The Flame They Lit

“Aigoo, it's burning up beautifully. Burn brighter still!”

Jang Wooyeon, CEO of Wooyeon Entertainment, snickered as he scrolled through his phone. Lee Jeonghyeon stared at him with contempt.

“You know the deal, right? You'd better finish this properly. If this doesn't get wrapped up cleanly—”

“Jeonghyeon-ah, my ears are going to fall off. How many times do I have to say it? I've got this.”

Four days earlier, news of Lee Yeonjae joining Wooyeon Entertainment had broken on the internet. A combination of the agency that aspiring actors dreamed of most, plus a kid who had made waves a few months back — it drew a modest trickle of reactions.

It helped that Tail: Tracing the Traces, the production he'd appeared in as an extra, had been such a colossal hit.

That was the extent of the response: Oh. So we'll get to see more of him now.

Jang Wooyeon had absolutely no intention of letting it end there. So he made Yeonjae a proposal: what about executing a plan that could turn this lukewarm reception into a blazing one — even if the method was somewhat aggressive?

Despite Lee Jeonghyeon's objections, Yeonjae had accepted willingly, and so the operation began.

The news that Yeonjae would appear in The Butterfly Flower on the Zelkova Tree was out, but even a teaser had yet to be released. The public knew exactly one thing about him: that he'd played an extra in Tail.

The image of him smiling in a yellow hat had been seared deeply into people's memories, but that was all. A few dozen seconds of screen time — far too brief to gauge his talent or skill.

'He got into Wooyeon off just that?' — that was the core question the operation was designed to provoke.

And indeed, plenty of people were thinking it. They simply weren't posting, because the issue wasn't hot enough to warrant dedicated question threads.

So Jang Wooyeon created an environment where anyone could post freely.

Countless community posts and comments written under rotating IP addresses, plus articles from cooperating media outlets.

The way to shake up people on the other side of the internet is simple: hand them a target worth hating.

The moment someone thinks, 'Huh? At this point, isn't it fair game to trash this guy?' — the moment hating feels justified — mention counts explode.

Of course, it lacked the power to flip the internet upside down, but it was more than enough to become a trending issue. People who'd initially reacted with 'Wait, who is this kid?' began hopping aboard the bandwagon.

Doubts about the news of Yeonjae's signing emerged, followed by reactions denouncing lookism and slandering his abilities — and then, in droves, people who found those reactions distasteful and criticized a society that tears down children.

The result of the meticulously engineered keyword insertion was a success. Could he actually be some illegitimate son Lee Jeonghyeon sired after screwing up? Was his role in this drama also handed to him by the agency? Then aren't other, genuinely talented actors getting hurt by this? And so on.

Reading through threads filled with exactly the comments he'd anticipated, Jang Wooyeon wore a satisfied smile.

“It's all going to blow over the moment the drama starts airing anyway. Why worry so much?”

“I know that.”

Lee Jeonghyeon pressed down on his eyes, which felt stiff and strained.

It left a bad taste in his mouth, but it was undeniably a good strategy.

The reason such a strategy was even possible was that Yeonjae's acting was exceptional. This plan only worked because his skill went beyond merely impressive — it was flat-out overwhelming.

His performance was enough to astonish even a viewer watching with zero expectations. So what would it do to someone who'd been marinating in doubt and suspicion beforehand?

The moment it aired, every controversy would die on the spot, and the very people trashing Yeonjae would turn around and act like they'd been on his side all along.

Naturally, all this attention would feed into the drama's ratings too.

The broadcasting station negotiations were already wrapped up. It had been agreed that the teasers and promotional videos released before the premiere would reveal Yeonjae's scenes only in maddeningly ambiguous glimpses.

This kind of noise marketing wasn't meant to drag on. The longer it lasted, the higher the risk that public fatigue and prejudice would harden — and fortunately, the time remaining until the first episode was just about perfect. As if the whole thing had been scripted to unfold this way from the start.

“You're just afraid Yeonjae will get hurt. The kid was an ordinary civilian until a few days ago. None of this is familiar to him.”

“Show business has always been like this. If he's going to keep acting, he'll have to adapt.”

“He's thirteen.”

“Jeonghyeon-ah, kids younger than that are debuting in idol groups these days. What makes him so different?”

At that rebuke — you know exactly how sharp this kid is, so why are you being like this? — Lee Jeonghyeon swallowed his words.

I know. I know all of it… but it still doesn't sit right.

Jeonghyeon understood that a celebrity had to bear a certain weight to survive the industry, and he accepted, however reluctantly, that Yeonjae would have to shoulder it too. It had all been done with Yeonjae's consent, and above all, Yeonjae was sharper and more grown-up than any of his peers.

No one knew that better than Lee Jeonghyeon — and yet his heart remained uneasy.

'Well, what else could he do, after what he said last time?'

