The One Trophy You Can Only Win Once

Maybe my delivery had come across as a little too emotionless, because the mood in the meeting room turned sour.

That was when CEO Gam Seongbeom swooped in from beside me, quick as a fixer patching over a crisis.

"In any case, as you can see, our actor is very serious about this. And Heeyoon is the type who analyzes the material and performs with real precision—he reads scripts obsessively. Honestly, our whole staff is suffering, reading scripts with him around the clock."

"Don't say unnecessary things."

"He talks like this, but he's not a bad kid. And his acting—well, I'm not just saying that because I'm his CEO, he's genuinely good."

Since I was technically a minor, nobody bothered to stop CEO Gam Seongbeom from butting in over and over. So the two of us kept trying to shut each other's mouths right up until the meeting ended.

On the way out, the CP—whose eyes were still puffy and swollen—said to the CEO, "I'll adjust the school schedule as much as I can, so just make sure he doesn't miss too many classes."

"Thank you for being so considerate."

"Ah... is it all right if I say something like this?"

The moment the CP hesitantly broached the subject, CEO Gam Seongbeom read the room instantly. "If you want to talk about my father, please, anytime. Honestly, I'd like to talk about him freely now, more than anything."

"I just... miss him. Senior Ihyeon. Seeing your face, Gam, makes me miss him all the more."

Perhaps because he'd already cried once, the CP went on with his face slack and red. "Senior Ihyeon was truly terrifying, and so cool—but then, he was warm, too... On set, we were all scared half to death of him and loved him for it at the same time."

While I was listening to that conversation from a distance, the screenwriter said to me, "Does it bother you, playing Gyeowool dying? Because if you play a lot of roles that die, it actually releases the bad luck. It's a warding ritual, a warding ritual. You'll probably live even longer."

What I disliked was an image hardening around me, not the fact that a character dies. I didn't bother saying so and just nodded vaguely—which was when ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the Demon piped up.

'It's when you block a big misfortune with a bunch of smaller ones.'

'"Misfortune" and "bad luck" are practically the same word. A warding ritual is, broadly speaking, one of the ways you release bad luck.'

It was moments like this that made me think, he really is a demon. The instant anyone so much as mentioned driving out evil spirits, the guy materialized like a ghost. He probably realized I was talking about him, too. Clearly, someday I absolutely had to film a movie or drama about exorcism.

'Still, it'd leave a bad taste in your mouth, wouldn't it?'

The truth was, when Lee Heeyoon had first walked into that meeting room, the production staff had privately wondered if this might not work out after all.

It was a face that seemed to have commandeered every light in the world for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠itself. Born a star. The kind of face you'd remember for the rest of your life after a single passing glance.

Everyone sitting there had thought the same thing: too striking a face for a role with so little screen time.

Too flashy.

That was what they'd been thinking—right up until he started reading the script, at which point Lee Heeyoon simply became Moon Gyeowool, the very existence of the character himself.

On top of that, he'd said they were welcome to use his family circumstances for publicity if needed. He was, in other words, dead serious about this drama's success.

For every producer in that room—people who broke out in stress-induced hair loss, stress-induced vertigo, and stress-induced binge eating at the mere sight of the word ratings—it landed like sweet ice cream pressed into a child's hand.

Strictly speaking, in their current state, drugs would have been the more accurate metaphor.

Even after Lee Heeyoon left, the staff who remained sat there staring out the window or into empty air, working through their feelings. The director turned to the writer.

"Writer-nim, Lee Heeyoon... he is Moon Gyeowool. Isn't he?"

"Aigoo, he really is..."

"Couldn't we... I mean, if Lee Heeyoon really joins us, could you raise the role a little?"

The thought the writer had been having all along came out of the director's mouth first. He was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sorry to do it to a young actor—but hadn't the boy himself said they could use his family story? And once they'd heard the whole account, it turned out he even had someone he wanted revenge on.

And Lee Heeyoon's family circumstances were operating as a powerful booster for a weekend-drama writer.

"Can I use this? I'm tearing up just thinking about it. It's making me miss my own kids..."

"Writer-nim, why are you talking about your children! Make us miss ours!"

From the moment Lee Heeyoon opened his mouth, they had become certain that Moon Gyeowool would be loved by the public. It was a certainty every single member of the production staff had felt at the same moment.

The writer said to the director, "Make Gyeowool loved. I'll be writing him that way from now on."

"Why are you saying what I should be saying?"

"You said what I was going to say earlier, Director-nim."

After the casting of Moon Gyeowool was settled, the atmosphere in the meeting room was far looser than the ratings-crushed tension of a little while before.

The project I'd just joined, the weekend drama My Love Like the Moon, moved at a blistering pace.

After coming from film sets that felt like their whole goal was stitching this and that together into a Frankenstein's monster on a shoestring budget, shooting a network drama made me feel like I'd become a salaried office worker.

Once production began, I hadn't yet met Kang Minha, the actress playing Moon Gyeowool's mother, Yoo Hahyun. Even at the script reading, Kang Minha had deliberately avoided looking my way. I didn't mind—she'd explained that she wanted to maximize the emotions of the moment the two of them first came face to face.

Either way was fine by me, so I told her to do as she liked. We wouldn't grow especially closer just from seeing each other often anyway, so this might actually be better.

Instead, I did meet the actor playing my father, Seo Joongsung, and had a meal with him once. Seo Joongsung said, "You were really good at the reading. That's exactly why Minha's avoiding looking at you."

