Momentum (1)
The production presentation.
It was Kang Tae-san’s first official event as the lead actor.
After finishing the audition, Kang Tae-san stopped by the makeup room to get ready, then headed to the venue with his manager, Min Jin-cheol.
A photo zone had been set up alongside the SBC Short Drama Festa logo that covered the entire single-episode series.
With roughly thirty reporters, industry insiders, and the directors and actors from each project in attendance, the area in front of the venue was already packed.
“Tae-san, you’re here?”
Director Yoo In-kyu, who had been waiting, came over to greet him.
Actor Byun Hong-jin, who played the school violence perpetrator in the drama, joined them for a quick photo in front of the press wall.
“How have you been?”
“Good. It feels like we just wrapped filming, but it’s already been a month.”
“Right. I heard you signed with Kidari Entertainment. How’s the big-agency system treating you?”
Byun Hong-jin, having heard the rumors, asked with a hint of envy.
While Kang Tae-san answered as best he could, Director Yoo In-kyu glanced around the room, waiting for their turn.
That was when he spotted someone wearing red horn-rimmed glasses, staring intently ahead.
Of all people, Reporter Ji had to show up.
Entertainment reporter Ji Byung-sun.
He was infamous in the industry for his vicious tabloid articles, earning the nickname “the demon that devours rookies.”
Two years ago, when Yoo In-kyu directed his first B-team drama, a supporting actress had been targeted by the man. She hadn’t done anything particularly wrong.
She had simply said in an interview, “Viewers tell me I look chubby on screen,” but Ji twisted it into a sensational piece filled with phrases like “fans pressuring her to diet,” “side effects from diet pills,” and “lower-body obesity concerns.”
For a while, enlarged photos of her legs flooded online communities, and she had to endure waves of mockery and criticism in the comments.
Yoo In-kyu had witnessed the entire process up close, which made it all the more painful.
She checked the comments every single day; as filming progressed, she grew visibly thinner. Obsessed with dieting, she even scheduled liposuction. At 165 cm and only 50 kg, she lost another five kilograms before collapsing during the final shoot.
She had since vanished from the drama scene, and no one had heard from her since.
Calling it “just that” would be an understatement—this industry was cruel and cold. The baseline attitude was, “You make money off people’s attention, so you should be able to handle a little criticism.” Reporters—or rather, those so-called journalists—exploited that mindset to churn out malicious articles.
Rumor had it that one of the idols who had taken their own life had been driven to it by Ji’s reporting.
The forty-something man with messy hair, red glasses, and oversized clothes looked old enough to hold a department-head title, yet he still showed up at every event to fire off uncomfortable questions. He was probably the textbook definition of a psychopath who thrived on that kind of thrill.
“Listen, Tae-san, Hong-jin. If the reporters ask questions later, keep your answers short.”
“Understood.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Especially the guy with the red glasses. No matter what he asks, don’t react strongly. I’ll handle most of it.”
Yoo In-kyu didn’t want the young rookies, who still had so much growing to do in this industry, to get hurt.
Times had changed. Especially since they were promoting a drama about school violence perpetrators and victims, he desperately wanted to prevent any new victims from emerging because of their project.
But Ji Byung-sun had other plans. He pushed his glasses up with his middle finger, eyes gleaming.
So that’s the guy.
Soon it was their turn. Director Yoo In-kyu, actor Kang Tae-san, and Byun Hong-jin stepped onto the stage at the host’s introduction.
Among them, Kang Tae-san stood out the most. He was the rookie who had caused a sensation with his fresh face and powerful performance in the year’s biggest hit drama.
He looks pretty ordinary, though.
Ji Byung-sun felt no special aura from Kang Tae-san.
Every now and then, people like Choi Hyung-tak possessed an uncanny eye for spotting top-tier talent. But those who had survived long in the entertainment industry developed a similar, if lesser, instinct.
Ji Byung-sun was one of them.
In his mid-twenties, he had become an entertainment reporter and spent eighteen years watching countless celebrities rise and fall. He knew that successful entertainers each carried a distinct aura. It wasn’t something he could describe visually, but whenever he sensed that promising quality, his skin would prickle—an instinctive survival mechanism honed in an industry where climbing the wrong tree could get you killed.
So Ji only targeted those without that aura.
Yet from Kang Tae-san, he felt nothing—no danger, no threat worth his attention.
Hmm. Strange.
Still, Ji’s interest was piqued for the first time in a while. He licked his lips.
If the guy had seemed formidable, Ji would have stayed quiet and moved on. But without that aura, the urge to tear into him grew stronger.
After all, ripping into the weak always felt far more satisfying than challenging the strong.
Watching a young roe deer tremble and bleed from a single remark—that was the ultimate thrill.
Under the host’s guidance, Yoo In-kyu gave a brief introduction of the drama and asked the actors to greet the audience in turn.
Kang Tae-san took the microphone.
