The Madman of the Industry
The actors' contracts went through far more quickly than expected.
Nam Hyunho, whom I'd assumed would be the biggest hurdle, was the first to sign, and the supporting cast followed without a hitch.
Everything had proceeded smoothly, exactly according to Plan A.
I'd worried that the lack of a confirmed broadcast slot might become an issue, but the process was easier than I'd anticipated. It seemed everyone had judged that while the scale of the production certainly spoke for itself, with Cheon Yua in the lead role, a scheduling slot would somehow, inevitably, materialize.
The interesting part was the contracts themselves.
Phoenix, the production company behind this drama, and Cheon Financial, the investor, had given the main actors a choice between two contracts: one with a high base salary, and one loaded with bonus clauses.
Apparently, most of the actors went with the bonus-heavy contracts.
I'm in the position of being nearly certain this production will succeed, so I have no idea what these people were thinking when they signed. Were they all that confident in themselves? It was a surprisingly fresh shock to me.
"Hello there! I'm Yang Miju."
And so the director finally sent the little one over to our company.
Since she wanted it so badly herself, he seemed to have decided that letting her at least try it couldn't hurt. Clever as she may look, she's still a child — put her through a grueling film set a few times and she'd surely give up. Or so he was probably thinking.
Honestly, it's a reasonable assumption. However much the world has improved, drama shoots are inevitably punishing affairs, and most kids end up going home in tears.
Of course, our brash little money-grubber's hunger for cash is on a level that can't even be compared to ordinary children's...
"There's no telling how this'll turn out."
This one, I'd have to wait and see.
"Miju is going to live with Yuri."
"That sounds best."
And so the little one, newly installed as yet another resident of Flame Entertainment, decided to live under the same roof as Yang Yuri. The officetel prepared by Flame was spacious enough for two people with room to spare, and the two of them had already been inseparable at the childcare facility, so for looking after the kid, this arrangement was the best option available.
So, in effect, Yang Yuri has been demoted — promoted? — to the position of Miju's mom.
"Ugh, unnie, seriously. Can you please clean up after yourself? The vacuum's right there. Why are you like this?"
"Aww, you nag even here?"
"Stop giving me reasons to nag, then. Do people actually live like this?"
Judging by the atmosphere, it seemed more like their positions had been swapped entirely.
Well, writers are always a bit like that. No — it's not just writers. People who live off creative work generally have a few screws loose by default.
With the little one tightening her screws from the sidelines, I suppose Yang Yuri's living conditions would improve somewhat. Given that she appears to be living in something close to a pigsty these days.
How long has she even been moved in? I have no idea how it got this bad already.
"Come to think of it, the Heavenly Demon was a complete disaster at tidying up too... Could it be...?"
No. No, no. There I go again, nearly letting the occupational disease slip out.
Better not to think about it. After all, I'm not the only one assisting Cheon Yua — her staff are too numerous to count on my fingers.
That side of things feels like a Pandora's box that should never be opened, so I resolved to simply pay it no mind.
"...Oh, she's adorable."
"That's the child actress?"
"Definitely..."
The arrival of the little one — estimated age seven, notable features: extremely cute — apparently caused quite the sensation among the staff as well.
Every time she passed by, the employees' gazes kept drifting her way. Fair enough. Externally, this kid really is genuinely adorable.
It's just that her core has been thoroughly steeped in capitalism.
"What...."
"So cute...."
The staff were one thing, but the real spectacle was the guards.
These people couldn't take their eyes off the little one as she scampered around like a living doll.
East Asians tend to look young for their age anyway, and the kid looks younger than her peers even among them — so to the guards, she probably registers as roughly four or five years old.
On top of that, this little one knows exactly how to win people over. Anyone who seems likely to treat her well gets the full aegyo treatment without hesitation. For the twenty-something female guards — who ought to be at peak cute-thing appreciation age — she goes all in, burying herself in their arms and executing full chest-nuzzles, so they're all losing their minds over her.
Even Sally, owner of a supremely desirable body (the poolside siren herself), had her chest thoroughly...
"What are you staring at, Uncle?"
"Oh, nothing. Wait — why 'Uncle' all of a sudden? You used to call me 'handsome oppa.'"
"We're family now, aren't we? I was told that's what family members call each other."
"That's not... agh. Fine, call me whatever you want."
This kid is not to be underestimated. She'd clearly worked her aegyo with "handsome oppa" at first, and now that title had been demoted a full rank to "Uncle."
From where I stood, "Grandpa" would honestly have been the more fitting title, so I had no real complaints — but her claim that family members call each other that way left me utterly speechless.
What even is this child? I found myself genuinely wondering what on earth she ate growing up to turn out like this at her age.
"There's no time, so we should get her an acting coach first."
"I suppose so. Child actors are cast through auditions, after all."