"How strange."

"Plenty of people cried during that reading, remember? Minha carries a photo of you from your child-actor days in her wallet. She'll absolutely wail the moment she sees you, so brace yourself."

People who immerse themselves that deeply are a marvel to watch.

Kang Minha, after all, had been the wildly popular second lead of a romance drama—and had married her co-star from that very show. That was how ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sincerely she acted.

Shooting was hectic beyond belief, but on the day of the awards ceremony, several actors had schedule conflicts, so there was no filming. For once, I headed to the ceremony hall with a relaxed heart.

This was, in effect, the first awards season since CEO Gam Seongbeom had struck out on his own with Leader Actors. Everyone at the company was worked up, and none more so than VP Gam Soohan, who was scurrying around watching everyone like a hawk, determined that no employee would so much as utter the words New Actor Award.

My honest position was that if an award evaporated the moment you spoke of it, it was never yours to begin with—but the VP was taking it so seriously that I decided to hold my tongue. Gam Soohan, who normally asked for nothing and granted everyone else's wishes, had this one small hope, and the other staff and actors all honored it.

I changed clothes. It was, in effect, my first suit since regressing. Everyone insisted that going too formal would look ridiculous, so they put their whole hearts into styling me as light as possible. Instead of the ceremonial bow tie, I wore a necktie, striking a look somewhere between a school uniform and a suit. Do Jaeyeon remarked, "You tie a decent knot, huh?"

My school tie was a clip-on, so I rarely had occasion to tie one—but before the regression, I'd done it all the time. CEO Gam Seongbeom chimed in beside her. "This kid shaved his face for the first time and just did it perfectly on his own. It's uncanny, I swear. There are a surprising number of things he's quietly good at."

"Not quietly—I'm good at everything, period."

"And yet there's plenty you can't do."

"There's nothing I can't do."

"You're a spectacularly picky eater."

"That's a matter of taste, not incompetence."

After bickering like that with the CEO all the way out the door, I left the office.

Stepping onto the street, I found the temperature had plunged. Around this time last year, I'd been shooting Garden of Manyusa.

People still called me Eun-ha, so it struck me as strange that my nomination this year was for a film. Even so, I was seated with the Garden of Manyusa team, and Do Yeojin had gone to sit with the team from the drama she'd released this year.

Shin Jiwon dragged his chair over and planted himself beside me. "How do you shoot an entire movie and not tell your hyung? Am I supposed to find out from a news article, is that it?"

"It's a secret, so I can't talk about it. I did tell you I was shooting a weekend drama this time, though."

Come to think of it, before the regression I'd just flopped down wherever they told me to sit. Which meant, thinking about it now, that assigning those seats must have been a logistical nightmare. You had to seat the friendly people together and keep anyone awkward far apart—and I had zero friends and far too many people I was on terrible terms with. Whoever arranged my seating back then really had it rough, I thought.

Since the regression I had remarkably few enemies, but that was just because I was still a rookie. They'd accumulate over time. I'd have to dodge them skillfully.

And I wanted to hold on properly to the people I was close to now. So I looked at Shin Jiwon—who was still chattering away about something while I'd been off in my own head. Yeah, this one's a lost cause. Time to find another friend.

"Anyway, so what was the weekend drama called again?"

"My Love Like the Moon."

"Why the moon?"

"Seo Joongsung sunbaenim plays my father, and his surname is Moon. And Kang Minha sunbaenim plays my mother, and her name is Hahyun. As in, a waning crescent moon."

"That's cute."

"It is not cute."

"You're playing the son in that house? Are you any good at comedy?"

"Is there anything I'm bad at?"

"Ha, this little punk..."

Amid all that chatter, the ceremony began.

Thanks to its commercial pulling power, Garden of Manyusa racked up nominations left and right. And then the New Actor Award nominees started being announced.

The formidable releases of the year paraded past. Then came Giyeon—my project, the one that had put me up for the New Actor Award—except the shot on screen wasn't my face, which was a bit funny. But nobody was laughing.

I had never won a New Actor Award before, and with VP Gam Soohan carrying on about it all day long, I somehow felt a crushing pressure that I had to walk out of there with at least one trophy.

The strange thing was that VP Gam Soohan wanted this award even more than I did—more than the CEO did. When I asked him what was so important about a New Actor Award, the VP had said this:

'You're going to become a tremendous actor, and so you'll win many awards in the years to come. But no matter how tremendous you become, the New Actor Award is something you can only receive once in a lifetime.'

He wanted to be the one to give that to me.

Given the ability to hand someone the one trophy of their life that would never come again, of course you'd want to give it. So he'd done the only thing within his power: reducing the odds that anything could go wrong. These days, apparently, VP Gam Soohan picked up litter off the street wherever he walked.

It was a trophy he wanted that badly—so suddenly, I found I wanted it too. And the moment greed took hold, I was, for the first time in a long while, nervous. And the moment I was nervous, my hands went cold.

Then someone gently took both my hands. I looked—Shin Jiwon held one, and Do Yeojin, who had come over to our row and was crouched on the floor without a chair, held the other. Naturally, Shin Jiwon had yanked his own chair over and offered it to her before she could finish folding herself awkwardly all the way down.

Still, it's a strange thing, isn't it—that there are people who can be this desperate over someone else's business.

And then the winner of the New Actor Award was called.

Uh.

That's me.