The Child Shaman
"What's this about a variety show, all of a sudden?"
When I asked as I climbed into the car, the answer came back: buckle your seatbelt first.
"He said he'll explain everything in person. It's about twenty minutes to the office, so start on the gimbap."
"Hyung, what about you—"
"I'll eat a bit later. Take your time—you don't want to upset your stomach."
The moment he hung up, I found myself face-to-face with someone who had apparently rushed out to the gimbap place near my house the second the call ended. There was no way I could tell him I had no appetite, so I tore open the wrapping.
I popped a piece of gimbap into my mouth and played the video Manager Ahn Jinbae had handed me on his phone.
"It's the cable variety show Mission Clear. It's seasonal—seven episodes a year. It's been running about three years now, and it has a pretty solid fanbase."
"Have you watched it, hyung?"
"Not closely. Just caught an episode or two in passing."
Mission Clear was, literally as the title suggested, a variety show about clearing missions. What each mission entailed changed every episode, and the show's defining gimmick was that the cast was never told what the mission even was.
The cast, blindfolded and transported to the mission location, had to figure out the mission on their own and then complete it—and only by shouting "Mission clear!" together at the end did they succeed.
"That's a pretty unusual concept."
"The mission site has been deep in the mountains before, and once it was a village at the very tip of the peninsula. The missions change with each location, so it's fun to watch. I mean—was fun. To watch."
I glanced up at the rearview mirror and caught a faintly flushed face.
Hm. Looks like a fan.
Honestly, I'd never kept up with variety shows, so the explanation hadn't quite landed for me—but the cast were famous comedians even I recognized.
As far as I could tell, they hadn't brought in a single guest all of Season 3.
Which meant that if they were reaching out to me now, I wasn't being offered a spot on the cast—I was being offered an extra's role.
Even skimming the video, the extras' roles looked surprisingly weighty. The cast, after all, had no idea what they were supposed to do, so the extras had to guide them while also acting naturally enough to keep everyone immersed in the scenario.
"Sounds fun. If I end up on the show, I'll get you an autograph."
"You really don't have to…"
"……"
"…Yes. Thank you… I'd be honored."
When I stared steadily at his hesitant face in the rearview mirror, he wavered for a moment before shyly making the request. I opened my mouth to laugh at the sight—and then the company building came into view, and the laugh died on my lips.
"Hyung, can I ask you something?"
"Of course! Anything."
"Is the CEO… is this the kind of thing CEOs normally handle? I mean—I was just wondering whether other agencies work like this."
I'd been about to ask whether the man had nothing better to do, but that seemed like a bad idea, so I'd softened it into a roundabout version. Even so, he seemed to understand exactly what I meant, because an awkward note crept into his voice.
"Usually, no. At that level, most CEOs are swamped just taking reports…"
Right. So why is he this worked up about it?
Manager Ahn Jinbae must have read my silent expression, because he mumbled an excuse on the CEO's behalf.
"I'm not in a position to meet the CEO often myself, honestly. The first time I met him after joining was actually when he met you, Actor-nim. From what I've heard, he doesn't usually weigh in on an actor's project choices either, so I honestly don't know why he's… I'm sorry. That wasn't a helpful answer."
"No, it's fine. Thanks for telling me."
It was the answer I'd expected, so there was nothing to be disappointed about—but he insisted he'd look into it separately, his reply brimming with earnest resolve.
Before I could even decline and say it really wasn't necessary, the car glided smoothly into the company parking garage.
I rode the elevator up and soon arrived, by now familiar with the route, in front of the CEO's office. After greeting Chief Han, who stood at her post in a crisp suit just like always, I stepped inside to find CEO Jang sitting there with an excited look on his face, Team Leader Woo beside him.
He even called in Team Leader Woo. My opinion of him dropped another notch.
"So? Pretty good deal, right?"
His deep-dimpled smile was pleasant enough to look at, but it didn't carry that boyish charm from last time. He just looked like a shrewd boss squeezing in a favor.
"Yes. I'll be appearing as an extra, then?"
"Yeah. Our agency doesn't usually like sending people on variety shows, but this one seemed fine. Team Leader Woo agrees."
CEO Jang turned to Team Leader Woo with the proud face of a man who'd just secured a powerful ally. So that was why he was so worked up—he simply had no one around to contradict him.
Thinking of Jung Hyun hyung, currently off in Switzerland on a photo shoot, I listened to Team Leader Woo's additional explanation.
"The show itself has buzz, and even though it's variety programming, you're ultimately acting—so there shouldn't be any image concerns."
"Right, right. Exactly."
"Apparently they rarely use recognizable actors, to preserve immersion in the scenario. Which is why, among unknown actors, it's known as a great opportunity to get on TV."
So if I take this spot, some unknown actor out there loses one more chance.
I was quietly chewing that over when CEO Jang, who'd been chiming in between Team Leader Woo's points, opened his mouth with great fanfare.
"There was a child actor lined up for this shoot, but he apparently got into some accident and can't make it. Filming's in three days, and they called to ask if we could fill in, so we need to answer fast."
"I see. Wait—three days?"
I'd been nodding out of habit and jerked back in surprise. But even at my startled expression, CEO Jang didn't so much as blink, just beamed and repeated, "Yep. Three days."
The fact that he didn't even ask why I was so shocked told me exactly how badly he wanted me on this shoot.
"So? You in?"
Looking at that bright, innocent face that was pretending to know nothing, I nodded obediently.
"Yes. I'll do it."
"Attaboy! Love how decisive you are!"
