The Script Reading

The day of the script reading.

Stepping out of the house, I was so dazzled by the sunlight I hadn't seen in ages that I had to brace a hand against the wall. Do Jaeyeon swore under her breath.

"What, are you planning to act for just this one project and call it quits? You're gonna wither away and die at ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠this rate."

"I'm not going to die."

"Hey, at least drink some water."

I drank the water she handed me. After spending the past few days doing nothing but reading the script, this world felt like the fake one, and the world inside that script like the real one.

I'd been quietly worried about my face changing on me. I was still growing, after all — every morning I woke up and looked in the mirror to find myself another noticeable step closer to being an adult. Thankfully, my face was exactly as it had been at the casting. I could have taken on a fifteen-year-old's role without anyone batting an eye.

The company staff had turned out in full force for today's reading. Just as CEO Gam Seongbeom was about to turn around and lecture me, VP Gam Soohan stepped in to stop him.

"Don't bother him. He needs to read."

"And you're normally the one fussing over the actors' health."

The car pulled away, and soon we arrived at the rented external studio at Cheongcheon Studio. I'd done a handful of script readings before my regression, so the space felt familiar.

Do Jaeyeon's parenting policy was that anyone who failed to greet people would die by her hand, so I bowed to every single person who passed by. Given that I was the youngest here by both age and career, there was nothing strange about lowering my head to everyone. Honestly, it was kind of comfortable — I just did as I was told. I probably should have done more of that before I regressed. Why had I hated greeting people so much back then?

"I hope we have a wonderful shoot together."

The direction team and the cast each delivered some version of the same greeting as they took their seats. Shin Ji-won, cast as the protagonist Seong-woon, greeted everyone with higher energy than anyone else in the room.

"I'll give it my all and learn as much as I can. Looking forward to working with all of you!"

A bright, open face and a good voice. He was tall, well-built, and handsome. Maybe it was prejudice on my part, but being a former idol, there was a faint trace of aegyo clinging to his expressions and manner of speaking.

Sitting diagonal from me was Ahn Pil-hoon, cast as the cult leader of a fraudulent religion, Beom Woo-joo. He spoke to me.

"Heeyoon, from the face alone you'd never guess it, but you're quite tall for a kid."

"This one's going to go far, really. Just look at that face. He's like a little angel."

I do, in fact, look somewhat angelic right now. As far as I remembered, I'd stayed angelic up until around the summer I turned twenty-three. After that, I got properly handsome.

But even when people said such obviously true things, nodding along apparently counted as rude — Do Jaeyeon had drilled that into me enough times — so I said thank you instead. Thank you for what, exactly? Shouldn't they be thanking me for looking like an angel?

Setting aside my doubts about these social conventions, the script reading began.

The role I'd been given was Eun-ha — a boy who should have been an ordinary middle schooler had he been born outside the cult.

A child born to a couple who had met inside the fraudulent order, raised his whole life believing this place was the entire world. Up to that point, his story mirrored the protagonist Seong-woon's exactly.

Since this was a Choi Yu-jin production, an endless flood of speculative articles had poured out during the casting stage. Even I, a character who appeared early and died just as quickly, hadn't been spared the noise — you can imagine what the leads went through.

Shin Ji-won, twenty-five this year, was a former idol from a group that had disbanded before even completing three years together, and he was a familiar face on variety shows. A ditzy airhead in a body that didn't match his handsome face.

Looks-wise, he suited the lead role well enough, but the consensus was that the public image people held of Shin Ji-won didn't fit the drama. And beyond that, doubts about his acting ran deep. His performances had been wildly uneven from project to project.

I'd worked with every kind of actor imaginable before my regression. And the co-stars I'd disliked most tended to be exactly Shin Ji-won's type.

Director, I'm going to go immerse myself in the role now.

In any field, the most important thing for a professional is showing up on time, in the assigned place. On a set where countless people are waiting, I had no patience for actors who stalled everyone by declaring they needed to "get into character."

So I started guarding against Shin Ji-won in advance. Just in case he was that kind of actor.

A fraudulent religion composed of people with real supernatural powers.

The story of Seong-woon, once a zealot of that faith, tearing the cult apart piece by piece — this was Garden of Manyusa.

The religious conflict Writer Choi Yu-jin had first spoken of was the clash between the cult leader and Seong-woon.

