Starting Over
Of course, it wasn't that the actors were botching the reading with terrible performances.
They all had solid basic skills, enough to maintain at least a minimal flow.
Script readings weren't acting power shows in the first place. They were just a checkpoint to ensure the director and actors were aligned in vision.
As long as he could gauge the characters' tones and chemistry, there wasn't a major issue.
But...
'Nothing special about it at all.'
For the past three months, he'd bonded with the actors while prepping their roles.
Sometimes he'd play their scene partner, delivering lines; other times, he'd act as the writer, interpreting the script; occasionally, he'd even step in as director, giving notes.
He'd felt a twinge of shame as a washed-up actor meddling like that, but it faded quickly.
He'd seen the finished product, after all. He could feel the actors evolving in real time.
"I've acted my whole life, but this one's different."
"It's like..."
"Not so much performing it, but pulling out another version of myself?"
He'd been moved, amazed, even brought to tears by their acting.
And he'd become convinced.
This project would succeed.
Even if it somehow tanked completely, their performances alone would shine.
This was the best casting he could pull off.
But right now, none of that was showing.
This wouldn't cut it.
It had been a casting choice everyone opposed.
If they didn't deliver here, he'd hear the inevitable: "See? Told you we needed big names."
Worst case, SSK's CEO Han Sung-hoon—standing among the staff—might even push to recast.
And crucially...
"Don't talk bullshit! You think this is a deserted island?! Why can't we go to Seoul?!"
He could sense the actors' dissatisfaction.
Their eyes weren't like the ones he'd seen before.
After agonizing, he made the call.
"Hold on a sec. How about we start over from the beginning?"
Cold stares snapped to him instantly.
He knew it was a bold move.
Readings were the actors' domain. Only the director could direct them.
Even the writers caught flak for butting in; a CE like him? Forget it.
Sure enough, director Jung Hee-soo opened his mouth with a look of disbelief.
"Do Hyun-woo CE? What's the problem? Even if there is one, you don't just halt the reading."
"The actors seem pretty tense. We haven't gotten far, so restarting from the top might help?"
"Ah, what the..."
He looked ready to unleash some harsh words, but the writers jabbed his side, signaling him to stop.
Those two were still on his side.
He wanted to repay that trust.
But excluding the writers, the glares weren't friendly.
Whatever. A little hate wouldn't kill him.
He'd endured worse wandering audition rooms as an unknown actor. This was nothing.
The actors, at least, sighed in relief, like it was welcome news.
"That okay with everyone?"
"Ah, fuck it. Do whatever."
With the director's grudging okay, he turned to the actors.
"You've all memorized lines and cues cold. So why are you burying your noses in the scripts?"
He didn't know any magic words to make them act better.
But he trusted the time they'd poured into the script, weekdays and weekends alike.
"Scripts down. Let's try it. I'll fill in any loose ends. We'll do Act 1 and Act 3."
Three months earlier.
A dreamlike moment arrived for Park Sung-won.
For someone who hadn't even landed solid supporting roles, the third lead in a Tvic original had come knocking.
Do Hyun-woo CE seemed like an angel; Tvic, a staircase to heaven.
But the joy was fleeting.
Once serious prep began, the weight of pressure crashed in.
'What if I screw this up?'
This massive break meant total ruin if he blew it.
Could an unknown like him tank a Tvic original's third lead and get another shot?
No way.
People would write him off: Failures fail for a reason.
His middling resume would lock him out of even supports.
The industry clung to invisible rules.
And then...?
Quit acting?
'No. Don't think like that. Just do well. You have to nail it. No choice.'
But the more he obsessed over nailing it, the heavier the burden grew.
He regretted it all.
Shouldn't have told his mom—who prayed daily with water offerings despite no religion—about landing the big role.
Shouldn't have whispered to his dad, who tiptoed around to not disturb his script study, that it was a Tvic original.
Shouldn't have yelled to his theater pals, who cheered him on genuinely, that he'd make it big.
Pressure consumed Park Sung-won.
Far worse than he realized.
Maybe that's why.
One night, alone at a street food stall downing soju, he dialed Do Hyun-woo without thinking.
He knew whining to the total director was dumb, but the booze loosened his tongue completely.
"I'm a fucking idiot, I know it's stupid bullshit..."
"This moment I dreamed of every goddamn night—it's here, I know that!"
"But I'm scared. Terrified! Why the hell am I so scared?!"
Not even coherent—just drunken rants.
If Do Hyun-woo CE had brushed it off with some generic "I believe in you, actor. Hang in there," he might've kicked off the blankets next morning in self-loathing sobs.
But he didn't.
Friday night or not, he showed up, paid the tab, and listened to the venting.
Probably all night.
He woke up in Do Hyun-woo CE's place.
"Gah! S-sorry! I'm so sorry!"
"How's the hangover?"
"Sorry, really sorry!"
"Your voice is booming, so seems fine?"
Do CE chuckled, boiled some hangover stew, then...
"Let's go."
To the theater.
There, in the empty house, the two acted.
At first, he panicked, thinking it was a critique session.
But no.
Do Hyun-woo CE built a playground for Su-cheol to romp in.
Sometimes as Hyun-tae, sometimes Jeong-hoon, sometimes Young-soo.
His acting was stunning—baffling why he'd retired.
But gradually, something clicked.
All those script puzzles he'd wrestled with...
"I see Su-cheol basically looking down on Hyun-tae. School days' inertia lingers—he thinks he's a grade lower."
"But it's not conscious. Unconscious territory."
"So he wouldn't admit, 'I'm ignoring Hyun-tae.' Never."
"Only Hyun-tae and the friends sense it."
To Do Hyun-woo CE, it was casual.
"Need that gap. Don't make superiority obvious."
"You said 'police officer' earlier? Script says so."
"Try 'the people's cane' or 'pig cop' once?"
"Conscious calls him officer, unconscious sneers 'pig.' Nuance matters."
Deeper grasp of the role.
Bigger picture vision, too.
"First two episodes, it'll fly under radar."
"But when main flashback hits—Su-cheol and Hyun-tae—viewers'll go, 'Oh, Su-cheol's been dissing him?'"
Mind blown.
This was his golden shot.
Park Sung-won unloaded every question; answers flowed effortlessly.
Every offhand word a gem.
That day, hope sparked: I can do this.
He glimpsed the shining path.
But alone, anxiety returned.
He swallowed pride, reached out repeatedly; relief only when Do Hyun-woo smiled and said "Good."
"Our drama has time leap elements—dead characters revive from Hyun-tae's view, right?"
"Yes."
"To me, your tone with Jeong-hoon differs in Acts 3 and 5."
"Ah! Right. Hyun-tae knows Jeong-hoon died and came back, but Su-cheol doesn't...!"
"Yeah. Whole-script reading bleeds in."
Always learning something new.
Then, the revelation.
He wasn't alone. The other actors leaned on Do Hyun-woo CE the same way.
They made a group chat, met regularly to practice.