“Hello. I’m Kang Tae-san, playing the lead role of Do Hoon-jae, the victim in Scars.”
After the other actors finished their introductions, the host opened the floor to questions from the reporters.
A few asked the usual questions—What do you think is the charm of this work? Why did you choose this project?—and received equally standard answers.
Throughout it all, Ji Byung-sun kept his eyes fixed solely on Kang Tae-san.
When, how, and with what strike could he sink his teeth into this lamb most deliciously?
His mind raced with the possibilities.
Then the moment came.
Just when everyone on stage thought they had successfully parried most attacks, just when they believed the press conference would end safely and the articles would be favorable—
“Yes, the reporter from Spotlight, Ji Byung-sun.”
Ji took the microphone with his left hand.
“You mentioned this story is about school violence perpetrators and victims. Kang Tae-san, sitting in the middle—looking back at your school days, which side would you say you were on, if you had to choose?”
His speech was deliberate, each word pressed out slowly, forcing an answer between two options. It was the classic way to gaslight the weak.
Kang Tae-san, still holding the mic, was about to respond when Yoo In-kyu spoke first.
“I don’t think it’s common for someone to clearly be either a perpetrator or a victim during school years.”
“Ah, I see. And what about you, Kang Tae-san?”
Yoo In-kyu bit his lip hard.
Persistent bastard.
He had tried to shield Tae-san, but the seasoned hunter simply swung his aim without hesitation.
“Ah… um…”
Kang Tae-san hesitated, reluctant to answer hastily.
Then, as if making up his mind, he spoke.
“I was a bystander.”
Yoo In-kyu and Ji Byung-sun’s expressions shifted in opposite directions.
Ji’s eyes lit up. Got him! He immediately began typing furiously on the laptop in front of him.
The headline was already decided: “Kang Tae-san Reveals He Was a Bystander to School Violence… Shocking Confession!”
“So you’re saying that even though you were a ‘bystander’ to school violence in the past, you’re now playing the role of the ‘victim’?”
“…That’s—”
Before Kang Tae-san could continue, Byun Hong-jin quickly grabbed the microphone.
“Throughout the entire shoot, Tae-san never treated the victim’s scenes lightly.”
Byun Hong-jin had also caught on to Ji’s intent and stepped in to defend his colleague.
“Director, how about releasing a making-of video of that scene? There’s a part where Tae-san says it’s fine if he gets hit for real and asks us to actually strike him. At the time, even I wondered if that was okay, but thanks to him, I was able to immerse myself completely in the performance.”
“Our production team was worried too. Kang Tae-san didn’t show it, but he must have been in a lot of pain. The experience of being a victim of school violence isn’t something light. That’s when I saw his sincerity.”
The reporters who had been poised to type along with Ji paused, fingers hovering over their keyboards. Soon the sound of frantic backspacing filled the room.
This wasn’t scandal material—it was a heartwarming story.
Byun Hong-jin and Yoo In-kyu added a few more words. Byun said Tae-san had been the most exemplary actor he’d met on set, while Yoo praised him as the first performer he’d seen who possessed both genius acting talent and genuine diligence.
“……”
Kang Tae-san simply chose to stay quiet.
But Ji Byung-sun refused to give up, clinging to his powerful headline.
“Kang Tae-san, you have wonderful colleagues. In other words, that means you must be a pretty good person yourself, right?”
Ji knew exactly what rookies were vulnerable to—humility, the Korean virtue of not bragging.
If he praised them while hiding a jab, they would likely deny it profusely, insisting they weren’t good people, which would give him plenty of material to twist. And if they accepted the praise, he could simply paint them as arrogant and unlikeable.
Go on, answer me. Ji stared at Kang Tae-san with a lofty expression.
“I’d like to answer the question you asked earlier first.”
“?”
But Kang Tae-san gave a completely different response.
In truth, Kang Tae-san already knew what Ji was fishing for. Director Yoo’s earlier advice to keep answers short had been for the same reason—don’t give them an opening to attack.
Kang Tae-san had received special training from Kidari Entertainment’s team leader before coming here: how not to get trapped by reporters’ questions.
Whatever the other person asked, he was to answer however he wanted. If someone tried to steer the conversation with intent, even the most eloquent speaker could be cornered. The solution was simple—never hand over control.
“I recently watched a YouTube video showing how someone who committed school violence gets socially buried.”
Kang Tae-san thought of Cho Tae-man, the one who had made Yang Sun-il’s school days hell.
“In this day and age, I believe that if someone does something wrong, it will eventually come to light. It’s also an era where you get back exactly what you give. Through this story, I hope not only that victims of school violence find comfort, but that perpetrators feel fear.”
Kang Tae-san spoke clearly, delivering the words he had prepared.
“I was indeed a bystander. It wasn’t as extreme as in this drama, but I turned a blind eye to the discrimination and contempt that clearly existed in my class. I was weak and afraid, I think. Even now that I’ve found some courage, I want to say this: if there’s anyone out there hurting someone else right now, please stop. Someday, that debt will come back to you—with interest.”
