Sprouts (4)
While Kang Tae-san was honing the fundamentals of acting through Guyangman’s lessons, the next filming schedule for the project was set.
Today’s filming location was inside an ordinary PC room.
Colorful LED lights filled the ceiling, and dozens of monitors hummed simultaneously, filling the space with noise. The distinctive PC-room scent of dust and sweat lingered in the air.
‘Wow, this really is a completely different world.’
The atmosphere was all too familiar to most young men, yet it felt entirely foreign to Tae-san. He sank into one of the large gaming chairs and opened his script again.
[Do Hoon-jae laughs cheerfully while playing games with his friend.]
[The scene continues with them simply hanging out as friends.]
Just a few ordinary lines of stage direction left Tae-san’s head spinning. If the role had been an obsessive stalker or a cold-blooded killer, he could have poured everything into it. But acting out a scene of friends simply enjoying each other’s company was something he had never experienced, and it left him at a complete loss.
Kang Tae-san had worked from childhood onward. While his peers gathered in PC rooms after school to game through the night, he had been carrying plates at the meat restaurant or washing dishes in restaurant kitchens. He had never attended after-school academies either; convenience-store counters had taken their place.
The only memory that remained from his school days was the desperate need to earn money. There was simply no reference point he could draw from for a scene of friends playing together.
Yang Seon-il, the former outcast, was no different. At best, his memories contained a PC room, but never once had he laughed happily with friends there.
‘Even when he went, he was just the guy who got beaten up or had his money taken.’
Seen that way, both Yang Seon-il and Tae-san himself had lived equally harsh school lives. In truth, this was Tae-san’s first time ever stepping into a PC room. Job postings appeared often enough, and he had gone to several interviews, but he had always been rejected. Restaurants and cafés wanted good-looking part-timers to draw customers, and Tae-san’s work ethic and appearance usually made him highly desirable. PC rooms were different. A handsome face did nothing to boost sales in a space full of men. Every interview ended in failure, so even the part-time-job king had no experience with PC rooms.
The moment he turned on the computer, Tae-san felt completely lost.
“Tae-san-ssi, have you logged in?”
“Uh, well… actually, I don’t really know how PC rooms work. How do I log in?”
Lee Yoon-gi, who played Go Young-seok, sat down beside him and chuckled.
“Come on, that’s taking the concept too far. What high-schooler in Korea has never been to a PC room?”
Tae-san’s genuinely bewildered expression made Yoon-gi’s eyes widen.
“Wait, seriously? This is your first time?”
“Mm. Yes.”
His awkward mouse movements and clumsy keyboard tapping confirmed it—he was a complete beginner.
“Ahaha… Well, I guess it’s possible. Then, for now…”
Yoon-gi took the mouse and keyboard himself and began demonstrating how to bring up the screen.
“If you sign up as a member, all your personal information—address, phone number—stays here. So don’t sign up. You got a receipt from the assistant directors earlier, right?”
“Here it is.”
“See the guest number at the bottom? Just type that in. Oh dear…”
Watching Tae-san hunt-and-peck a simple six-character code, Yoon-gi smacked his own forehead.
“We’re supposed to download the game the investors sent and register an account… Tae-san-ssi, have you ever played games before?”
“Um, a little when I was young.”
“What kind of games?”
“There were these red and blue dwarves running around eating mushrooms or something.”
“Super Mario?”
“Ah, I think that was the name.”
It was an old arcade game from the nineties, not the kind of game anyone played in a PC room.
“Where on earth did you go to school…?”
Yoon-gi trailed off when he noticed Tae-san’s ears turning red and stopped pressing.
“Let’s start from the basics. This is how you click.”
“I know how to click…”
“To buy items, click here. This button attacks.”
Tae-san moved the mouse and managed to control the character, however clumsily.
“Uh, uh—wait. Is it supposed to move like this?”
“Yes, yes! Oh, you’re getting the hang of it.”
Thanks to Yoon-gi’s patient guidance, Tae-san finally created a character and began playing. Every tiny success earned enthusiastic applause from the side, which felt a little embarrassing, yet oddly uplifting.
‘So this is how everyone played when they were students.’
The thought left a faint bitterness behind.
Just then, Director Yoo In-gyu clapped his hands and called out.
“Today’s scene is all about capturing friends genuinely enjoying their time together. Just play the game for real and act naturally. Think of it as casual.”
“Yes!”
Tae-san answered while staring at the monitor, swallowing a sigh inside. This might be the first time he would attempt acting without any prior experience to draw from.
