A Madman's Confidence

After the meeting wrapped up, we gathered in the lounge for a quick chat — me, Cheon Yua, and Yang Yuri. The overall mood was one of satisfaction with how things had turned out.

"I like it. The actors are all solid people, too."

"Indeed."

"Nothing wears me down faster than actors who can't act but come loaded with pride anyway. This shoot looks like it won't be any trouble at all."

Cheon Yua seemed quite pleased with the casting board that had been finalized as the first-choice lineup. Apparently she thought they were all actors with genuinely good chops.

As for me, I knew fewer of them than I didn't, so I didn't have much to say either way — but if Cheon Yua was this impressed, I supposed their acting had to be top-tier.

"That's part of it, but I also like the director. Casting usually falls squarely into a director's domain, and he really seemed to respect Writer Yang Yuri's input."

"Ah, right. That matters too."

In my case, it was Director Bang's attitude that pleased me more than the actors themselves did. Yang Yuri was a rookie writer, and a young one at that — a setup ripe for problems on that front. Director Bang was in his late forties, exactly the kind of age gap where looking down on her would be all too easy.

And yet he had treated Yang Yuri with respect from start to finish.

"And while still making his own points when it counted. Honestly, I think he was a solid choice."

"Was picking Director Bang for this project your call, Representative?"

"Yes, it was. She said he was the best possible choice for our production. Phoenix had originally suggested someone else."

"I see..."

She had looked after Cheon Yua for years, after all — apparently our representative had a pretty sharp eye for people, too.

"So, Yuri. What's the plan for the child role? Still thinking of Miju?"

"Yes, I am."

What had started as a round of character assessments on the actors and the director soon shifted to the child actor question — which was a fairly serious matter in its own right. It was, after all, the reason the script would need revisions in the first place.

"So it comes down to that after all."

To get the conclusion out of the way: yes, the child actor Yang Yuri had in mind was our little rascal. For a rookie writer like her, no real alternative existed, so neither Cheon Yua nor I had found the choice the least bit surprising.

"That rascal, huh..."

Now, what manner of creature was our little rascal? Name: Yang Miju. A rascal (estimated age: seven) currently residing at Sky Love Orphanage — the facility that had somehow become Flame Entertainment's local Murim branch. Despite her adorable looks, she was possessed of a shockingly brash personality and was currently making a name for herself as the orphanage's head of guest relations. And this little one, of all people, dreamed of becoming a child actress.

She'd even gone through a informal audition through Cheon Yua, and the acting she'd shown then had been, by my standards, pretty convincing. So appearing in the drama as a child actor wouldn't be a problem in itself — but playing the child version of Wolhee felt like it might ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠be a stretch. Depending on the script and the direction, there could be singing or dancing involved. Granted, Yang Yuri was the one writing the script, but for the sake of plausibility, a certain amount of it would need to be there.

Handing a role to a rascal with zero experience was one thing — but dancing and singing on top of that?

"She'll be fine. Our Miju can sing a little."

"...She can sing?"

"Yes. And dance a little, too..."

"...What is that rascal, exactly?"

As it turned out, our rascal was more impressive than I'd given her credit for. At her age, she already had both passable dance skills and singing ability to boot.

"The sponsors love it when Miju sings for them. When people are in a good mood, their wallets naturally open up."

"I see..."

A capitalist rascal, through and through.

"What about the dancing?"

"Was it last year? Na Yeri of Ash Bloom built a new building, apparently. Miju saw the article and her eyes spun around in her head. 'If you become an idol, you make SO much money' — and she started training like a maniac from that day on. Of course, once she realized a child can't be an idol, she got all sulky right away."

"...Really, now."

"Yes. Her movement is remarkable, honestly. Especially imitation — copying what she sees is her true forte. And realistically, dancing as acting would at most take the form of something like classical dance, so I think it'll be fine."

Consistent to the very last drop, that one. Had she been aiming to be an idol, and simply pivoted to child acting once she realized that was something a kid could actually do? All I could do was marvel at the little rascal's insane talent, tenacity, and thirst for cold, hard cash.

"The real problem is the director, though, isn't it? She's pretty stubborn."

"Well, that's..."

It was Cheon Yua, listening quietly from the sidelines, who raised the single most important point. She had already sat down with the orphanage director — who had flatly refused to let the little rascal debut as a child actress. So even if we wanted her, we couldn't simply use her.

Except there was a backstory on our side, too, one we hadn't known about.

"Just yesterday, Miju started a hunger strike. The director is at her wits' end."

The willful little rascal had gone on a full-blown, do-or-die hunger strike.

"...With any other kid, I'd say..."

"Yes, but Miju means it."

A child's hunger strike, properly speaking, follows a standard script: skip a few meals, get dizzy, keel over. Meaning that if you just leave it alone, the problem solves itself.

But what if the kid in question was that rascal?

This was no ordinary situation. I had a feeling that girl could keep the fast going all the way until they loaded her into an ambulance. Apparently this rascal had not only surplus drive and talent, but the constitution of a fireside filial daughter as well.

"So the director is deliberating right now. If she can't break Miju's stubbornness, letting her try it once isn't the worst idea."

"And if she does allow it, Flame would be the best fit — everyone already knows Miju here, and we'd manage her thoroughly."

"Yes, that's exactly what I think."

True enough. If the rascal's stubbornness couldn't be broken, then someone had to let her try — and if it came to that, our Flame was the best possible setup. Especially for this production: a whole crowd of people who knew her personally would be involved, and it was Yang Yuri's project — a bond closer than blood sisters. There could be no better conditions anywhere for a rascal's first taste of child acting.

"Then you try persuading her, Yuri. Tell her she gets one chance — and if it doesn't work out, she goes back to the orphanage."

"Yes, I will."

