The Director's Offer
“Okay, cut!”
Director Yoo In-gyu blurted out the cut sign without even realizing it.
The entire crew found the performance convincing enough to accept it.
Yet one thing felt off.
“Already?”
Most of the staff stared blankly at the shoot wrapping up nearly two hours ahead of schedule.
“Is it really over? Are we actually getting off early today?”
Director Yoo In-gyu was known for being meticulous and detail-oriented. His perfectionist nature meant he wouldn’t rest until every tiny movement by the actors and every placement of props was flawless, so shoots almost always ran long.
That was why, when Kang Tae-san ad-libbed the line “Still warm, huh?”—something not in Joo Chang-mok’s original script—the crew had worried Yoo might demand another take without the ad-lib.
Instead, Yoo glanced at the script, tilted his head, then waved Kang over.
“Kang Tae-san, could you come here for a moment?”
“Yes, Director!”
The deranged killer who had been radiating a dark aura moments ago vanished instantly. In his place stood a bright, polite twenty-something with a professional smile as he hurried over.
“Um… well…”
“Yes, Director? Do we need another take?”
“No, it’s not that. You added an ad-lib just now. Did you discuss it with Director Seong beforehand?”
“No. I didn’t mention it to you in advance. I’m sorry—should we do it again?”
Kang bowed his head in apology, but Yoo waved his hands dismissively.
“No, no. I’m not saying you did anything wrong. I was genuinely curious. If I hadn’t liked it, I wouldn’t have called cut—I would’ve asked for another take.”
“Really? That’s a relief.”
The bright smile on Kang’s face showed no trace of Joo Chang-mok whatsoever.
“If he were a method actor, it would take time to come out of character. How can his emotions flip so cleanly?”
Actors deeply immersed in their roles, like Kang, usually carried some of the character’s emotional residue with them on set. Even the most experienced performers tended to show signs when playing criminals.
“Is it experience? But they said he’s a rookie. Or maybe he’s not method at all—maybe he approaches acting purely technically?”
If that were the case, it made sense. People often misunderstood ad-libs as pure improvisation, but in reality most on-set ad-libs were either pre-approved by the director or carefully prepared by the actor during character study. True ad-libs required thorough technical groundwork beforehand.
“Veterans do it all the time, but rookies almost never bring their own ad-libs.”
Yet this rookie, Kang Tae-san, had casually delivered an ad-lib that even Yoo found impressive—and backed it with acting so convincing that everyone assumed he was a method actor.
Yoo watched Kang bow and walk away, smacking his lips in thought. Even after calling cut, he remained rooted in place, eyes fixed on the monitor showing Kang’s face.
“Maybe he’s not method after all. He might be a classically trained actor who has fully mastered technical performance.”
If so, was he really just a rookie?
Yoo’s mind raced. As Seong Tae-man’s protégé and one of SBC’s most promising new directors, Yoo was unusually hands-on—he wrote his own scripts in addition to directing. That rare combination had earned him an earlier debut schedule than most of his peers.
Because he both wrote and directed, his standards were as exacting as any veteran’s.
“He’d be perfect for my project.”
Not only was Kang’s fresh face ideal for a newcomer, but his acting ability and instinctive grasp of character—evident in the ad-lib—showed real depth. Even with senior backing, finding the right lead actor for a debut project was never easy.
So while filming Team B, Yoo already found himself wanting to cast Kang Tae-san in the one-act drama he had been preparing for next year’s broadcast.
Kang’s electrifying performance had once again ensnared another director.
While Yoo was lost in thought about the one-act, a staff member approached.
“Director, should we start wrapping up the set?”
“Huh? What? Wrapping what?”
“You called the final cut, so I thought we were done for the day.”
“Ah, right. Go ahead and prepare to strike. I’ll call Director Seong myself once we’re finished.”
The staff member in the pulled-down cap asked about wrapping, snapping Yoo back to reality.
“Make sure there’s not a single piece of trash left behind. We don’t want any complaints.”
“Yes, sir. Understood. Good work today.”
