I Acknowledge

A week was time enough for the articles to come down like a monsoon.

Bearing the weight of the crown called most anticipated, Special Task Force 808 kept swelling on nothing more than the news that production was underway. And seated in the eye of that typhoon was its protagonist, Lee Sua.

Vrrt— vrrt— vrrt—

Clunk—!

"Ah, shit. Out of ink?"

Without the slightest awareness of the downpour of articles and rumors, she had simply kept the printer running all day. Scripts and screenplays, of course.

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"Drama fans are a lot more devoted than I thought…."

For works that had once enjoyed huge popularity, there were scripts fans had compiled out of pure affection, and from Sua's point of view that was something to welcome. Every last one of them made precious material.

She printed for a single reason. Acting practice.

And this, spread open before her eyes, was nothing less than the fruit of that effort. Sua had experienced script after script—far too many to count.

"Acting. If I'm going to survive, it's acting or nothing. For real."

In truth, she had been turning those words over and over since dawn.

Because I'm being wildly misunderstood.

Whatever her intentions, she knew perfectly well that she was currently being taken for something on the order of a promising, skilled rookie. If she wanted to survive, she had no choice but to actually become skilled.

…Especially after the company dinner, that feeling had grown truly strong.

"And my personality…. Mm. I'll work on it."

Fixing her timid disposition. In truth, this was harder than the acting practice. Even so, she was trying—repeating to herself, Sua, you're going to be a wonderful actor!

After that, she repeated a systematic drill.

"First I record myself recreating it…. Ah, the angle's gone off. Have to do it again. After that, I look up the original footage of the other actor's performance…."

She compared what she had recreated against the actual scenes from the drama. Had the original actors felt something close to what she had felt? Did the interpretation the script had handed her match the original work? And if a difference existed, which of the two was better?

Thanks to that, she had the sense that her acting was growing in leaps and bounds—and she felt it most keenly in moments like this.

"I think I'd do that better than that actor."

Sua muttered a chiding little well, well at herself.

"…Or not? Was that too arrogant just now? Am I insane?"

But once she had checked the footage of her own recreation, she was sure. Somewhere along the way, Sua had begun to sense, down to the fine detail, even other actors' shortcomings—and their emotions.

"Look at this, look at this! The stuff that looked off at a glance—you go check, and the ratings are already in pieces! If I'd acted it, it wouldn't have bombed this hard…. Ah, what am I saying. Be humble, Lee Sua."

Sua smacked her own mouth. I must be crazy.

You're a rookie, you brat! You don't even have a career!

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Still, she could feel herself improving, so the process wasn't purely miserable. If anything, Sua could take a real joy in it, and a real pride.

Except….

Sua tilted her head.

"Anyway…. I still don't get it, though."

Her small hands fidgeted with the scripts.

"…What even is the standard for roles that don't show up?"

That was when it happened.

"Huh?"

She looked over the Special Privilege's various functions in the notification window that had popped up out of nowhere, and understood at once what had changed.

Sua's eyes went wide.

"Kim Hyo-jin's compatibility is only an F? So that's why it never showed up at all? The auto-remove function was blocking it completely."

She could faintly guess why it was only displaying this now that her proficiency had risen. It was as if the Special Privilege were whispering that she should experience things more freely, on the strength of her improved skill.

"Ooh…. Special Privilege, I'm actually a little moved?"

In this world where everyone misunderstood her, wasn't the Special Privilege the one thing standing wholly on her side? A corner of her chest went warm and tight.

"All right. Practice ends here for now…. Next!"

Sua snatched up a script.

It was the short historical film, Sword.

With the production of Special Task Force 808 now confirmed, Sua kept a steady interest in other works as well.

And of course she did. Landing a single Grade 1 and then throwing away every Grade 2 would be idiotic, wouldn't it? That was how Sua saw it.

A filmography isn't completed in a single line.

Even a quick search of Seo Yeon-ju and Kim Seonil—both enjoying enormous popularity with the public—was enough to drive the lesson home. The major works lined up year after year were enviable, and formidable.

There was one thing more.

"We'll send them along as soon as each script is finished."

So Caddy had said, and writer Lee Geumsuk had also given notice that she would rewrite Kim Yu-han's portion from the beginning. All of it pointed to one fact.

Time.

Sua had been given time.

There's still a good while before I get the Kim Yu-han script, and I don't feel like just messing around while I wait.

Any other actor would have been sick with worry over whether they might receive the Kim Yu-han script even a little sooner. Of course they would. Getting a script you hadn't even memorized right before the shoot was no different from a lightning strike.

