Scripts That Linger
Kim Ra-un stared at Do Hyun-woo’s retreating figure, his face a mask of bewilderment.
He’d received countless casting offers over the years, but nothing like this.
This wasn’t casting—it was straight-up gaslighting, wasn’t it?
But…
It didn’t feel bad.
It even felt a bit like going back a few years.
With Do Hyun-woo gone, the quiet house filled with his swirling thoughts.
A torrent of ideas flashed through his mind.
“Don’t look for reasons to reject this project in me.”
“If you’re going to turn it down, read the script first as an actor.”
“Watch Gongbeomche. Then read this script.”
Thinking it over, they were such obvious points.
You read the script before rejecting a project.
If a rival show had crushed you, you monitored it.
Of course, if the script was fundamentally flawed or the rival’s success was due to some absurd fluke, maybe not.
But this was a project Do Hyun-woo had touched.
The man whose opinion Choi Jae-hyuk and Seo Jae-yeon sought first when picking their next roles—people the world didn’t know about.
The one D.P’s Yoon CEO and Ko Team Leader acknowledged had sharper eyes than them.
The guy who’d appeared mostly in bit parts or extras without lines, yet racked up Korea’s highest audience numbers and ratings.
Just minutes ago, he’d had zero intention of looking at the Sonkkeut-eul Geollyeoneun script.
Now, skipping it felt downright foolish.
“Unbelievable.”
Kim Ra-un chuckled, grabbing a beer and flicking on the living room TV—right as the door lock beeped.
Beep-beep-beep.
Jang Gi-un strode in.
“Watching TV?”
“Just turned it on. Bored.”
“Eaten?”
“Yeah, earlier.”
Jang Gi-un eyed Kim Ra-un’s face and grinned, plopping down beside him.
“You look good today.”
“...Do I?”
“Yeah, perfect timing. Got a meeting with Director Ko tomorrow.”
“Ko? You mean Director Ko Hak-soo?”
“Yep. The guy who put you on the map. Wants you as the lead in his next project.”
“Why me?”
Jang Gi-un scowled at the question.
“Don’t like that attitude?”
“...”
“Kim Ra-un, snap out of it. You think one flop means you’re blacklisted?”
“...Sorry.”
“Director Ko said the same. Idiots making noise for a bit, blind to an actor’s worth. He was clapping at your Young Peril overseas numbers. All those rights sales in your name—told him to tell you a little online boiling doesn’t ruin the substance.”
“Anything else?”
“What, acting? Your stability there’s a given, right?”
Jang Gi-un patted his shoulder, face softening.
“Ignore the outside chatter. If Do Hyun-woo hadn’t spread that nonsense about casting you, it’d be buried already. Give it three months—producers lining up for your next gig.”
Kim Ra-un nodded obediently, then hesitated before speaking.
“But, Manager Jang.”
“Yeah?”
“Seen Gongbeomche?”
“Yeah, not all of it.”
“What if I’d done it?”
“Why state the obvious? It would’ve killed even harder. Do Hyun-woo’s nonsense was just an excuse to reject you.”
After more back-and-forth like that, Jang Gi-un stood.
“Picking you up at 4 tomorrow. No need for a salon visit, but I’ll send over outfits—look confident.”
Once Jang left, Kim Ra-un headed to his study.
The bottom drawer held a well-worn Gongbeomche script.
Do Hyun-woo was half-right.
Kim Ra-un had never watched the show.
But he’d read the script multiple times.
Skimming it again, he returned to the living room and logged into Tvic.
His hands didn’t shake as much as expected.
He even chuckled seeing Gongbeomche pop up after typing just ‘g’.
Episode 1 began playing.
The day after tossing the casting offer at Kim Ra-un, I started dodging Chae Seo-hee.
She kept grilling me: Did you really nail the casting?
Her sharp instincts had caught my vagueness.
Honestly, I had no clue.
From Kim Ra-un’s side, my impulse must’ve seemed insane—yet nostalgic enough not to suck.
Should I have buttered him up more? But my sincerity probably got through.
