Chapter 245
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 245
Chapter Title: Behind the Scenes
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“Wow. Is that Lee Seojun’s manager? Even his manager is so handsome.”
A man walked in with Kim Hyungwon, the representative for *The Mirror*, a gentle smile on his face.
His black suit and confident stride were a far cry from the managers seen on TV, who always looked exhausted from their work. He exuded professionalism from head to toe.
The employees of Hero Publishing, who had gathered in a spot with a clear view of the hallway leading to the conference room, watched him in awe.
“I guess Hollywood actors have handsome managers, too. Doesn't he look like he works out?”
“I know, right? He must have been to Hollywood, too.”
“Of course, he has. They filmed *Shadowman 3* last year.”
The manager of the Hollywood star, Lee Seojun, entered the conference room. The employees, who had been staring at the firmly shut door, slowly straightened up from their crouched positions.
“I looked him up, and apparently he’s been Lee Seojun’s manager for a really long time.”
“How did you find that out?”
“My daughter is a huge fan of Lee Seojun. I asked her what his manager was like, and she just rattled it all off. Said he’s a really great guy.”
“Did you… tell her?”
“No! What if rumors start and he decides not to do it?”
“Right? I quit drinking three days ago for the same reason.”
“You didn’t have to go that far, did you?”
“When I drink, I have a habit of repeating myself over and over again. I was worried I might say something without realizing it, anytime, anywhere.”
An employee from the sales team shuddered.
“Imagine I wake up after a night of drinking and see an article online that says, ‘Actor Lee Seojun to Star in Play The Mirror!’ It would be all over the trending searches and news, and the company would be in an uproar.”
“Whoa…”
Just imagining the scenario, which they didn't even want to think about, made the editors and employees gasp.
“And then an article would immediately follow, saying, ‘Actor Lee Seojun Cancels Graduation Performance!’ If that happened, even prostrating myself in apology in front of the company wouldn't be enough.”
“You’re right. Good call. Stay off the booze.”
The idea that ‘if his identity is revealed, Lee Seojun will drop the project’ had somehow morphed from a non-existent threat into an urban legend that felt all too real.
Its origin likely traced back eight years to Team 2, who had orchestrated a plan to silence the parents of the child actors and staff when Seojun—or rather, ‘Jin Natra’—was appearing in the children’s play, *Spring*.
If Team 2 and An Daho had known, they would have been impressed, thinking, ‘Wow, the effect is really long-lasting.’
“I really hope the talks go well…”
“It’s a win-win! Mr. President! Mr. Manager!”
The employees of Hero Publishing clasped their hands together, their eyes sparkling as they stared at the conference room.
Time passed—long for some, short for others.
A while later, the conference room door opened.
Lee Seojun’s manager emerged with the same affable smile he’d had when he entered. He made eye contact with the clustered employees, gave a slight bow, and left the publishing house. The president and the editor-in-chief, who had come out with him, saw him off.
“…Did it go well?”
“I’m not sure.”
The employees, who had held their breath until the manager left the building, rushed over to the president and editor-in-chief.
“Mr. President! Editor-in-chief!”
“What happened?!”
“I’d already thought of photo cards, posters, and bookmarks!”
“I even found a good production company!”
The president looked at the employees, who were gazing at him with sparkling eyes like baby birds waiting for food, and spoke with a look of pity.
“No book cover, no belly band.”
“…What?!”
“And no related merchandise of any kind, either.”
“…Whaaat?!”
“Why not? Didn’t you say they offered a generous promotional budget?”
“I did. But they said it’s not about the money.”
The president let out a sigh filled with disappointment.
“The actor himself chose the book simply because he enjoyed it, and he was worried that accepting promotional fees could lead to misunderstandings. Besides, it’s not a solo play; he’s doing it with his peers. The kids might not care, but you never know what their families might think. He wants to prevent any potential complaints before they can even arise.”
The reasoning was understandable, so the employees could only nod with disappointed expressions.
“So we can’t promote it at all?”