“Action!”
At the director’s downward sweep of his hand, the set fell briefly silent before erupting with lively sounds. Keyboards clacked, mice clicked, and game effects and background music poured from speakers. Extras in school uniforms leaned into their screens like real gamers. Snippets of dialogue—“Hey, get him!” “Heal me!”—made the scene feel even more authentic.
Kang Tae-san awkwardly slipped one side of the headset over his ear. Everyone else was genuinely enjoying themselves thanks to the director’s instruction to actually play. Whenever flashy skills lit up the screen, cheers erupted. Tae-san alone continued acting with a persistent sense of awkwardness.
“Cut!”
The first take ended. Tae-san removed the headset and exhaled heavily. His cheeks ached from forcing a smile. Even to himself, the performance had felt unsatisfactory.
‘Without experience, even the expression must have looked forced.’
He was steeling himself for repeated takes when murmurs from the crew broke his thoughts.
“Doesn’t he look exactly like a timid student? There are always a few kids these days who are terrible at games and awkward around friends.”
“Yes, exactly! That’s the feeling.”
The assistant director and even the camera crew watching the monitor with Director Yoo nodded in agreement.
“That awkward smile and stiff posture actually feel real. The fact that he didn’t try too hard makes it believable.”
“Right? That fresh, unpolished vibe is hard to direct on purpose. If you force it, it just looks fake.”
Tae-san’s eyes widened in surprise.
‘…Really? They think I did well?’
The idea that his desperate, inexperienced acting had worked was hard to accept.
“Tae-san-ssi, shall we try one more time? I’d like to see a slightly more relaxed version this time. The last take was really good, so keep that same feeling.”
Tae-san reluctantly returned to his seat. When the action call came again, his character flailed on-screen. Yoon-gi, genuinely frustrated, ad-libbed, “Hey, we lost because of you!”
Without thinking, Tae-san shot back, “It’s my first time, what do you want me to do?”
Laughter rippled across the set. The director clapped on the spot.
“Perfect! That was great. Let’s move straight to the next cut!”
While waiting for the next setup, Tae-san unconsciously clenched his fist. His palm was damp with cold sweat.
‘I have to ask Teacher Guyangman later. How do I bring life to scenes like this…?’
Without the Smile App’s cleaning experiences to fall back on, Tae-san’s acting felt powerless. If necessary, he would need to experience the lives of more ordinary people.
‘It might be nice to enjoy a few ordinary things myself, too.’
Yet the position of actor Kang Tae-san was drifting further and further from anything ordinary with each passing day.
***
A few days later, inside the conference room at Taepyeong Tuna headquarters in Jongno-gu.
“Has everyone seen this video?”
The head of the publicity planning team turned his laptop toward the others. On-screen played a recently viral clip of the Kang siblings’ POA interview.
The younger sister’s trembling voice worrying about the next mission, the older brother gently patting her shoulder and reassuring her, then immediately standing up to fetch napkins when she spilled her coffee—every moment radiated warmth.
The rookie actor once known only by terrifying titles like “monstrous acting skill” and “obsessive top” was now showing the face of a gentle, caring older brother, complete with an idol-trainee little sister. It was the kind of video no one could help but like.
The top comments alone showed explosive reactions.
Portal-site real-time trending searches were flooded with keywords such as “Kang Tae-san Siblings” and “Kang Tae-san Unicorn Brother.”
Because Tae-san had always cherished his one and only younger sister more than anything, even his slightly awkward demeanor came across as sincere affection, and the public ate it up. They were happily inflating and consuming every heartwarming detail of this rare sibling bond.
“For the mara rose tuna commercial we’re preparing, since the target is the MZ generation, how about using the hottest siblings right now—the Kangs?”
The air in the conference room shifted.
“A sibling concept would appeal to older generations too.”
“Sounds good. It keeps the family warmth while still reaching younger viewers.”
“Plus, Kang Tae-san-ssi is incredibly popular online right now. He’s not a top star yet, so we can negotiate a reasonable fee.”
The project was an online commercial for a limited product launch, so the budget was tighter than usual. Hiring established top stars was out of the question. They had been searching for fresh faces with buzz, and the Kang siblings fit perfectly.
“Then we’re all in agreement that the mara rose tuna commercial models will be Kang Tae-san and Kang So-young? Contact their agency immediately.”
At the team leader’s instruction, another employee dialed the advertising agency right away.
Thus, Kang Tae-san’s first CF shoot was confirmed.