Whatever. That final look in his eyes didn’t seem bad…
Damn, no idea.
I’d planned smoother lines for the casting.
No, why was a top star still such a sensitive softie?
People don’t change easy, huh?
Hit me—time to chew out Seo Jae-yeon.
Seo Jae-yeon’s instant reply came—I ignored it, leaning back in my chair.
“Hyun-woo!”
Chae Seo-hee appeared out of nowhere, rattling my chair.
“Quit it! I did fine, okay?”
“Not that. I uncovered a huge secret.”
“Secret?”
She whispered.
“Senior Joo Young-hoon’s producing writer Hong Hee-young’s new script. Oxygen Alert.”
Oh, that?
“Directed by AP Ko Hak-su.”
“...For real?”
“Yeah. He nails miniseries. Rumor’s his personality’s a bit rough, though.”
Whoa, what a combo.
Add Jang Gi-un, and it’s the ultimate trio of my life’s nemeses.
“Team 3 probably doesn’t know yet. Just Kang Mu-tae CE, I think.”
“Where do you even hear this stuff?”
“Ways and means.”
No points left to dock from her hearing anymore.
“You read the script, right?”
“Yeah.”
I hadn’t when rejecting it in front of Joo Young-hoon, but later begged the script team for it.
Not all—just parts 1-4.
“How was it?”
“Fun. Plenty of fun, but…”
Images kept flickering oddly in my head.
Only one reason for that.
The drama’s fun elements were too uniformly dense.
Strong characters mean simpler plots by necessity.
Overload the characters with fun, and intense events tire viewers out.
That’s why character shows lean on coincidences for resolutions and info.
Flip it: plot-heavy shows keep characters in bounds.
Unique traits okay, but universal appeal without heavy explanation.
Stories balance plot, characters, material, background.
Odd material? Dial back background. Weird setting? Go generic material.
Not a hard rule, sure.
Sometimes you get monster characters, plots, material, settings—all perfect.
Those become timeless classics, talked about for ages.
Rare, though.
One every few years.
That’s why Oxygen Alert flickered—male merman + female chaebol heiress rom-com, but the core axis felt hazy.
Scenes and dialogue? Top-notch.
Tweak the script a bit or thin the density in direction, and it could be huge.
“Fun, but what?”
“Jealous, so I dragged it out. Just fun.”
Chae Seo-hee smirked, getting the signal to drop it—ears everywhere.
Sung Tae-chang better step up.
Or my top system message might turn into a stat window.
Shaking off the stray thought, I stood.
Waiting on Kim Ra-un’s reply for role 1, time to fill the leads.
Role 2 in Sonkkeut-eul Geollyeoneun: Lee Young-han.
26 in the story.
Now I knew 26 made you an old gamer in pro gaming.
Courtesy of Yoon Hyun-sol’s brutal lecture.
Lee Young-han, representative pro gamer of his generation, vanished the day before the Asian Games finals.
His sub stepped in, but they lost.
Gold went to China.
A national team player ghosts? Public outrage was massive—bewilderment turning to fury.
E-sports could never be a real sport, they said. Lee became the industry’s ultimate traitor, a coward.
No one knew why he ran.
Three years later, returning to Seonghwa Empire—with Park Seong-hwa as coach.
Key character.
If Park represented the old guard, Lee was the new.
Park valued effort; Lee, talent. Park, process; Lee, results.
Yet their pains matched.
Understanding each other’s scars turns Seonghwa Empire into a true team.
Needed a 20s actor who wouldn’t fade against Kim Ra-un’s presence but brought a totally different vibe.
Superpower rec: Min Jae-yul from Surfer Ent.
These days, baby-faced actors let 30s guys snag 20s roles, but he’d been steadily building his filmography in his 20s.
16-episode lead might be a stretch, but prime time for an 8-ep OTT protagonist.
Surfer Ent was game.
Min Jae-yul read parts 1-4 on the spot.
His role’s beefy—squint, and you could call it a dual-lead.
Meeting stayed upbeat throughout.