“No, that’s not it. We can put his name on the book’s belly band. And an article about the book concert would probably get a good response.”
At the editor-in-chief’s words, the employees breathed a sigh of relief. They thought they were going to miss out on the Lee Seojun effect entirely.
“What about overseas?”
“That too. We can use his name, but only on the belly band.”
The sales team employees fell into thought, brainstorming various belly band designs and the most effective taglines.
“But when can we start promoting it with Lee Seojun’s name? The play hasn’t even been made yet…”
“Good point.”
Even if they wanted to attach a belly band that said, [The novel Lee Seojun is adapting into a play], the proof—the play itself—didn’t exist yet.
“So, I’ve got an idea…”
All eyes turned to the editor-in-chief. In situations like this, he was the one with the most insight. Even the president perked up his ears. As the editor-in-chief spoke in a calm voice, a fire was lit at Hero Publishing for the first time in a long while.
* * *
A Team 2 employee, buried in work like any ordinary manager, spotted An Daho entering the office. He tilted his head, noticing An Daho’s sharp attire, a departure from his usual comfortable clothes.
“Huh? Team Leader An, are you going somewhere today?”
“Ooh, a blind date?”
An Daho, who was grabbing a USB drive and a list of program appearance offers compiled by Team 2 from his desk, shook his head with a smile.
“Nope. I was at Hero Publishing this morning.”
“I knew that… but I didn’t know you went dressed like that. You really dressed up.”
“You could call it a preemptive strike. It was a bit of a hassle getting all polished up this morning.”
An Daho laughed awkwardly.
“I bet. The publishing house must have been disappointed. They could have made a fortune selling all sorts of merchandise.”
“I figured it would be better than going dressed casually.”
Perhaps it was because of his attire, but thankfully, the conversation went more smoothly than he had worried it would.
“Are you heading straight to Seojun’s?”
“Yes. I found a recording of a play rehearsal that I think he’ll need more right now. Well, I’ll be off then.”
“Okay.”
As An Daho left the office, the Team 2 employees started talking with smiles on their faces.
“Team Leader An is really something else. I bet his mind is completely filled with thoughts of Seojun.”
“I know, right? What kind of manager learns self-defense just in case a bodyguard isn’t around? And he’s still practicing it, too.”
“He has a first-aid certification, too.”
“He got that a long time ago. Probably right after Team 2 was formed.”
That would have been when Seojun was eight years old, when he and An Daho first met. Everyone was surprised to hear it was a story from nearly eight years ago.
“When Seojun started middle school, he even started studying nutrition. He was saying Seojun needed to grow well during his growth spurt and that he had to be well-fed during filming.”
“That must be why he can keep working with Seojun.”
“Ah, speaking of which,”
One of the employees who had worked with An Daho in Team 2 the longest remembered something.
“I think Seojun’s contract is up this year…”
At those words, the jaws of all the Team 2 employees dropped.
* * *
Thwack!
Lee Minjun plunged a large kitchen knife into a massive watermelon. He rotated the melon, slicing it until the round fruit split in two.
“Seojun’s been cooped up in his room ever since he got back from vacation.”
“But he never skips his acting practice. He has plenty of time since it’s summer break, so isn’t it fine?”
“That summer break is already half over, though.”
“Time flies, doesn’t it?”
Half, and then half again.
Beside him, Seo Eunhye was cutting the red flesh into neat cubes and carefully placing them in a container. The way the pieces fit together perfectly suggested she’d done this more than once or twice.
“Do you think we’ll be able to see Seojun’s graduation performance?”
“It said that the performing students’ families could attend.”
“Really? That’s great.”
In that time, a whole watermelon had been neatly dismantled.
“There, all done. Take a plate to Seojun, too.”
Lee Minjun set aside a small portion of watermelon for the three of them and put the rest in the refrigerator. Seo Eunhye picked up one of the two plates Minjun had prepared and knocked on Seojun’s door.
“Honey, can I come in?”
