Overflowing Confidence
Confidence was overflowing. No, more precisely, ambition and greed were surging all the way to the top of his head. This wasn't the hollow, defeatist desire of a gambler. It was a tsunami that swallowed everything—with his sleeves rolled up as he pulled out a chair and sat down, Tae-gyu was burning with an intensity fiercer than ever before.
Whoosh! The dokkaebi fire he'd copied from CEO Do was like a bulldozer flame, providing everything needed to seize his goals: expressions, nuances, speech patterns. Every focus was locked on slashing away any contract terms that might disrupt the fun of life.
"Haha, actor. What are you talking about?"
"The script reading's in a few days. Plenty of agency reps will show up. Even if it's a last-minute slot, it's still an SBC weekend drama."
Lee Tae-gyu settled naturally into his seat. The makeup-like smile at the corner of CEO Do's mouth faded slightly. He'd allowed the first strike.
The rookie's words, brimming with fighting spirit, continued. "I've heard that's the day agencies trade business cards. I was wondering why you wanted to see a newbie like me before I could connect with other companies and learn the industry ropes."
"Our actor's being too aggressive."
CEO Do Yoon-seop chuckled like a sly fox, playing coy. "You know PD Ji Cheol-geun, right? I was griping over drinks about not having any good rookie actors lately, and he must've remembered and given you my contact. I figured he'd talked to you too... Sorry if I overstepped."
He bowed his head in a crisp apology for sharing the contact without consent, curiosity flickering in his eyes.
"But one thing you said got me curious."
That sharply honed curiosity sliced into the hand CEO Do had raised.
"Script reading day is indeed business card trading day in the industry. But it's more like a networking party for leads and supports up for renewal, production companies, film companies, and reporters."
His index finger extended like a spear toward Tae-gyu.
"To put it bluntly, amid the quick readings by dozens of actors, minor roles get skimmed over without anyone noticing the lines. But... are you saying all those agency reps there will be watching you?"
A laugh burst from the spear's sharp tip, as if it were the most obvious thing.
"...Of course."
This wasn't mere confidence. It was conviction, in those eyes. CEO Do slowly opened his mouth.
"Why?"
"Probably because a major agency managing a star like Actor Kim Kwang-woo sent a no-name like me up to a million won in travel expenses just to win favor. And right after the audition, they dug up my number without asking and called—without my consent. Same reason for both."
A beat, then the answer continued.
"...Because I'm worth it."
Curiosity fully piqued, CEO Do's response shortened unconsciously.
"So, you have more money-making talent than the other leads and supports attending the reading?"
"I wouldn't be here if I didn't."
His aura set him apart from other rookies. It was a private fact that CEO Do had gotten Tae-gyu's acting footage from PD Ji. The confidence to say that to someone who hadn't even seen it himself was a tantalizing weapon. Contracts were won by agencies, sure, but surprisingly often through connections actors built on set. CEO Do had seen plenty of drunken actors' bold promises at after-parties turn into major deals.
"That's why I'm saying it's a shame to sell at rock-bottom price."
"The phrasing's a bit off."
"CEO. The fact that I came here means I'm fine with anything but 'rock-bottom.'"
"!"
He even resembled him. That gaze, dribbling desire with controlled emphasis yet unable to hide it completely. The moment CEO Do saw that fierce glint in the kid's eyes as he spoke with arms crossed—
"CFs? No plans to drop them. Movies? I hate directors who obsess over one project for one or two years. Once you see me, you'll know I'm nothing like those mystique-obsessed types playing high-and-mighty actor."
CEO Do sensed it instinctively. He's one of us. He knew that look. The one staring back from the empty fitness room mirror every dawn. It was the ambition to seize what he wanted, no holds barred.
How far will he go? The déjà vu, like facing a mirror image, kept CEO Do from shutting down the rookie's fearless chatter. Curiosity had taken hold.
"I'll list my conditions. If we can't agree, I'll leave clean."
The yellow sun shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows had turned to red sunset. The meeting had dragged on longer than expected.
Kim Kwang-woo shook his head and left midway.
'100%.'
Realizing his presence wouldn't sway the negotiation, he'd decided pounding biceps and triceps supersets beat standing like a decorative screen in front of the rookie.
'Daeil Enter made first contact.'
Unlike his tongue-clicking misconception as he left, all of Tae-gyu's negotiation terms were based on the 'knowledge' Writer Kwak had shared at the beer hall. Every industry nuance stored in memory had become perfect ammo, ignited by his burning ambition. That bizarre drive arranging every weapon precisely for his goal—it had to be the emotion he'd copied from Do Yoon-seop.
Whoosh.
Feeling the eerie calm boiling his blood, he continued.
"...To sum it up."
"Contract period: six months for now. From the start of Monster City filming to the gap after wrap-up. I want to see how DK Enter helps me."
