“Jo Seung-cheol?”
“Jo Seung-cheol?”
Lee Kang-sik’s voice sharpened a little, a faint shadow of discomfort crossing his face.
“Yes, that’s right. Is there a problem?”
Park Min-jae, the department head, asked cautiously, drawing the gazes of Woojin and writer Kim Soo-rim toward him.
“Hmm.”
Lee Kang-sik rubbed his chin in silence, lost in thought for a moment before finally speaking.
“To be honest, Jo Seung-cheol and I... we have a bit of history.”
A brief silence fell over the room. With Lee Kang-sik making his return to the industry after six years, the production team hadn’t been aware of this detail.
Real-life relationships between actors were one of the most sensitive factors considered during casting. To put it more clearly: Casting typically started with the most important roles—the leads—and proceeded from there. Multiple actors would be in the running, but there’d always be a top priority, someone the production poured all their effort into securing. Let’s call that actor ‘A’ for now.
Once ‘A’ was locked in, the rest of the casting revolved around them. Questions like, “For this role, who do you want, and is their relationship with ‘A’ okay? Any bad blood?” If the answer was no on the latter, they’d pivot to someone else. They’d never risk losing the prized ‘A’ over it.
These seemingly trivial details derailed castings far more often than one might think. No wonder the phrase “breath power”—nepotism through connections—had become a thing.
“It doesn’t bother me much, but I’m not sure about him.”
Lee Kang-sik gave a brief rundown of his relationship with Jo Seung-cheol. Back in their youth, they’d been the closest of colleagues and friends, starving together in the same theater troupe. But cracks started forming once Lee debuted in film first.
“Seung-cheol was jealous of me, big time.”
He hadn’t realized why at the time. He’d just felt growing resentment as Jo began keeping his distance. “...As you know, the reason I stepped away for a while was the 2006 screen quota issue, right?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“That’s not wrong, but there was another reason.”
“What?! Really?”
Kim Soo-rim’s eyes widened.
“People don’t know much about it. I never went around talking.”
Lee Kang-sik downed his drink. Then he continued, captivating the three listeners.
“There was a project we’d agreed on... But after the screen quota reduction blew up, things got messy, and I ended up as the actors’ rep out front.”
“Crank-in kept getting delayed. The whole film industry was up in arms, and I was neck-deep in it.”
“I remember. You returned your medal to protect the industry.”
“I wanted to show my resolve, prove it wasn’t for personal gain. But...”
Lee Kang-sik gave a wry smile.
“My hardline stance must’ve spooked the production side.”
“What do you mean...?”
“They recast me. Without even telling me.”
Woojin felt a fresh shock. He’d thought silent recasts only happened to powerless unknowns like him. But even a star like Lee Kang-sik wasn’t immune.
“Hold on. You don’t mean...?!”
Kim Soo-rim, who’d been listening quietly, suddenly raised her voice as realization dawned.
“You’ve guessed it.”
“Jo Seung-cheol stepped in as the replacement?”
“Yes. From what I heard, he quietly contacted the production behind my back and snagged the spot.”
He knocked back another drink and continued.
“Here I was, fighting for the industry and filmmakers, and then this happens. I was just disillusioned. Didn’t matter if it was true or not—the result was the same.”
“That must’ve been tough.”
“Water under the bridge now. I’ve shaken it off. If anything, it made me reflect, and I’m grateful to those who waited through my long hiatus. Haha.”
His low voice shifted to a hearty laugh.
“That’s my side of the story. Seung-cheol’s got his own. Just take it as ‘something like that happened’ and move on. I don’t want it affecting your casting or original plans.”
“Of course not. I keep work and personal separate.”
Kim Soo-rim said firmly in her signature no-nonsense tone.
Lee Kang-sik’s face mixed indifference with relief.
“Now that I’ve heard that, I’m curious if actor Jo Seung-cheol will even take the cameo.”
Park Min-jae noted. Lee Kang-sik nodded without hesitation.
“Yeah, I think he will.”
“Why?”
“We haven’t shared a project since his debut. He’s dying to go head-to-head with me and win. Cameo or whatever, he won’t care. His passion for acting? That much, I respect.”
“Guess I need to amp up episodes 1 and 2 tonight...”
“Filming’s gonna heat up early.”
“You can count on it. I’ve got no intention of losing to Seung-cheol, haha!”
The mood, which had grown serious at Jo Seung-cheol’s name, lightened again as it became the last word on the matter. Park Min-jae, Kim Soo-rim, and Lee Kang-sik clinked glasses with bright smiles.