“Yeah.”
Peeking in, Seo Eunhye couldn’t help but smile at the scene inside.
“This looks more like a writer’s room than an actor’s.”
“Hmm. It is a bit of a mess, isn’t it?”
Seojun put down his pen and scratched his cheek.
“I don’t think it was ever this bad, even when I was studying for exams.”
Seo Eunhye glanced around Seojun’s desk. His large desk and the area around it were already buried under piles of paper.
There was the script based on the novel and the novel itself. The novelized play script and the book. Scripts he’d liked and a video of a play running on his monitor. Papers scribbled with notes and a collection of colorful pens.
It looked like a chaotic mess, but it was a space Seojun had organized in his own way.
Seeing the plate of red watermelon, Seojun quickly gathered the papers scattered on one side of his desk. Seo Eunhye placed the plate in the empty spot and asked.
“How much have you done?”
Seojun speared a cube of watermelon with a fork.
“I’ve got the rough overall picture down. But it’s hard to express what’s in my head in writing.”
“Is it?”
“I think I know why Director Choi Daeman was sequestered. My head gets all fuzzy from working only in here. So I’m going to work at the Cocoa Entertainment practice room tomorrow.”
Seo Eunhye laughed at Seojun’s words. The story of Director Choi Daeman being sequestered in a five-star hotel during the filming of *Escape* was always an amusing one to hear.
“What did the writers and directors say?”
Seojun’s adaptation project had become a surprisingly interesting topic. When he told his acquaintances about it and that they might be asked for advice later, they all seemed intrigued. More than a few had asked to see the script once it was finished.
Unlike his acting, which he wanted to show to anyone and everyone, showing a script he had adapted himself felt a little embarrassing. That was why Seojun wanted to make the script as perfect as possible.
“I plan on showing it to Jiseok later.”
“That’s a good idea. Jiseok has experience with plays. Well, keep up the good work.”
“Okay! Thanks for the watermelon.”
After Seo Eunhye left, Seojun popped a piece of watermelon into his mouth and turned his gaze back to his desk.
*The Mirror* lay wide open.
Perhaps because Seojun had chosen the second of the book’s three stories, the middle section was particularly worn. Of course, he hadn’t ignored the first and third episodes or the overall narrative.
The scenes, lines, and stage directions he absolutely wanted to include in the play were marked in a rainbow of colors. From scenes of lower priority to those he wanted to emphasize, everything was clearly distinguished and easy to read.
First, Seojun extracted the dialogue from the book and arranged it in order. He incorporated the characters’ feelings, which were expressed in prose, into the stage directions. Then, he added appropriate dialogue, movements, and directions to bridge any awkward or abrupt transitions.
Once the basic framework was in place, he began to incorporate various stage effects.
He reviewed the list of stage effects available at Yeoul Hall, which he had received from his teacher when submitting his application for the graduation performance, and watched last year’s Yeoul Arts Middle School graduation performances uploaded to N-tube to get a feel for them.
“It’s definitely different from *Spring*.”
That was the children’s play he had performed at the Eunhasu Center.
Back then, he had only been interested in acting, but he occasionally caught glimpses of the adults building the stage.
Seojun clearly remembered how the clumsy dragon, props, and stage effects had transformed into something spectacular after a significant amount of money was invested.
“But I probably can’t change the equipment.”
A graduation performance was different from a professional play that runs dozens of times on the same stage with a single production. Since other students’ plays would also be performed, he couldn’t just alter the stage equipment as he pleased.
“Still, our school’s stage equipment is good.”
Since it was passed down from the Eunhasu Center, which was part of the same ATR Foundation, to Mirinae Arts High and Yeoul Arts Middle, the facilities were better than those of most small theaters.
After briefly looking back and forth between the play running on his monitor and the list of Yeoul Hall’s stage equipment, Seojun picked up his pen.
“Then I should use this here.”
The script, filled to the brim with Seojun’s ambitions, was slowly being revised to accommodate a variety of practical reasons.
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