The Unexpected Call
After the cast reading wrapped up, everyone gathered at a galbi restaurant. Director Seong and Writer Oh, who had arrived late to the after-party, stayed glued to each other, continuing the conversation they'd started back in the script rehearsal room.
From the very beginning, one topic had dominated their minds all morning.
Kang Tae-san.
“Director, no one else comes close to Kang Tae-san for the role of Joo Chang-mok, right?”
“I agree. My thoughts have definitely shifted in that direction.”
“We absolutely cannot let him slip away. You've been in this industry long enough to recognize real talent when you see it.”
“I know.”
He was the real deal.
Even when compared to those monstrous actors who had devoted decades solely to their craft and generated tens or hundreds of billions in revenue through their performances, he didn't fall short. In fact, there was an odd sense of anticipation that if they actually went head-to-head on set, he might devour them whole—an ordinary newcomer with acting skills that reached that level.
Writer Oh Hyun-soo asked cautiously, “So, what kind of pay are you planning to offer Kang Tae-san? Just the standard rookie rate?”
“Well, by industry standards, we’d have to treat him as a newcomer. From what I saw, his resume didn’t list any agency.”
“What if another production snatches him up at a higher price?”
“Another production?”
“You know how fast rumors spread in this business.”
When it came to the speed at which gossip traveled, nothing in Korea could match the broadcasting world. Once that thought crossed their minds, their excitement over casting him gave way to a creeping anxiety—what if someone else grabbed him first?
Even at the highest end, a rookie actor’s per-episode fee rarely exceeded 1.5 million won. That figure was only possible for career newcomers backed by major agencies, like idol-turned-actors. Of course, Kang Tae-san had walked away with such confidence that he probably wouldn’t haggle over money, but new worries kept surfacing.
What if he feels we undervalued him?
Even without prior acting experience, his level of skill meant he’d inevitably appear on other networks besides SBC before long. When that happened, he’d come to know his own worth whether he wanted to or not. If they lowballed him now by treating him like a complete rookie, how would that look later?
The wild speculation kept spiraling.
“You haven’t contacted Kang Tae-san yet, have you?”
“Not yet. But we should probably do it right away, don’t you think?”
“Instead of having someone else send a text or KakaoTalk message, wouldn’t it be better if you called him personally? For the sincerity of it?”
“You’re right. Let me think… If we start at 150…”
Seeing the writer’s exaggerated scowl, as if warning him not to be stingy, Director Seong nodded in agreement.
“Double it—300?”
“If we can bring in an actor of that caliber for 300, it’s practically free.”
“Okay. I’ll offer 300 first, and if his reaction is lukewarm, I’ll go higher.”
“Of course!”
In that moment, Kang Tae-san’s life—where even working five full days a week barely netted him 600,000 won—jumped fivefold.
***
The house he was assigned to clean today felt completely different from previous jobs. There were no towering piles of trash blocking every step, no oppressive atmosphere that made a person shrink into themselves. Instead, the place carried the warm traces of children’s laughter, as one would expect from a family home.
Toys were scattered across the living room floor, and children’s clothes hung haphazardly over the sofa, but rather than sighs, it evoked the comforting scent of people living their lives. For Tae-san, who had grown up in an orphanage and now lived alone, this was a warmth and intimacy he had never experienced before.
He rolled up his sleeves with the same ease he would use to clean his own home. Before starting, he opened the windows. Warm sunlight and fresh air flowed inside. While gathering the scattered toys into a basket, he found a robot doll missing an arm, chuckled softly, and reattached it. In the kitchen, the refrigerator door was covered in a child’s crayon drawings of the family and cute doodles. Looking at the crooked handwriting and bright pictures, he felt the lingering darkness from the stalker’s and serial killer’s memories begin to fade.
Humming to himself, Tae-san washed the dishes in the sink and polished the grease-stained gas stove until it gleamed. “This feels strangely healing.”
Immersed in scrubbing and polishing someone else’s ordinary home, he felt his own heart growing cleaner as well. After a lifetime of laboring in crowded places and clashing with all kinds of people, cleaning a family home alone brought him a rare sense of peace. Once everything was returned to its proper place and a soft sunlight glow reflected off the floors and appliances, the house seemed to shine even warmer.
Right on cue, the Smile app chimed.
Cleaning complete.
Client fee: 80,000 won. 80 Smileage points awarded.
Beginning experience of client ‘Housewife’s’ life.
The Smile app once again prompted him to experience the client’s life. This time, however, he had already checked the details through the premium service, so he felt at ease. His vision gradually darkened, and the sensation of his body being pulled into a deep sleep washed over him.
When he opened his eyes again, a peaceful everyday scene stretched before him. The living room was slightly cluttered but filled with the warmth of family life, and bright sunlight poured into the kitchen. In his hand—no, her hand—was an awkwardly gripped kitchen knife.
Park Sun-hee.
Tae-san’s consciousness gently seeped into her memories. The first memory was of her clumsy newlywed days. With a cookbook open beside her, she sweated profusely while making stew. She had followed the recipe exactly, yet the taste was disappointingly bland. She nearly cut her finger while awkwardly chopping carrots, and the tofu in the pan burned black. When her husband returned from work, he silently finished a bowl of rice and told her the meal suited his taste perfectly. She had always wanted to prepare the most delicious meals for him.
Time flew by, and Park Sun-hee’s hands now bore the wrinkles and calluses typical of a longtime housewife. She could now thinly slice onions while watching dramas and adjust the seasoning of stew just by looking at the broth’s consistency. The rolled omelets her husband reached for first grew increasingly golden and fluffy each day.