His demand slashed the average five-year no-name contract drastically, factoring in that most of it was trainee period. He'd leveraged landing an impactful Monster City role without acting coaching or promo costs—or the time hustling stations—as his edge over other rookies.
"I'm not shameless enough to demand an upfront signing bonus on first contract. But."
Rookies and no-names got no signing bonuses anyway. They came later as transfer fees or retention costs from agencies with results.
"At latest before filming starts, assign me a team and a car."
This was key for Tae-gyu. Harvesting that gambler's emotion in Gangwon had felt risky. For the next harvest, a team beat going solo. Plus, chasing 'experiences he wanted' in this industry required staff for everything else.
"Revenue split: no greed for first contract. 6:4. I won't opt out, but post-Monster City CFs and shows by mutual agreement."
Tae-gyu paused. In the brief silence, CEO Do Yoon-seop, who'd been jotting notes, looked up and finished for him.
"...Right? That's the gist of your terms?"
"Yes."
This 'conversation' was more like 'You know how this industry works?' CEO Do weighed the terms. Not burdensome. The short period raised flags, but DK lavished gifts like personal cars on promising rookies. Costs during contract were low too—repurpose the ex-road manager and stylist Kim Hwan's resignation had idled. Better than hiring and training new.
But.
"...But these are only if we sign before the script reading."
"Hold on."
His attitude was getting cheeky. CEO Do chuckled dryly, removing his rimless glasses. He'd let it slide to see how far, but the kid was mistaking himself for a proven earner.
Fundamentally, in entertainment, companies were hunters, actors cormorants bringing money.
"Ah, you saying sign now on these terms?"
"Haha."
Trouble if the cormorant got cocky this early. His acting was stellar, but the industry was littered with one-trick specialists.
"Listen, Tae-gyu."
Honorific dropped to plain 'ssi.'
"What'd Daeil Enter offer?"
"...Pardon?"
"No games between pros."
Pulling a cloth from his pocket to wipe his glasses, fatigue and languor tinged CEO Do's face. Sharpness crept into his tone.
"Contracts aren't just mechanically listing demands and done. It's a relationship. Emotions must flow both ways. But it's only your emotions coming at me. That okay?"
Subtle pressure in his words. Midway between test and curiosity.
The kid had likely gotten sweet offers elsewhere—explaining the boldness.
Boldness.
Do Yoon-seop knew it was key for long-runners, actors steadily earning. Rookies especially needed grit to push through hate comments, broadcaster threats, actor pissing contests, director abuse—and deliver 100% on set.
"Looks like you met other agency folks pre-audition. So you've heard rumors about DK's Do Yoon-seop."
Beyond juicy offers elsewhere, Do Yoon-seop suddenly wondered if the kid had the guts to weather this pressure.
Smooth.
He slid the cleaned glasses onto his nose bridge, locking eyes with the rookie through the lenses.
"I'm a greedy bastard."
A fierce glint shot from his intensified gaze—one even pros and veterans couldn't hold long, proof of the grim rumors around him.
"What I can't have, I smash. Contracts matter, but I value something more."
Each word from CEO Do carried weight.
"No regrets about what you just said?"
"Ah."
Tae-gyu's pupils shook slightly under the full pressure. As he smirked—
"Come to think... need a change to what I said earlier."
"Wha—"
"Get me an officetel too. ASAP."
Unbelievable words lodged in his ear.
"Tired of goshiwon ramen."
"...What'd he say?"
"Wants to taste-test with a six-month short contract."
"Makes no sense... Two major agencies contacted. They ban under-one-year deals, so he's probing here."
"100%."
"And with your temper, you didn't let it slide."
"Tested him."
"And?"
"Demanded an officetel. Sick of goshiwon ramen."
"Crazy bastard."
"Crazy bastard."
"Why you grinning?"
"Don't split hairs, punk."
"..."
"..."
"Saw venom in his eyes? Like you. Total pro."
"Must've suffered."
"How? You said no girl."
"Gap from high school grad to goshiwon. Traveled provinces maybe."
"Business flop... debts... Wait, real gambler?"
"Nah."
"How you know."
"Gut."
"Hyung."
"Up close, clear. Like us: better dead than poor. Those types never gamble."
"Then that acting."
"Grinded hard. Snagged industry info on the sly."
"That level from effort?"
"Humans do anything cornered before death. Just different paths: business for us, acting for him."
"So... he lived rough too?"
"Not a few soju bottles' worth."
"..."
"..."
"...So, what now?"
A few days later.
The morning of the Monster City script reading dawned.
"Urgh."
Tae-gyu stretched and woke.
Swish!
Up from bed, he drew the curtains. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling window stretched Seoul's morning. Decent view.
"...It actually worked."
The vista from his second real-world ad-lib performance prize: an officetel.