But... ‘......’
Woojin’s expression was subtly off. Lee Kang-sik’s sudden revelation had hit him deeper than expected.
Just like the lingering grudge between Lee Kang-sik and his once-close colleague Jo Seung-cheol.
Woojin still had his own Jo Seung-cheol equivalent—Ahn Jong-hoon.
As he listened, Ahn Jong-hoon kept surfacing in his mind: ‘As an actor facing another actor, I want to clash with Ahn Jong-hoon through pure performance.’
‘Separate from the resentment, like how senior Lee Kang-sik respects senior Jo Seung-cheol, I hope Ahn Jong-hoon shows his worth as an actor.’
‘That’s the only way for a real showdown.’
And so on—various thoughts swirled in his inner monologue.
“You look deep in thought.”
“......?!”
Lee Kang-sik’s voice snapped him back. The senior was smiling faintly at him now.
“I’ve spilled my story. Now I want to hear from you, junior.”
“Ah, sure. What about...?”
“Anything.”
Lee Kang-sik reached out, clinking his glass against Woojin’s.
“You know how these gatherings work—they’re really about sizing up actors.”
True enough. Pre-crank-in drinks with production and cast built rapport, sure—but over 90% was observing the actors up close. Not just their media personas, but everyday selves.
“I still can’t quite pin you down. Heard a lot here and there, but seeing you in person? Even more mysterious.”
I’m not sure what you mean myself...
“But you’ve got this special vibe. Can’t explain why, but it reminds me of my younger self... Oh, did I say too much? Haha!”
Lee Kang-sik effortlessly toggled between comedy and sincerity, easing the tension Woojin had felt since facing the senior. Thoughts of Ahn Jong-hoon melted away like snow.
“No, it’s an honor.”
Woojin smiled comfortably.
Lee urged him to share anything. Woojin pondered the vague but wide-open prompt. If he was talking to Lee Kang-sik, only one topic mattered.
“If I had to pick one of your films... it’d be The Fuse.”
Acting or projects—perfect.
‘Oh ho...’
Lee Kang-sik inwardly exclaimed. The shift in Woojin’s eyes and voice was immediate. The others might not notice, but he could tell.
‘What’s with this guy?’
Just like director Ryu Chang-min had described—the aura he exuded in those fleeting changes was indescribably unique, extraordinary.
‘......’
As he listened intently, Lee Kang-sik felt his body heating up. Not just the alcohol—it was something harder to explain.
Six years.
It had been so long since—
Thump thump.
His heart raced.
* * *
Justice, originally a half-pre-produced drama, had been fully pre-produced after pushing its slot to next year just to cast ‘Baek Woojin.’
Perfectly timed with Lee Kang-sik’s comeback decision, it was reborn as a completely different drama from what Woojin had seen in the diary.
Expanded from 16 to 20 episodes, with the core plot overhauled.
In other words, “Whoa...”
The stack of scripts he needed to read and analyze before crank-in dwarfed his previous four projects combined.
Twenty volumes, episodes 1 through 20, sat before him.
Right after Wanted wrapped, he’d jumped into Red Petals.
A short break, then straight into prepping and dual-shooting Burnt and Hidden Marks.
And now, just three days post-crank-up.
Why did reaching for the scripts feel so daunting today, unlike usual?
‘Hoo.’
Woojin knew himself too well. Once he cracked open volume 1, he wouldn’t stop.
He hadn’t paid it mind before, but apparently...
His subconscious had been screaming for a break.
Ironic. Breath burning at his throat, desperate to stop—yet once stopped, itching to run again.
He still couldn’t find the line between acting and rest.
“Ughhh...”
Woojin flopped onto the sofa, staring at the pristine ceiling.
“Isn’t there something...?”
The thought looped in his mind.
Before diving back into the grind. Was there really nothing to refresh the mood?
RRRRR.
Then—the bell rang.
It was team leader Kim Tae-gon.
“Yeah, team leader.”
“Hey, Woojin. Got a sec?”
“Yes, go ahead.”
“Nothing big, just an ad offer came in.”
Snap.
Woojin bolted upright.
“What is it?!”
It was like hearing footsteps in an empty valley—timely salvation.
“Car ad. Looking at the proposal, it’s a mid-size sedan. Conditions are...”
“I’ll do it!”
“Huh? You didn’t even hear the terms?”
“I’m in, no question. When?”
Woojin’s face lit up with joy, practically screaming ‘Break time!’