grated on Lee Minha's nerves.
"They want script changes for their image? Fine, sticking to concept? Got it."
But if you're keeping everything, shouldn't you compromise? Why hand it to me if you wanna write it yourselves? Why contract me at all?
As her irritated rant looped endlessly, HideDream PD—and former Kyarruk Doctor! PD—Kim Youngmo cut in sharply.
"Exactly. I want this public audition to focus purely on civilians or rookies."
"Right! New faces! No broadcast experience! Acting might be rough, but they need that fresh vibe!"
Shin Youngsuk picked up perfectly, and Lee Minha's mood lifted, her lips twitching up.
"Right?"
She'd been raging like crazy moments ago, but a couple endorsements cheered her right up. A textbook mood swinger.
"Trained kids have habits—they lack that green freshness."
Other dramas maybe, but HideDream was set in an arts high school. Some acting skill was fine, but too polished looked off. Everyone starts as a newbie sometime. Agency-trained kids just screamed pro.
Lee Minha craved raw newness. She knew it was unrealistic—like hoping for a Fedor in a street fight.
But it could happen, right?
That hope started the auditions, but time crushed Lee Minha's expectations brutally.
"Thank you, we've seen enough."
"One more time..."
"Sorry, but two hundred more are behind you."
It felt like a factory line. Similar acting, similar feedback. Next. Four days of this nonstop.
Applicants all left disappointed. Understandable—who nails a 2-3 minute self-pitch?
Lots of rejects would blow up later, for sure.
But no time to consider every case.
Dwell on details, and nothing gets done.
"Even so, not one kid jumps out?"
Lee Minha grumbled; the other judges nodded.
A few scraped by, but barely. She wanted someone who instantly fit a role.
They gave audition scripts—mob characters at best.
Need actors who color it their own, make it theirs.
Someone who sparks the script on sight. Not written for them from the start, but the role incarnate. Full setup, details included—no notes needed.
But prodigies don't just drop from the sky.
"Argh!"
Lee Minha jammed a cigarette in her mouth irritably. Ashtray cacti dotted the judges' table.
"Maybe talent's all at the back."
"Probably."
Kim Youngmo fiddled with his bucket hat, hiding despair. How many more rejections?
Tough gig.
After Toonitrain became a sunset project, Kim Youngmo felt kids' programming limits and pivoted. No low-age content? Aim higher: teens' youth.
That birthed HideDream. It started strong—idol agencies and actors cooperated.
But scale bred greed. Whales fought; shrimp backs broke.
...Hoped to scout talent here for a mood boost.
Fatal?
Checking the next profile, Kim Youngmo did a double-take.
"K-Kim Donghu?!"
He shot up, yelling. "Youngsuk! Kim Donghu's auditioning?!"
"Huh? Yeah, I screened him myself."
"Oh, uh, n-no? Just... profile caught my eye."
Kim Youngmo masked his excitement, quelling his pounding heart.
Kim Donghu!
How could he forget? Toonitrain's first and last 12% ratings king. One appearance, then vanished. Kim Youngmo's eternal number one pick, the talent he couldn't lose.
Thought he'd skipped acting entirely.
Meeting here.
Heart racing. "H-Hurry the next one!"
Seeing our Donghu! Kim Youngmo buzzed; Lee Minha stubbed her cig, stunned.
The usually calm, serious PD in a tizzy? Must be something.
Handsome, sure... but too young?
Just fourteen. Tough for high school drama. Face and height were killer, granted. But numbers on paper, right?
Plenty of tricks with kids like this.
Did Kim Youngmo fall for it? Eyes on the door.
Who could spark this?
The door creaked open.
"Huh?"
The audition room transformed into a high school classroom in an instant.