“Yeah, yeah. Everyone did great.”
Yoo left the assistant director and crew behind and, heart pounding, immediately dialed Seong Tae-man.
“Senior, Team B has wrapped. The actors were so good we finished much earlier than expected.”
Seong’s skeptical voice came through the receiver.
—What? Already? I was so curious I was heading over in a taxi. You didn’t just phone it in because I wasn’t watching, did you?
“No, sir. It’s true. Especially the actor playing Joo Chang-mok—Kang Tae-san. He was… insane.”
—Tae-san? How did Kang Tae-san’s performance look to you?
Yoo gripped the phone tighter, nodding excitedly.
“Where on earth did you find an actor like that? I’ve never seen a rookie with that kind of depth. His presence is no joke.”
—Really? What kind of stunt did that kid pull this time? Skip the details—just send me the footage first.
“One moment. I’ll clip it and send it right away.”
Shortly after the video went through, Seong called back. The playful tone from earlier was gone.
—In-gyu. Did you tell him to ad-lib?
“No. He just started the scene and the lines flowed out naturally. I thought you two had planned it, but he said you hadn’t.”
—Man, the more I see, the more of a find he is. Don’t you think?
“The writer won’t complain about the ad-lib, right?”
—Not a chance. Anyone can see it was necessary.
“Actually, Senior… I have a favor to ask.”
The two directors stayed on the phone until the set was completely cleared. Another director had just joined the growing list of people captivated by the genius rookie actor Kang Tae-san.
***
The shoot ended earlier than expected, leaving the actors with some free time while the crew packed up. Song Yoo-na, who played the victim, had offered to help, but the staff firmly refused, so she was left killing time in the waiting area wrapped in a thick blanket they had given her. Even so, she couldn’t stop trembling.
It wasn’t just the cold. Joo Chang-mok’s icy touch and emotionless gaze still felt vivid.
Normally bright and cheerful, she now sat hunched over like an actual crime victim.
“If I’m struggling this much… is the guy who played Joo Chang-mok okay?”
Even though she was still relatively unknown, she had six years of experience and sometimes struggled to shake off a character. For a rookie who had poured everything into the role, the aftereffects must be far worse.
She glanced worriedly at Kang Tae-san, who stood some distance away.
But the man himself was simply stifling a yawn while waiting for the next scene. There was no psychological strain on him at all—he had neatly stored away Seo Chae-hyuk’s emotions using the expensive Memorial Box he had purchased with Smileage points.
“Still, the body gets tired no matter what.”
Kang pulled a familiar energy drink bottle from his bag—the Oranamin-F he had ordered from the welfare mall last time. He twisted off the cap and downed it in one go. A refreshing fizz spread through him, and vitality surged back into his limbs.
“Whoa. The pay’s good and the work’s easy. This is why they say you don’t have to worry about actors.”
All he had to do was focus during the actual filming; no one made him run errands. They even fed him on time and brought snacks in between. Compared to scrubbing greasy grills at the meat restaurant, this was paradise.
Of course, whether other actors would agree with that assessment was another matter, but the fact remained that today’s shoot had wrapped early and gone smoothly thanks to Kang. Finishing such an emotionally draining scene in a single take was extremely rare in the industry. Normally both actors and crew would be exhausted after countless retakes.
“I thought we’d be pulling an all-nighter with two rookies going at it, but it’s way more relaxed than expected.”
“Did you see that rookie’s acting earlier? When he whispered to the victim, I actually got chills.”
“Agreed. I caught myself holding my breath. Is he from Korea National University of Arts?”
“Probably not. I heard he’s a complete civilian with zero acting experience.”
The crew, who had unexpectedly finished early because the two rookie actors meshed so well, were in high spirits.
Just then, Director Yoo In-gyu approached Kang.
“Good work today, Tae-san. Were you resting here?”
“Yes, Director. Is something the matter?”
“Mind if we talk for a bit?”
Yoo glanced at the bustling crew, then led Kang to a quieter spot.
“Was the shoot manageable? Today’s scene must have taken a lot out of you mentally.”