The memories shifted to the births of her children. Days spent struggling to make baby food and wrestling with infants who turned their heads away from spoons. She secretly minced broccoli into fried rice for her picky firstborn, and the overwhelming joy when the child finally took a bite. Late-night moments of simmering beef bone broth all day for her exam-taking son, cheering him on with quiet affection. It was the very essence of a mother’s warm, fulfilling life—ordinary days shaped with love and care.
Experience terminated.
Along with the app notification, Tae-san returned to reality. This experience felt entirely different from the previous ones. Instead of disgust, fear, or anger, a pleasant sense of warmth and fullness filled his heart. Without realizing it, a faint smile appeared on his lips. He quietly looked down at his hands, which now felt different. His fingertips seemed sharper and more sensitive, as if he had been handling knives for decades. For some reason, an unfounded confidence surged within him—the feeling that he could cook a perfect kimchi stew right now.
“I wouldn’t mind having more experiences like this.”
The points spent on the premium subscription felt completely worthwhile. Just then, an unfamiliar number suddenly appeared on the app screen with an incoming call. Wondering if it might be the client, Tae-san answered immediately.
“Hello, this is Kang Tae-san from Smile Cleaning.”
—Cleaning? Is this Kang Tae-san?
The voice on the other end was a deep, middle-aged male tone.
“Yes, that’s me. May I ask who’s calling?”
—This is Director Seong Tae-man. We met during the audition this morning.
“Ah!”
Tae-san recalled the director’s face, which he had tried to erase from his mind without lingering. His heart fluttered for a moment with hopeful anticipation, but So-yeon’s earlier warning not to get carried away came to mind, so he quickly steadied his voice.
“Yes, hello, Director. What brings you to call me directly?”
—Haha, I’m calling because of the role of Joo Chang-mok from the audition you did today, of course.
He had been certain he’d failed the audition, so it struck him as odd that the director himself would personally call to deliver rejection news.
“Well, it’s unfortunate, but I suppose there’s nothing more to say. Thank you for the opportunity.”
—What? No, no. That’s not it. I mean… I wanted to offer you the role of Joo Chang-mok, so I’m contacting you.
“You want to give me the role of Joo Chang-mok?”
—That’s why I called personally. Since this is my number, I’d like us to keep in touch through it from now on.
Tae-san glanced at the time. Because the cleaning had finished earlier than expected, he still had about twenty minutes until the agreed-upon time with the client. He sat down at the kitchen island chair and adjusted his grip on the phone.
“I wasn’t expecting this. Thank you for offering me the role so readily.”
—We’re the ones who should be grateful to work with you. To be honest, we had a lot of discussions…
Director Seong continued speaking at length. He described the shocking impression Tae-san’s performance had left on him the moment he saw it, and how Writer Oh Hyun-soo had strongly advocated for casting Tae-san as Joo Chang-mok. Hearing nearly ten minutes of praise—“You really are a talented actor”—from a respected director in the industry almost made Tae-san grin, but he kept his voice calm and composed, reminding himself not to show it.
“I’m grateful you thought so highly of me.”
—Well… there’s something a bit sensitive I need to discuss. We’ve been debating how to set your pay.
“I’ll accept whatever you offer.”
—You probably already know this, but the maximum pay for a rookie actor is around 1.5 million won.
Even that figure applied only to mid-career newcomers backed by solid agencies. Yet Director Seong had opened by mentioning 1.5 million won. If Tae-san hadn’t heard about it from his sister beforehand, he might have jumped for joy on the spot. Suppressing an internal victory dance, he forced his excited heart to settle and replied as calmly as possible.
“I see. You’re treating me as a rookie actor.”
—The thing is… we’re well aware that it’s difficult to treat an actor like you the same as an ordinary rookie. That’s why, as an exception, I’m using my discretion as director to set your per-episode fee at 3 million won.
“Three—!”
Tae-san nearly raised his voice and quickly covered his mouth with his hand.
—Of course, even 3 million won feels insufficient for an actor of your caliber. But since you’re just beginning to build your filmography, appearing with us will definitely not be something you’ll regret.
“I’m certain… I won’t regret it.”
—Then may I take that as confirmation that you’ll accept the role of Joo Chang-mok?
“Yes, I will.”
—Hahaha! Thank you! I’m a bit embarrassed—I must have seemed too impatient.
Tae-san ended the call with Director Seong Tae-man in a daze. “So this is how it turned out?”
His pay had doubled the previous maximum. He wasn’t sure exactly why, but perhaps a public broadcaster that casually spent hundreds of billions on a single drama really did operate on a grander scale. After receiving a follow-up text about the next shooting date and a promise to send a revised script once he provided his address, Tae-san finally felt the reality that he had taken his first step as an actor.
“They say you never know what’s around the corner in life.”
The situation felt like something straight out of a self-help book, yet it still didn’t feel entirely real. Just like that, Tae-san had become an actor.
***
One week later.
Writer Oh Hyun-soo, who had penned Criminal Record, let out a small sigh as he typed the final period at the end of the revised first episode script. Writers’ sighs after finishing work generally fell into two categories: one filled with self-pity—“Whew, I barely made the deadline, but it’s a mess”—and the other brimming with self-satisfied admiration—“Whoa, I crushed it. This is a masterpiece. I must be a genius.”
Today, Oh Hyun-soo’s sigh belonged to the latter.
“Wow, I really am a genius. How did I manage to fix it like this? Insane.”