But Sua, at least, had no such worry. What does it matter when I get it? I've got the Special Privilege.

And so Sua set out on a proper investigation of the script, unfolding a phone directory inside a payphone booth of the Special Trait Hotel.

"Whoa. Even the names are dripping with historical-drama flavor."

She could now experience every role, but supporting parts, extras, and the like were low in compatibility, every one of them. So the target was Wi Ji-hye. From Sua's perspective, landing the lead with the highest compatibility was best.

All that remained was to experience Wi Ji-hye right away.

"…."

The hand she had been reaching out froze. She reached again, and froze once more.

"Hmm…."

She kept hesitating. Something was nagging at her.

"…But why is this production team so quiet?"

The production team of the short historical film Sword was quiet to a suspicious degree. That was what had caught her wrist. Set beside the drink-commercial side, the difference was especially stark.

Sua turned on her phone and looked through the texts she had received.

The drink-commercial side sent schedule notices at regular intervals, and kindly, while the short-film side had sent no contact whatsoever.

Is this just how it goes? Or has something gone wrong?

No matter how she turned it over by herself, no answer came. Sua was a rookie. She had no experience.

"…."

Help me, friends. In the end, she opened the group chat.

"Huh? Saengji's busy, of all people?"

She had actually been planning to ask Saengji, so this was a problem. Nothing for it. Sua typed with the desperation of someone grabbing at straws.

Sua had written the reply in complete earnest.

Wonsung-ing was not a monkey for nothing. A monkey, clinging all day to the tree called a computer—a cyber prodigy who diligently gamed and pawed through online galleries.

…And a guy like that knew about movies? Why?

A former idol. A Rookie Award candidate….

Sua thought it over. Impressive.

A search of the portal sites afterward proved her friends right.

Pretty even to Sua's eye, and a one-woman content mill who went into shoots without a break, aiming for this year's Rookie Award. That was Yang Ha-rin.

The production team wouldn't have had any reason to send the applicants kind, individual messages. They'd already locked in Yang Ha-rin.

We've got Yang Ha-rin, of all people!

Still not joining? Yeah, we won't even miss you if you don't come!

Was that the mindset? Sua guessed as much, for now, and let the matter go. She had only looked it up out of worry that the project might have fallen through, and so long as that wasn't the case, it was fine.

That was when it happened.

A ringtone chimed out of nowhere. The moment Sua checked the caller's name, she had a fit before she could stop herself.

"Oh, shit."

Seo Yeon-ju.

That was the caller's name. With every hair on her body standing on end, Sua answered, shaking. Why is she calling all of a sudden? Did she find out I bought the doll? Or did she actually report me to the police…?

Seo Yeon-ju was the one to break the silence. Sua tried to answer as calmly as she could, but perhaps from the razor edge of her wariness, a voice cold enough to startle even herself slipped out.

Seo Yeon-ju murmured it, letting a laugh slip.

Sua thought about it. Articles? What articles?

…A hot topic over what? That at this age I still haven't dropped the hobby of collecting rabbit dolls? And I bought them on someone else's card?

For now, Sua shook her head hard.

She was going to call like this from time to time? Sweat beaded on Sua's forehead.

Why? Has she caught some weakness of mine? Or what—is this her saying she's going to watch me?

Sua hung up with her eyes squeezed shut.

Meanwhile.

Seo Yeon-ju, finished getting ready to go out, was rather thrown. In her hand was the phone, the call ended of its own accord.

"…What is this?"

Brow drawn in, she slowly retraced what had just happened.

"So… I got turned down? I asked to be friends?"

And one line, of all things, remained in her head.

Didn't it mean she would watch how Seo Yeon-ju carried herself, and consider it from there? Astonishing. What kind of rookie would treat Seo Yeon-ju herself this way?

And yet no displeasure lay over her face at all. Only a smile, spreading.

An experience like this was new to her. Extremely so.

"Honestly. She keeps making me curious."

"President, please. Just once—just one more time, reconsider."

The executive office. A man knelt, and begged.

Secretaries and bodyguards stood at even intervals, gazes fixed straight ahead. One man alone was at his ease: rough-faced, leaning back into a leather sofa, he stared down at the man on his knees.

A single script lay on the office desk.

"Director Park, what have you done wrong, to be on your knees? Today is a good day. Didn't you just secure production funds from me? The money problem is solved. You ought to be pleased, no?"

"I am truly grateful for your investment, President. However…."

"However?"

"Yang Ha-rin…. Ha-rin, she…."