“It was fine. You wrapped things up early too, Director.”
Most actors would be completely drained by now, yet Kang showed no sign of fatigue. Yoo couldn’t help but admire him.
“He must be managing his stamina incredibly well behind the scenes. To be this disciplined… he really is a prepared actor.”
Of course, the Oranamin-F and the Memorial Box had helped, but no one else knew that.
Yoo smiled warmly, completely misunderstanding the situation.
“Come on, it’s thanks to you, not me.”
“By the way, why did you want to see me?”
Yoo fidgeted as if he had been wanting to say something for a while, then spoke carefully.
“Well… Tae-san, do you have any other schedules after today’s shoot?”
Unable to read the intent, Kang answered honestly.
“Hmm, I’d have to check my schedule first.”
The “schedule” Kang referred to was actually his cleaning jobs. Since he never knew when or where the next cleaning request would come from, he genuinely needed to check. But Director Yoo interpreted it differently, quickly running through the list of projects other directors were preparing for the first half of the year.
“So he’s already thinking about other shoots. Drama? Or maybe even a movie.”
Most rookies would jump at the chance to impress a director, yet Kang’s reply was lukewarm. In the end, it was Yoo whose heart raced first. He got straight to the point.
“If it’s all right, I’d like to cast you in my next project.”
“What role?”
“The lead. It’s nothing like today’s supporting part.”
Kang’s eyes widened. His mind immediately began calculating.
“Lead? Then I’d get three million won per episode? Sixteen episodes… wait, that’s 48 million won?”
Nearly fifty million won flashed through his head. Kang swallowed hard without realizing it.
“Is it a sixteen-episode series like this one?”
“Ah, haha. Actually, it’s not a mini-series. It’s a one-act drama. My debut project, in fact.”
“A one-act drama…?”
Silence followed. Kang had briefly frozen because he didn’t fully understand what a one-act drama entailed, but Yoo mistook it for hesitation about appearing in one.
“It’s a one-hour short drama. If we’re lucky, it could even screen at film festivals. The script has already been well-received internally, and funding is confirmed.”
“Ah… I see.”
“Plus, Senior Seong Tae-man also—”
But none of the director’s enthusiastic explanation really registered with Kang. He simply nodded calmly. Yoo started to add more, then stopped when he saw how seriously Kang seemed to be considering it.
“He really isn’t just any rookie.”
Most people would be jumping for joy at the mention of a lead role, even in a one-act. Yet Kang was quietly weighing the offer.
“Hmm…”
Yoo’s nervous gulp made it clear who held the upper hand now.
“All right. If you’re giving me the chance, I’ll do my best.”
“R-really?”
Kang figured a lead role would pay more than supporting work, and since he hadn’t auditioned for anything else yet, he decided to take any job that paid well.
“Thank you, Tae-san. I’ll organize the contract details and send them to you. Also…”
Yoo went on about the script, directorial vision, and shooting schedule, but Kang’s mind was stuck on one thing.
“So how much are they actually offering?”
He couldn’t just cut the director off and ask outright—that would be too tacky. Still, he was confident it would be better than supporting pay. After all, even the supporting rate had been plenty satisfying.
Just then, the assistant director called Yoo over.
“Director, we’re all packed up. Shall we head out?”
Kang bowed politely to Yoo and turned to leave.
“Looks like we’re departing. Thank you for today, Director.”
“Of course. You worked hard. How are you getting home? We have to head straight back to the main set.”
“I’ll just grab whatever’s nearby—bus or subway.”
“Take a taxi, not the bus or subway. A taxi.”
A taxi from here to Kang’s place would easily cost fifty thousand won.
“Absolutely not. I’m taking the subway or bus no matter what.”
He needed to move quickly. The shoot had finished early, but it was already evening.
Yoo watched Kang’s retreating figure with a pleased smile, then suddenly tilted his head.
“Wait a second. I never even mentioned the pay.”
He considered running after him, but seeing how decisively Kang was walking away, he changed his mind.
“Maybe money isn’t that important to him.”