"As long as she's signed with Flame, even on a short-term contract, she has to go through the audition process. This is a matter of professional pride."
The child version of Wolhee was to be cast through a closed audition. Given the nature of the role — and the fact that it was a child role, no less — there weren't many candidates, but precisely because of that, only the genuinely suitable child actors would be auditioning, which meant getting selected wouldn't be easy either.
For the little one, whose life had been acting but who had never actually acted, this was obviously a time for intensive training.
"Could Miju perhaps train under Yua-sunbaenim?"
"That won't be possible. I have a schedule too. We've brought in someone quite capable from outside — more than qualified to look over Miju's acting for a while."
"...Is that so?"
Wait, we could hire outside coaches?
Then why did Cheon Yua herself have to oversee my acting?
Don't get me wrong, acting practice with Cheon Yua was quite fun in its own right, but still. That hardly required her personally.
Was it some special consideration because I was the first actor signed with Flame?
"Don't give me that look, Siwoo. You're on the same schedule."
"That's... true."
"...You're not telling me you actually forgot?"
Cheon Yua tilted her head as if she'd been doing me a personal kindness by overseeing my acting herself, but her single remark brought back a fact I'd temporarily misplaced. The schedule she was referring to was one I was required to attend as well.
Namely — rehearsal for this drama's action sequences.
"So when does it start again?"
"Today."
"Ah, right, today."
"You really did forget, didn't you?"
"No. I didn't forget, exactly."
"You did."
"Hmm... well. Yes, I suppose."
Honestly, I had forgotten. I'd figured Team Leader Seo or Namchul-hyung (my manager) would remind me when the time came.
No, honestly, that's a fair excuse. Do you have any idea how many things I've had on my mind lately?
The little one suddenly enrolling at Flame out of nowhere, and the identity of adult Wolhee still not even being disclosed to me.
My plate has been more than full lately, I'm telling you.
I may have momentarily forgotten, but that doesn't make this an unimportant schedule. With most of the actors' roles now decided, this was the session where actors with action scenes would rehearse their sequences together.
Granted, action performance is one of the things I'm most confident in — but acting, whatever form it takes, is never something you can do entirely alone. With action in particular, syncing up with your partner is crucial, and the higher the difficulty of the choreography, the more the timing and rhythm matter. So I needed to focus on this part of the training too.
Otherwise, people get hurt. Granted, the someone getting hurt would be my partner, not me.
"Come to think of it, Nam Hyunho will be at the action rehearsals too."
"Ah, right. Nam Seokju — his role has plenty of action as well."
If I had to name the three actors handling the most action scenes in this drama, it would be me, Cheon Yua, and Nam Hyunho. All three of us played characters who essentially handled the combat, so there was a great deal to rehearse.
Meaning that whenever the actors gathered for action training, Nam Hyunho would be there too.
Namgung Hyunho. Of the rigid, hidebound orthodox sects, he'd been one of the few with an actually awake mind.
The end hadn't treated him particularly well, as I recall, but as a person he was the genuine article — decent through and through. Entirely apart from his utterly hopeless martial arts, the kind derided as "swordsmanship that couldn't cut tofu."
"So what kind of actor is Nam Hyunho-sunbae, anyway?"
"Nam Hyunho? Hmm... From what I've heard, he's known for tremendous passion about his craft."
"Really?"
"Yes. You know how he played a loan shark in his debut work?"
"Ah, in Hot-Blooded Prosecutor? That's right."
"I heard Nam Hyunho actually worked as a debt collector for a while to prepare for that role."
"...As a debt collector? In real life?"
"Yes. It came out later as behind-the-scenes trivia, but apparently it's true."
Wondering what kind of actor the modern Nam Hyunho might be, I'd asked Cheon Yua — and her answer was quite the shock.
This was the man who, as a supporting actor, had practically carried an entire drama on his back — and he had actually gone out and lived the life of a loan shark just to understand the role.
Wait, hold on. I get doing it for the sake of a great performance, but he takes it that far?
Granted, I have something of a similar history myself. To maintain cover identities in professions requiring actual skills — a musician, a scribe, a fortune-teller, a gambler, a boatman — I'd done real work in the field more than once.
But I did it because my actual life was on the line. This man did it for nothing more than a role.
What's he going to do if he plays a drug addict — actually shoot up? The more I think about it, the more this guy seems to have a serious screw loose.
"Yep, that's exactly it. A certified lunatic of the industry. Who knew such people actually existed in the world?"
Apparently, the list of people I need to keep my distance from has grown by one.
A madman, honestly.
I'd figured that being the third son of Changcheon Group made him decent networking to stay friendly with — not a bad connection at all — but no matter how good someone's background is, madmen are strictly off the list.
That's right. Actual lunatics are a hard no.
Resolving to avoid him at all costs, I climbed into the van to head off to action rehearsal.