"Yes. What about Ha-rin."

"…."

The man could not go on. He bit down hard.

The one on his knees was Director Park Joon.

Once, he had been called a master. Those were the days when a single mega-hit historical drama let him seize the whole of Korea in his fist and let it go again. But life is a thing that will not show you an inch ahead.

One great success does not underwrite every success that follows. A human life that walks nothing but the downhill road afterward is a wretched thing indeed, and the protagonist of that life was Park Joon.

The president lifted his chin.

"I put up the production costs, and in exchange you use our Ha-rin as the lead. Is that a condition you can't welcome? Or is there some problem with Ha-rin's acting?"

"There couldn't be. Absolutely not."

"Is that so?"

The president grinned, teeth showing.

"A correct answer. There is no rookie to match Ha-rin. A kid who'll take this year's Rookie Award in her fist, besides."

"Yes. Of course."

"Then it's a thing to be glad about. I'm putting up the investment, and I'm even telling you to take Ha-rin and use her—shouldn't Director Park be crying for joy? What kind of situation is this?"

"That this work be done as a co-lead. That one other lead be found among the rookie actors. I beg you to change only that part."

Desperation soaked Director Park's voice.

"President, I will use Ha-rin as the sole lead. Isn't it enough to focus on Ha-rin? There is no need to cast one more person as co-lead."

Park Joon had his reasons for clinging this desperately. The headlines rising in his mind like droplets of water were reason enough.

Yang Ha-rin.

She was famous for the fact that every rookie actor who took a co-lead opposite her retired, one after another. The public might not know the cause, but Director Park knew the reason far too well.

Yang Ha-rin—handle that insane personality?

Talking down to people was the baseline, and the bullying and the territorial hazing were severe besides. How many peer actors had been ground down, unable to bear that weight?

In Park Joon's eyes, Yang Ha-rin looked like a man-eating ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠flower. A monster bloom that swallowed fellow actors right up.

That was when it happened.

A single line, cutting in with absolute firmness.

Park Joon's gaze turned, of its own accord, toward the source of the voice.

A snow-white woman was biting into a peach.

She sat in a leather chair, one leg crossed, holding to an arrogance that suited her remarkably well. Black hair, as if the darkest hour before dawn had been cut free and woven together, and eyes in which a languor had settled. This was Yang Ha-rin.

Still working the fruit between her teeth, she spoke.

"You pour out the money, you throw my casting in on top…. We're not a charity. I ought to be getting something out of this too, don't you think?"

And when she lifted the corner of her mouth as if to sneer, there was a strange elegance in it.

Park Joon looked deeply troubled.

"If it's a matter of fees, or conditions, those are already at the very top…."

"I don't need it. That garbage."

Ha-rin cut him off, blunt as a snapped thread.

"A rookie capable of inspiring me. A rookie who can serve as fertilizer for my acting. Bring me an actor like that. My interest isn't in money. It's in improving my acting."

The president, listening at her side, nodded.

"So that's what Ha-rin wants. Is it not the finest attitude an actor can have? You are a truly blessed director."

"This is difficult. I don't believe I can find one."

Park Joon raised his voice, desperate.

"President, the rookie actors will be frightened off before they even start. They won't do it. And I can hardly bring in a veteran…. It's only a short film. Who would step forward? It's difficult."

"Enough. Director Park need only remember one thing."

The president's voice was quite firm.

"Fail to carry out the conditions above, and I will withdraw the investment, and Ha-rin will not take part. The worrying is for Director Park to do, not me."

"President, President…!"

The president only quietly called for his secretary.

"Secretary ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Kim."

"Yes, President. I'm listening."

"See Director Park out, appropriately. You all know, don't you? I have no hobby of repeating the same conversation."

"Understood."

"President, Miss Ha-rin, please…! Just once…!"

No matter how many times he appealed, the result did not change, and Park Joon was helplessly pushed outside. No—in effect, he was thrown out.

"Ah…."

In the end he sank down, eyes vacant.

Clawing at his own hair was the best left to him.

"What… what in the world am I to do…."

Park Joon wandered the streets with a hollow expression, letting out a deep sigh every few seconds, placing call after call without a moment's rest.

Rejection. Rejection. Nothing but rejection.

The connections forged in his successful days were like a mirage; the moment he failed, and failed again, they vanished. No matter how much legwork he spent, he could not find a single corner from which help might come.

He was at the point of being grateful if someone so much as picked up. Today, Park Joon had received even more calls rejected outright.

"What am I supposed to do with this…."

Park Joon tore at his hair.