"But couldn't Phoenix just find another child actor?"

"Probably. Phoenix isn't some small shop, and they've got child actors coming out of their ears. In which case it becomes a competition, doesn't it? No matter how well we know someone, just handing them a confirmed role outright wouldn't be right."

"Fair enough..."

Cheon Yua's words were as close to gospel as it got. To land a role, of course you had to compete for it. And yet, somehow, I wasn't the least bit worried — with that rascal's tenacity, I had no doubt she'd take the role, no matter what.

On our end, worrying about the visual match between the adult actor and the little rascal was probably the wiser investment.

"That actor you're aiming for, Writer — do they suit the rascal well?"

"Ah, um... yes, I think it'll work."

"...You can't tell me who it is, I take it?"

"Nothing's confirmed yet, so gossiping about it wouldn't be right. But I'll say one thing for certain — this person carries the same kind of impact as Yua unnie. Ah, no, is that too much? Hmm... actually, yes. I'd say it's about the same."

"...Now I'm even more curious."

I'd been hoping to fish out the casting target while I had the chance, but the cursed woman wasn't giving me so much as a crack to slip through.

"Same here. I'm dying to know."

"You don't know either, Yua sunbae?"

"That's right. I've asked, but she won't answer. It felt wrong to keep pressing, so I'm just waiting like everyone else."

"...I see."

Damn it. Dead end.

If even Cheon Yua — the owner and investor of the company — didn't know, then half-hearted prodding wasn't going to shake anything loose. It wasn't as though I could grab Yang Yuri and administer a proper round of tendon-severing, bone-dislocating interrogation, after all.

What the hell was going to pop out that required all this secrecy?

The Yeohwa Pavilion Master? The Naedang Master? The Milwol Squad Leader?

My every instinct screamed to run background searches on the usual suspects — but Bukgung Seolli, Je Yeongryeong, Seok Yosun... their names were all in that style, making even a simple search a nightmare. So what could I do? Wait, that's what.

"With Nam Hyunho already joining the lineup, what else could possibly shock me now..."

The Shingyo-plus-Namgung-clan hellfire collab was already underway. What could they possibly add to that?

For now, I decided to empty my mind and simply wait.

A tall, strikingly handsome man of the delicate-nobleman school sat on a sofa, leafing through a script. The bound draft was marked Unsan Gold Mine (working title).

"Steampunk, but Joseon. That's fresh. And this character of mine — a baekjeong butcher... I like it."

"So you're taking it, then?"

"Yep. Why? Got some problem with it?"

"Problems? Plenty. It's a project that hasn't even secured a broadcast slot yet, for one. You're not the lead, for another. And what is that contract? 'Choose one of the two.' I've never seen anything like it in my life. Hyung — you're not seriously thinking of signing the second contract, are you?"

The actor Nam Hyunho chuckled and gave the back of his manager's grumbling head a light tap. He knew perfectly well that all that loose talking was ultimately for his own sake. The way the man kept harping on the contract made it clear the second one — with wildly variable compensation pegged to performance — had come as quite a shock to him.

"What's the matter? I think it's fun. Especially that contract. I like performance-based pay. Actors are freelancers, aren't they? And a freelancer ought to take home exactly as much as they earn."

"Ugh, you're really signing the second contract? If the drama flops, you get absolutely nothing."

"But if it explodes, I make more than double."

"Aigoo... then again, when have you ever listened to me? Fine. Do whatever you want."

Nam Hyunho was, after all, a man who ignored any advice, no matter ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠how sincerely it was offered. He was strongly my-way-or-the-highway himself. He was the type to commit to any role he liked, screen time be damned — and he seemed genuinely taken with his character, a butcher in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a steampunk setting.

"Though it is a little disappointing that I'm a supporting role. This'll be my first time acting opposite Cheon sunbae — the so-called Top Actor Detector."

Even Nam Hyunho had one small regret. He was about to share the screen with the industry-famous Cheon Yua for the first time — yet his scenes barely featured her at all. No, that wasn't quite it: he had scenes, just none performed face-to-face with her.

Cheon Yua's Top Actor Detector effect was at its most overwhelming in two-shots, and not getting to test himself against it was, frankly, a crying shame.

"By the way, if I'm supporting, who's the lead?"

"Still under embargo. A rookie, apparently. Baek Si-woo..."

"Baek Si-woo? That name sounds familiar."

"You know, from Genius Copywriter, Yoon Seoeun — the Old Man Yoon thing..."

"Ah — the disrespectful punk Yooshin threw that tantrum over?"

At the mention of Baek Si-woo, Nam Hyunho's brow furrowed and his eyes flashed. Since he was on friendly terms with Jo Yooshin, his image of Baek Si-woo wasn't exactly rosy. After all, Jo Yooshin had already poured out every baseless grievance under the sun and torn the whole affair wide open.

"Come on, hyung, take anything Jo Yooshin says with a grain of salt."

"Hey, Yooshin may seem like that on the surface, but underneath he's the real deal. And you're telling me that arrogant punk..."

Nam Hyunho's manager, who understood the ways of this industry well enough, knew perfectly well that Jo Yooshin was rotten to the core — but when the man himself was this blindly loyal, there was nothing to be done. The best a manager could manage was to plant the smallest seed of caution.

"Look at the guy, hyung. He's an obvious lunatic. Best not to get entangled, if you ask me."

"Lunatic?"

"Obviously. What kind of sane person ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠goes through full makeup to play a man in his seventies?"

"Hah. THAT makes him a lunatic? That kind of fake madness is meaningless in the face of the real thing."

It was no use. Nam Hyunho was a man utterly convinced that the true madman of this industry was himself.

And this self-proclaimed madman was brimming with the resolve to teach that insolent junior exactly what real madness looked like.