The Friday-Night Summons
"How about this one? High-Teen Medley — members of an elementary school choir club, now drifting into their thirties, reunite to reminisce about the past and—"
"Pass. What year are you living in? Boss, your eye for scripts is completely dead."
CEO Jang was cut off so ruthlessly that even Jeonghyeon's bluntness felt almost cruel.
He glared at Jeonghyeon for a moment, then switched targets.
"Team Leader Woo, you feel the same way?"
Team Leader Woo, who had been quietly leafing through the scripts until now, lifted her head at the question. A smile settled across the face of the man who looked so steady and solid.
"Yes. It's pretty terrible."
"……."
Unable to bring himself to say a word to her, CEO Jang just pursed his lips and sat back down in silence.
Team Leader Woo — that is, Woo Hyunwoo, the woman overseeing Management Team 1, the team I belonged to — was said to be so capable that rival agencies kept bombarding her with offers to poach her. Which was probably why CEO Jang was unusually meek today. Normally by this point he'd be grumbling at Jeonghyeon, "You're not the one going in front of the camera, so why do you keep butting in?"
Right. We were currently discussing my next project.
"You can't let the gap between works drag on too long. You need to be moving straight from one project into the next."
Standing alone in the middle of the CEO's office, CEO Jang lowered his voice, trying to conjure an air of gravity. But I was the only one actually looking at him.
Jeonghyeon replied without so much as a glance in his direction. "What gap? Anyone listening would think the drama already ended. We've still got a week to go."
"The serialized episodes wrapped up ages ago. That's when the gap started."
"……."
When Jeonghyeon silently turned a page, CEO Jang muttered under his breath that he never used to be like this — it was after he'd made it big that he'd picked up these bad habits.
Watching him grumble away all on his own, without anyone bothering to respond, I thought to myself, Does he really not have anything better to do?
It wasn't exactly a CEO's job to have this much free time on his hands. Team Leader Woo was here because it was her own actor's business, and Jeonghyeon was Jeonghyeon — but why on earth did the CEO need to insert himself into this discussion? In his own office, no less? Why?
I was scanning the mounds of paper swallowing the room with a vaguely dissatisfied eye when the grumbling CEO suddenly whipped his head toward me.
"Yeonjae, isn't there anything you like in there? Anything you want to do?"
"I'm reading a script right now, so please don't interrupt me, Boss."
"Come on, just tell me. No pressure."
Even with Jeonghyeon trying to rein him in, his face looked remarkably passionate.
Why is he so fired up about this?
Still bemused, I put a smile on and gave the same answer as last time.
"I honestly don't mind anything."
After all, the character didn't matter as long as I could strip away the misfortune factors. Which meant what I really wanted to say was: please, let's stop meeting every single week.
It had been about three weeks since CEO Jang first brought up my next project.
With Neutinamu leaving only two episodes remaining, I was being ground down by an endless flood of interview requests. When I balked at the sheer volume, Manager Ahn Jinbae explained that this was already after heavy filtering.
"Our agency has a strong image as a home for actors who build their careers on skill, so our people almost never do anything outside of acting."
Apparently, the actors of Wooyeon Entertainment avoided not just variety shows but even interviews unless they were absolutely necessary. And since I was a complete newcomer, constantly turning things down would only breed bad press — so I was told I was taking only the unavoidable ones.
That day, too, I'd come back from an interview as usual. Then the boss suddenly summoned me and asked what my next project was going to be.
I found it absurd, the way he talked as if I had options to choose from, but I answered calmly that I'd need to know what auditions were available before I could decide.
The look that came back was one of even greater bewilderment.
'You? Audition?'
'Sorry?'
'Why? Does that make you more comfortable?'
'…?'
I had no idea what he was talking about — until, not long after, I found out the reason.
Scripts arriving under my name had piled into a tower within days. Roles that required no formal audition at all — just a light in-person meeting, and then straight to confirmation.
An extraordinary situation for a rookie. None of them were lead roles, of course — all supporting parts or cameos — though even that made me wonder who was behind it.
After consulting with Team Leader Woo, Jeonghyeon, and Manager Ahn Jinbae, we decided to turn down every single one. The reason was simple: they were all far too similar to Yuhyeon, the role I'd just played.
"Your next role needs to plant a different image from Yuhyeon. Once an image gets locked in, it's hard to shake loose."
If he'd said I lacked the range to play anything else, fine — but this wasn't that, was it? Standing in front of Jeonghyeon as he said this, I had nothing to offer in rebuttal and simply smiled.
He really did rate me far higher than I deserved.
The boss couldn't understand why we'd sweep aside scripts that had come rolling in on their own. We were riding the peak of my popularity right now, he argued, and thinking it over too carefully might let all the momentum drain away. But when Jeonghyeon countered that rushing could just as easily ruin things, he nodded along obediently.
Though all his agreeing proved worthless, because he kept bringing up the next project like some loan shark chasing a debt.
I really don't get what his deal is.
In any case, Team Leader Woo, Jeonghyeon, Manager Ahn Jinbae, and the rest of the agency staff were unanimous: there was no need to rush. This was an important period, they advised — take your time going through the scripts, don't force it.