From the moment Kang Tae-san began speaking, the reporters typed at an almost invisible speed. They were seasoned professionals.
This is headline material!
Not just any headline—explosive material.
Actors who did image training rarely commented on sensitive issues like this. They risked dredging up their own past mistakes or inviting backlash from a single misstep. So they stayed silent to avoid even the chance of controversy.
But Kang Tae-san was delivering a powerful, cathartic statement—warning the perpetrators, not as an actor, but as Kang Tae-san himself.
Only one person, Ji Byung-sun, kept his hands off the keyboard, staring straight at Kang Tae-san.
The fine hairs on Ji’s forearms stood on end.
He knew it instinctively.
This guy wasn’t some harmless mushroom like an oak, enoki, or shiitake.
Touch that, and you die.
It felt like standing before a deadly poisonous mushroom—far more potent than the others, radiating an overwhelming presence that would bring certain ruin if consumed.
In the entertainment industry, the title of “reporter” was like a reverse talisman that protected one from most threats. But if you blindly attacked anyone while relying on that protection, it could backfire and poison you instead.
Ji had encountered a few such cases during his long career, and the sense of danger was unmistakable now.
Back when Baek Hye-rin and Han Ji-hoon were just starting out, they gave off this exact feeling.
Unable to imagine what kind of backlash would follow if he provoked Tae-san, Ji tucked his tail between his legs.
“Yes. I heard your answer clearly. Thank you.”
Ji quietly turned off his microphone and ended his questioning.
***
Second-year Class 2 at Gyeongbok High School in Seo-gu, Incheon.
The co-ed school was as noisy and lively as ever.
Three girls gathered at the front desks, scrolling through community posts on their phones, were buzzing with excitement over yesterday’s article.
“See? I told you Kang Tae-san was going to blow up.”
“Ugh, that Hongdae disease of yours. You always act like you discovered them first, then get all smug when they succeed.”
“Handsome face, great acting, and even good character? He’s basically a unicorn, I’m telling you. A unicorn.”
“But that statement was pretty refreshing. ‘Actor Kang Tae-san says the ones who should hide their scars aren’t the victims—it’s the perpetrators.’ That’s so cool, right?”
Of course, that line had been written by a reporter moved by Kang Tae-san’s words, but the girls gave all the credit to him, praising him enthusiastically.
Just then—
Thud! A dull sound echoed from the back of the classroom.
The once-lively room fell silent in an instant.
“Hey, you little shit. You think what I say doesn’t matter?”
Ryu Min-tae, the school’s notorious bully, had kicked the shin of someone who had bought the wrong bread with all his strength.
“S-sorry.”
“Sorry, my ass. If you didn’t want to buy it, say so. I skipped lunch waiting because you said you’d get it, you idiot. What about my wasted time?”
“I-I’ll go buy it again right now.”
Ryu Min-tae snatched the milk carton the errand boy had brought and poured it straight down the front of his pants.
“Yeah, go do that~ How’s that? The weather’s dry, so this should feel nice and moist, right?”
“Dude, lol, did you just piss yourself?”
“Agh, it stinks like rotten milk~”
The group around him snickered and joined in.
The victim of the bullying stood up quietly without saying a word.
Just as he was about to leave the classroom, milk still dripping down his pants—
“Hey. Aren’t you guys embarrassed?”
One of the girls who had been excitedly talking about Kang Tae-san spoke up.
“What did you say?”
“We recorded everything you just did on our phones. You’re high schoolers now—don’t you feel ashamed?”
“Kek. You like that guy or something? What’s your deal?”
“You’re the one who likes him, aren’t you? Can’t stand not being able to devour him. How old are you, still bullying someone like a grade-schooler?”
“Shut your mouth, you crazy bitch.”
“Why? Gonna hit a girl too? Go ahead. You go to acting school, right? You think you can become an actor after doing stuff like this? Never. I’m gonna upload it to YouTube. ‘Gyeongbok High alumnus Ryu Min-tae was a school violence perpetrator.’”
“You crazy bitch. Try it. Go ahead, you lunatic.”
As Ryu Min-tae stormed toward her, the girl thrust her phone camera in his face.
“Shit!”
He swatted the phone away, and it crashed to the floor, shattering.
But it wasn’t the only one. By now, most of the students in the class had their phones pointed at him, recording.
“What are you doing?”
“Stop it. We’ve been uncomfortable this whole time.”
“Yeah. You’re disrupting class with this crap.”
“Quit bullying the kids.”
“Have some shame!”
The small spark lit by one brave girl had grown into a full moon.
“……Damn it.”
Sometimes, the feeling of liking someone gave people courage—the courage not to feel ashamed in front of them.
And so, Kang Tae-san’s small flap of wings had become a source of great courage for someone else.