I recalled the first conversation where the leader and Seong-woon came face to face.

I couldn't quite follow how that initial premise spiraled into what it became, but one thing was certain: this script was riveting in a way that bordered on unfair.

I had definitely watched this drama before regressing, but part of my memory had scattered in the process — the plot details, the actors, all of it had gone hazy. What remained relatively clear were the moments that had struck me with overwhelming force.

Until the end of the episode-one reading, I was entirely inside Garden of Manyusa. From morning until night, performing the meaningless rituals the leader commanded, having our labor siphoned away. And all of it, we were told, was for the sake of the world. The cult leader would mix store-bought vitamins and tonics into the "water of healing" he sold to his followers. But Eun-ha, who had never once set foot outside the Garden of Manyusa in his life, had never even learned what a "vitamin" was.

And yet that hopelessly ignorant Eun-ha is the first to realize that this place exists for nothing but the leader's greed.

When the reading ended, Shin Ji-won found his gaze drifting toward Lee Heeyoon without his meaning to.

Oh no.

Later in the story, Eun-ha dies, and that death is what triggers Seong-woon's awakening. He stops hiding the power he's kept concealed, and he begins tearing this massive fraudulent organization apart.

The problem was that, contrary to everything he'd expected reading the script, Shin Ji-won felt absolutely no warmth toward Lee Heeyoon.

He doesn't like me.

Shin Ji-won had a knack for reading other people's thoughts, and he'd caught on instinctively that Heeyoon didn't trust him. And once he knew that, Shin Ji-won found he couldn't warm up to the kid either.

During the break, he was chatting with Writer Choi Yu-jin when he sighed and asked,

"Writer-nim, this friend, Heeyoon... what, um... what image were you going on when you cast him? I was kind of expecting a cuter actor. Like, genuinely idol-cute... but that kid's about as far from cute as it gets."

To this carefully cushioned, circling-around question, Writer Choi Yu-jin replied,

"He's not cute. Do you have any idea how revolting kids that age are? Heeyoon's the same age as my son, and they're nothing alike."

"What, is Jae-ha cute?"

"Ji-won-ah. If a smelly, gross boy like that counts as cute, then how could Heeyoon not be? That boy smells like fabric softener... no, wait, something's off. It's not like my son wears dirty clothes."

After locking herself away for a stretch writing exclusively about fraudulent religions, Writer Choi Yu-jin was no longer in a state where conversation with another human being functioned normally. The exchange ended with her resolving to ask Lee Heeyoon the brand of his fabric softener. Nothing of use had been learned.

"Well... it'll work out somehow, I guess."

Shin Ji-won grumbled under his breath.

But he'd been certain ever since he first laid eyes on the script.

It would work.

This was going to hit.

Only God knew exactly how big the explosion would be, but Shin Ji-won was certain there would be one.

Which was exactly why he so desperately wanted to do it well. If he failed, the blame would come pouring down — that he had ruined a great story. More than the drama flopping, what Shin Ji-won feared most in this world was being judged badly himself.

Filming began fifteen days later. In the meantime, I went through hair, makeup, and wardrobe tests.

Since they indulged me as a child actor in various ways, I even managed to make it to school a few times before shooting started.

With such a tightly scheduled eight-episode drama, filming was set to wrap before winter ended, with the broadcast slot landing immediately in February. Even that pace was a dividend paid on the value of Choi Yu-jin's name.

Director An Ji-seong was a man with a long career, and I'd worked with him once before my regression. He kept the shoot moving largely on schedule, and when ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠scenes were suddenly added, he explained them in a way that made sense.

And he treated me in a strictly businesslike manner. Which made him almost the most trouble-free director I'd ever worked with.

Of course, shooting in order means shooting for the lead's sake first, so it wasn't likely to matter much to me anyway.

We got off the plane at the airport nearest the location shoot. A good number of Shin Ji-won's fans had come out to greet him.

The lodging near the set, far outside the city, turned out to be a surprisingly lovely family home. Lovely not meaning grand or luxurious, but snug and charming.

The set as a whole had the feel of an unremarkable church. Even the clothes I wore called to mind something a young altar boy might put on. A white outfit, and around my neck a pendant bearing the cult's emblem. They warned me to be careful while eating since everything was white, but these days I barely consumed anything besides sports drinks anyway.