My answer had been decided from the start anyway. The schedule was tight, but it wasn't an unreasonable request—and we'd already signed the contract, so I had to do my part.
Besides, with the CEO practically bouncing in his seat, it would have been hard to say no.
"Great. Team Leader Woo, get in touch with their side. And don't forget to mention how I barely squeezed this into my schedule."
"Understood. I'll go make the call, then."
"Yes, yes. We'd better lock it in before that punk Jung Hyun gets back."
CEO Jang grumbling that Jung Hyun acted like he owned the place looked utterly devoid of dignity. Say stuff like that and you really don't seem like a CEO, you know.
"You've got school tomorrow, right? Look at the time already. Hurry on home."
"I will. Do you happen to know what role it is?"
Since they'd reached out to us first, I figured it would probably be something similar to Yu Hyeon.
The answer came right back—delivered with the exasperated tone of someone wondering why I was only asking now.
"Yep. A child shaman, they said?"
…A shaman?
—I would've told you all this in person if we'd had the time…
"It's fine. Thanks for calling first thing in the morning, hyung."
—Don't mention it…! Go show them what you can do—you'll be great. But I'm so bummed we can't go on the reward vacation together…
At his genuinely mournful, drawn-out voice, I offered the customary Korean farewell—let's definitely meet up next time—and hung up. Seong Ijun may have been born in America, but he'd grown up here since childhood, so he'd surely understood what that "see you next time" really meant.
Today was the day of the Mission Clear shoot.
It was also the day of the reward vacation for the production staff and lead actors of The Butterfly Flower on the Zelkova Tree.
Zelkova Tree, the runaway hit of the second half of the year, had wrapped with a successful 15.8 percent in viewership ratings.
In the finale, the Queen—whose plan had only ever been to shelter Yu Hyeon until her own family's power at court was secure—fell into turmoil as Hyowon proved a surprisingly capable crown prince. Yu Hyeon, greedily fixated on claiming Nabi for himself, had turned even the Queen, his one and only ally, into an enemy, and in the end she abandoned him and chose Hyowon. Hyowon, who had avoided every public appearance under the pretext of his frail health, revealed himself to the court the very moment he came of age.
It was the instant the positions of crown prince and commoner officially traded places.
Yu Hyeon lost his mind, stormed the palace, and wailed that he was the true crown prince. There were any number of incidents after that, but the final episode ended the way I've described—with the newly enthroned Hyowon and Nabi exchanging happy smiles within the palace walls.
Yu Hyeon had even pressed a blade to Hyowon's throat before, after one last exchange with Nabi, vanishing for good; he never appeared again.
Kim Seokjun's performance—glaring at Hyowon with bloodshot eyes that seemed ready to bleed at any moment, only to discover the fear in Nabi's gaze as she shrank from him—was superb.
So superb that I had no desire to watch it again.
Perhaps it was a case of the lobster taking the crab's side—having been quite immersed in Yu Hyeon myself, I'd only ever managed one viewing of the finale.
In any case, unlike Yu Hyeon's ending, the drama wrapped to great acclaim, and the reward vacation was scheduled.
Though I, of course, couldn't attend—thanks to the Mission Clear shoot.
"Actor-nim, all done with your call?"
"Yep. Let's head in."
Having stepped aside during my call with Seong Ijun, Manager Ahn Jinbae and I made our way onto the set together.
The reason I'd called Seong Ijun in the first place was that I had questions about playing a shaman. As it turned out, he'd played one a few years back.
But while the role had been the same, the circumstances were so different that it hadn't helped much—and with spoilers in the picture, I couldn't exactly explain my situation to him in detail, either.
"Are you nervous?"
"Yes. It's… not exactly an ordinary role, after all."
Manager Ahn Jinbae, who had sat in on my meeting with the writers two days ago, patted my shoulder as if to say he understood my worry.
"It won't be easy, but you'll do well—I'm certain of it. You practiced hard, didn't you?"
"I did, but there just wasn't enough practice time. I wish I'd had a little more."
I had thrown myself into practice for three full days straight—time with An-gae included—but it hadn't been enough to leave me satisfied.
Still, nothing to be done about it. Whining wouldn't help.
When Manager Ahn Jinbae pressed a sugar-free candy into my hand and told me to hang in there, I gave him a smile, stepped onto the set, and bowed in greeting the moment I crossed the threshold.
It took over thirty minutes of greeting every visible human being before I was finally allowed to sit down.
The cast, I'd heard, wouldn't arrive until the afternoon. The extras had spent the entire morning rehearsing our choreography together, and hours had flown by.
It had been barely eight in the morning when I arrived on set—and now it was already lunchtime.
Telling Manager Ahn Jinbae, who'd brought lunch boxes along, that I'd be right back, I slipped away to the bathroom.
I checked that no one else was inside, entered the last stall, lowered the lid, and sat down.
Ugh… this is exhausting.
I was trying my absolute hardest not to let it show, but a role was a role, and my legs were trembling.
Just as I was deliberately filling my head with idle thoughts to stamp down the creeping discomfort, I heard footsteps and voices.
"Ah, f***. What a pain in the ass. Look at these lunch boxes—are they trying to insult us or what?"
"Filming hasn't even started and I'm already done. F***ing idiots. They could at least pay us a decent day rate."
They'd moved to open the door—then settled quietly into the stall beside mine instead.
Wow, how careless can you get. Check if anyone's in here before you start running your mouths.
The thought please don't let this turn into a problem had barely formed when a rough male voice drifted over.
"And that little brat, man—so f***ing full of himself."
There was exactly one person on this set young enough to be called a brat.
In other words—they were talking about me.