There was just one problem: I was in a hurry.
'It's time to start imitating a different character.'
Losing myself in Yuhyeon alone was no longer enough to hold off the misfortune for a full day.
Two days ago, I'd bumped into something while walking down the street. The collision was hard enough that I heard an audible thud, and when I checked later, there was a bluish bruise blooming on my knee. Manager Ahn Jinbae, beside me, had scrambled in a panic to inspect it, but I just stood there frozen.
Because a chill had run down my spine in that instant.
'There was clearly nothing there.'
Granted, you can bump into things even while looking straight ahead. But it didn't sit right with me. I wasn't the kind of person who stumbled around carelessly — and above all, incomprehensible accidents were something I knew far too well.
Sure enough, when I asked Angae that night, it confirmed my suspicion: the misfortune that had been shed was settling back into place faster than before.
So I switched up the character I practiced. I'd started rehearsing one of the roles from Jeonghyeon's drama — the one I saw most often — and just in case, I was now checking in advance what might happen the following day.
I could imitate characters from dramas and films, but studying a script laid out on the page made it far easier to grasp a character. So I'd asked if there happened to be any spare scripts lying around — any would do — and Manager Ahn Jinbae, though puzzled, had kindly gathered some up for me.
"Actor-nim."
"……."
The lead of the script I'd brought today was a delinquent thug. The bluntness of the language had startled me at first, but by now I was comfortably mouthing profanities that had become almost familiar — when someone laid a careful hand on my shoulder.
"Actor-nim, it's your turn."
"Ah, yes."
"Lee Yeonjae? This way, please~."
I stood up at once, handed the script back to Manager Ahn Jinbae, and followed the nurse.
"Arms out, chin up. Alright, now take a deep breath in for me~."
Matching the nurse's kind but mechanical instructions, I dutifully inhaled.
I'd come to the hospital today for the checkup Manager Ahn Jinbae had mentioned before. I had no idea what kind of exam he'd requested, but the list of tests was way, way too long. And why were there so many forms to fill out?
Frankly? It was tedious and boring. Spending this time practicing would have done far more for my health — and saved money, too. Still, I kept carefully arranging my face into something pleasant, worried Manager Ahn Jinbae might start second-guessing himself.
A week later, the results arrived by email.
Manager Ahn Jinbae was peering at the laptop with a grave expression, his gaze lingering unusually long on one section.
"How is it? Nothing wrong, right?"
"……No, nothing."
The slight furrow between his brows read plainly as I don't understand, yet those eyes still looked as gentle as ever. The place they'd landed was the results of the Symptom and Behavior Assessment Scale.
The section stamped with the words: more stable than average.
The test — used as a depression screening — returned a more positive judgment the lower your summed score. Mine had been 11 points. Anything above 16 flagged you for close observation, so you could call it exactly the right score.
From Manager Ahn Jinbae's perspective, it must have been an unexpected result. No physical illness to speak of, which meant the hyperventilation had to stem from something psychological — yet the psychological screening had come back clean.
He probably felt like he'd missed something. And understandably so, because…
'I've taken this test plenty of times.'
I don't know about other places, but Morin Orphanage ran one of these every single year. A check on whether the children in care were feeling deep depression or anxiety — in short, a medical service carried out in the name of child welfare.
For a while, I'd even been classified as requiring special attention and tested once every quarter. It got thoroughly tedious. Tedious enough that I could roughly map out which answers would produce which results.
"Well, if it says you're fine, that's truly a relief. But you know, right? If there's ever anything you want to talk about—"
"I'll tell you right away, hyung."
I fired off the now-familiar line — I could probably recite it in my sleep by now — and he gave a deflated little laugh.
'I'm sorry it feels like I'm deceiving you….'
But even if I sat through counseling, there was only so much I could actually talk about. Considering what counseling cost, this was honestly the easier option.
Looking back, every hyperventilation episode had one thing in common: I'd been so startled I fell straight into panic. Which meant all I had to do was keep my head together and make sure I never panicked.
And above all, as long as I could keep meeting Angae without trouble, there shouldn't be anything shocking enough to set me off. I already carried a plastic bag in my pocket at all times, just in case. That much was enough.
"How about shrimp fried rice for dinner?"
"Sounds good."
I'd just closed the laptop and we were discussing dinner when the buzz of a phone sounded from somewhere. Without a flicker of hesitation, Manager Ahn Jinbae fished his phone out of his pocket — then froze for a moment, staring at the screen.
Who on earth—
"Yes, Boss."
Ah, seriously.
My face screwed up in exasperation before I could stop it. Manager Ahn Jinbae stole a glance at my expression and lowered his voice.
"Yes, I see. Understood. I'll come by the office tomorrow— ah, right now is a little…."
He wants to meet NOW? Sunday evening, seven o'clock?
Never mind me, but Manager Ahn Jinbae is an employee. And he tells people to come into the office on the weekend just like that? My affection for CEO Jang plummeted at record speed. Not that I'll say what it was before.
Watching Manager Ahn Jinbae flounder, I was just about to offer to take the call myself when his mild eyes went wide, and he raised his voice without meaning to.
"I'm sorry — a variety show?"
……A variety show?