I shared the room next to Shin Ji-won's with the other supporting actors.

That was when Shin Ji-won called for me.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

He spoke in his trademark variety-show tone.

"Heeyoon-ah. Want to grab a meal together? So we can get close."

"Why would we get close?"

No, seriously — why?

At my question, Shin Ji-won looked flustered.

"Well, it's just... Seong-woon and Eun-ha are basically brothers, you know? I figured if we were a little more comfortable with each other, the acting would come out better too."

"I don't need that, but if you do, hyung, I'll drop by for a bit."

"That's kind of cold of you. You'd like me if you got to know me."

"It's not that I don't want to be friends with you, hyung. It's that for the sake of the acting, there's no need to be. Otherwise every actor in a romance would have to fall in love with their co-star, and everyone in a thriller would want to kill each other, right? You can't seriously be feeling all of those emotions for real."

Hm.

When the other person made that face, Do Jaeyeon had told me, that was about the time to shut my mouth...

I stopped talking at what I judged to be the right moment. In my opinion, it was the right moment.

Truthfully, even in day-to-day life, Shin Ji-won's broadcast register made everything he said sound like a variety show playing in the background, and there were times I ended up tuning it out. Since he wasn't the type to blow up over being slightly ignored, that only made me more thoughtless about it.

Shin Ji-won was unfailingly warm and affectionate to every single person on set. My exact opposite. He said,

"Still, you never know. Things might turn out different."

"I act well. I'll make sure nothing turns out different."

I'd been told to shut my mouth plenty of times, but surely reassurance was still owed to the other party. With that, I said my piece and headed back to my room.

A good conversation.

I'd clearly evolved quite a bit since regressing. In the social skills department.

I know you're not supposed to curse about a kid. The words came out on their own anyway.

What kind of little bastard even is that?

Shin Ji-won, equal parts dumbfounded and defeated, buried his face in both hands and turned to his manager.

"You know me, hyung. I can't act well with actors I'm not close to..."

"I know. And swearing this much hasn't fixed it yet."

"Why did they even cast me? I don't have the ability. There are a hundred actors who do. Just how handsome am I, that they had to pick me for my face!"

"They said it wasn't your face, it was that you fit the image."

"Are you telling me I'm not handsome right now?"

"I'm saying that out of all those hundred handsome kids... argh, damn it, what do you want me to do about it."

"Complaining out loud is pointless if nobody listens."

Having sprawled out to whine at the manager he was this comfortable with, Shin Ji-won let out a long sigh.

"Maybe I should have a drink before the scene."

"Look, just... think of him as a stupidly cute puppy. Not a person. A dog."

"A rabbit, hyung. What dog..."

Shin Ji-won, who had been sorting people into idol-style categories out of reflex, realized that was beside the point and snapped himself back.

"No, that's not it. Anyway, understood. Not a person — a stupidly cute animal friend."

"Right. That's the spirit."

Having loosened up with the banter, Shin Ji-won stepped out of the car.

Veteran actors liked to complain these days about young stars who wouldn't get out of their vans, but honestly, when you weren't even filming, a lead actor hovering in every direction was its own kind of disruption. Reading the room was everything. Shin Ji-won, who loved people, made a point of showing his face often in his own way.

Liking something breeds preferences. Just as Shin Ji-won loved people, his taste in them was precise. He disliked the insolent — not least because he worked so hard never to appear that way himself. He decided he'd have to have a word with Lee Heeyoon as his hyung. Then again, watching from the sidelines, the company staff were already cursing about him behind his back, so maybe that was the natural limit...

Director An Ji-seong, who had mapped out this particular trait of Shin Ji-won's in advance, rearranged the shooting order to favor scenes that played to emotional immersion. Lee Heeyoon and Shin Ji-won stood on set. The content of the scene went roughly as follows.

Eun-ha was the first to approach the secret of Manyusa — a massive organ-trafficking ring operating under the cover of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠its healing power — and as the price of keeping his mouth shut, he lost one eye.

But with one eye pressed shut under his hand, Eun-ha runs straight to Seong-woon.

Shin Ji-won's heart lurched, and he froze. The Eun-ha from the script he'd read was standing right in front of him. Lee Heeyoon's expression, his movement, his voice — they made his scene partner believe, completely. The very air had changed.