Jeonghyeon set down the scenario he couldn't seem to focus on and closed his eyes. Then he remembered it — how readily Yeonjae had nodded the moment the proposal was laid before him.

'Go ahead. If the drama does well, that's good for me too, isn't it?'

'Yeonjae-yah. Don't rush this. Take your time and think it over.'

Back then, Jeonghyeon had tried to talk him out of it, worried.

Imagining the feeling of thousands of strangers gathering to curse your name and actually living through it were worlds apart. No matter how good the outcome, if the process left wounds that couldn't be washed away, it would have been better not to do it at all.

But what Yeonjae said next was startling.

'I understand what you're saying, hyung. But if we're doing this anyway, shouldn't we choose the option that looks more valuable?'

'Valuable?'

'Yes. If I'm the product the company has to sell, then making people want to buy it is their job, isn't it? Making it look valuable — even if its actual value isn't all that high.'

Product value. The usefulness of something as merchandise. A thirteen-year-old had reached for those exact words when describing himself.

'Listening to the CEO, this whole thing seems to be the same logic. Even the same performance changes how people perceive it depending on what foundation you've laid beforehand. So I figure it's better to be perceived as worth more, if we can manage it.'

It'll probably sell better that way, too. As he said it, Yeonjae's expression was perfectly ordinary.

Plain, unadorned sentences — no exaggeration, no rehearsed performance in them at all.

That he'd used such words wasn't the problem. The problem was that he'd used them without a flicker of hesitation.

“I don't know anymore. I just want the drama to start airing already.”

“Stop fussing over the kid and go pick your next project. You've been glued to scripts for days on end — why are you being so high and mighty about it?”

“It's not being high and mighty, it's called being careful. I've single-handedly pumped up this company's stock, so the least the CEO could do is keep quiet.”

That much was true. Jang Wooyeon meekly conceded the point.

Watching him, Lee Jeonghyeon let out a small laugh. In everything, the CEO could be trusted. He couldn't vouch for the man himself, but at least for his competence.

The Yeonjae he knew wasn't the type to care what strangers online said about him — short of someone literally throwing eggs at his face.

'As long as it wraps up cleanly, it's all for the good of everyone involved.'

Just as Jeonghyeon had settled the matter in his mind and his expression was finally softening —

That relaxed face hardened again, right after he picked up a phone call from a frantic Ahn Jinbae.

***

I stared blankly at the message on my phone, then set it down. I pulled ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the blanket back over myself and lay down again.

I wasn't hungry. I was just unbearably sleepy.

But no matter how much I slept, I couldn't find Angae.

'Actor-nim, it's time to leave for school… are you still asleep? May I open the door?'

'…No. I'm up.'

That morning, waking from sleep without Angae, I hadn't managed to get out of bed until Manager Ahn Jinbae came knocking. It was a weekday, so I had to go to school, and I rose in a daze and pulled my clothes on. Bag in hand, shoes on, I gripped the door handle to step outside.

And then I simply stopped.

'…? Are you forgetting something?'

Could I really walk out like this when I hadn't even practiced acting today? When I had no way of knowing what might go wrong?

No. Get a grip. You just didn't meet Angae, that's all. The principle of the Misfortune Factor hasn't changed. If I practice acting here and there like always, today will wrap up smoothly, same as every other day.

'……Actor-nim?'

I had calmly sorted through my thoughts — yet my feet still wouldn't move.

'How can I be so sure the principle hasn't changed?'

What if I could never meet Angae again? What if Angae didn't appear in my dreams tomorrow either?

No. I'd known this was possible, hadn't I? It was something I'd anticipated.

Of course — if I hadn't made that request of Angae. No, it wasn't a request. What came back to me was simply the debt of forcing something onto someone who said they didn't want it.

Once again, it was all my fault.

'—nim! Why are you breathing like—'

Beside me, Manager Ahn Jinbae was saying something, gripping my shoulder. The moment he touched me, a chill ran through my entire body.

No. The Misfortune Factor could transfer.

In that instant, the image flashed before my eyes with terrible vividness: Ahn Jinbae wrapped in flames, burning pitch-black.

Right — back then, Jeonghyeon-hyung nearly got caught in that fire because of me. Angae was there, so we escaped… but Angae isn't here now.

The moment that realization landed, I shoved the figure approaching me away, hard.

'Hahh…, hah….'

Then I bolted into my room and slammed the door shut. My hands kept missing the lock, fumbling over and over before I finally managed to turn it.

From outside, I could hear Manager Ahn Jinbae shouting something, but I couldn't bring myself to answer. The words please, just get away from me climbed all the way up my throat.

Only after several minutes had passed could I, somewhat calmer now, send him a text.

After that, I stayed under the covers. I slept whenever sleep came, but Angae never appeared.

It felt like waking from a dream I'd dreamed for a very long time.

The truth was, I didn't want to believe it.