You Should Act (1)

Team Leader Park had readily offered to get me screenwriter Hong Joo-mi's synopsis, and I had sworn I would never let it leak outside.

From that moment on, the thing kept bobbing around in my head. Through the meeting. Through dinner with the staff from the event agency, and through every soju bomb I knocked back afterward.

Whenever I had a spare moment I looked her up online, and there was almost nothing. Mid-thirties. Married. Two romance novels published under a pen name, and as a drama writer, a complete rookie.

This was the woman who was going to blow up with her debut?

Once this drama ended, her price would shoot through the roof. The casting headaches that came with being a nobody writer would be a problem only for now.

So this was a chance that would not come twice. That much was certain.

If the celebrity under me had been an actor, I would already have been digging up the audition schedule for that project. But I didn't have one. I knew perfectly well the thing was going to explode, and I had no actor of my own to push into it.

My actor... The moment I thought the words, Sung Do-won came to mind.

Should ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I bring it up with him?

My eyes flew open, and three seconds later I was shaking my head. Ridiculous. What could Sung Do-won possibly lack that would make him take a rookie writer's project—a cable drama, at that? He was a top-tier actor that the terrestrial networks were begging to work with at seventy million won an episode.

Was there even a rookie at W&U I could talk to?

I thought of the pictorials I'd seen in the fifth-floor hallway, then shook my head again.

No. This wasn't it.

Right now I was Neptune's manager. I couldn't go find some other actor, flash them a synopsis, and say let's do this together. Every one of them already had a manager of their own.

I'd be lucky not to get hit for sticking my hand in someone else's bowl. If it were me, I'd be thoroughly disgusted too.

Then an actor with no manager—meaning an aspiring actor who wasn't even signed to W&U? I didn't know whether someone employed by W&U was even allowed to approach outside talent, and even if I was, the whole idea was hopeless. Not unless my foresight kindly handed me the personal details of some hopeful guaranteed to nail an audition. More than anything, I had no ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠room to chase a thing like that.

I couldn't even get home. I was lying in the company nap room as it was.

On the bunk above, of course, the traitor was out cold, and across the way Kim Hyunjo had collapsed into sleep.

Brrt.

The phone buzzed and lit up. A text from my brother.

Right—I'd meant to call him today, and forgotten.

Someone must have seen the light; I heard shifting from the bunks. I shoved my shoes on and slipped out of the nap room. Ugh... the alcohol was still in me, and my skull rang with every step.

I stood in the chilly, empty hallway and placed the call. It picked up after a few rings.

"I was just lying down to sleep. I meant to call once I was done, and I forgot. Sorry. Have you been up this whole time because of me?"

It was already past one in the morning. For me, being awake at this hour had become a given, but my brother was the kind of man who was out the second the clock struck midnight.

"At the office."

"All I do is shuttle between Cheongdam-dong and Sangam-dong. Right now I've got no breathing room because I have to stick with the Neptune kids, but once things settle, the trai— no, the guy I work with and I will split the load, so I'll be able to breathe."

"It's been forever since I saw their faces. I used to see them every other day."

I held the phone and laughed for a long while. Those rascals were waiting with their necks stretched out? Whether they were waiting for me or for something else, I couldn't say... When I'd stopped by PR earlier, I should have asked if I could get my hands on something like a signed Blackout CD, embarrassing or not.

The laugh dropped clean out of me. The alcohol snapped off too.

Because superhero had made me think, all at once, of my own power.

Something I hadn't even managed to sort into words climbed all the way to my throat, and I let it die there. What came out, in the end, was the same kind of joke as always.

"Plenty's going on. Every day's dynamic."

"I'm not the old me. My life's been a fantasy blockbuster for a while now."

That wasn't a joke. It was the truth.

I heard my brother laugh, low.

I listened without saying anything, and little by little a smile spread across my own mouth.

It had already been several days since the foresight shoved its way into my life. At first I'd been a wreck, and after that I'd been glad of an ability that helped me so much. The fact that I'd gained something special—something no one else knew about, something that might even be unique—had thrilled me.

But somewhere in me, it seemed, the unease of being caught up in something unreal had never quite left.

I hadn't confessed a thing, and yet just talking like this, just laughing, was settling my heart. I'd been dragged into the unreal all at once, but I still had my life, and I still had my family. That was steadying.

I finished the call and went to the office. Maybe because I'd sobered up, the thirst wouldn't quit.

I filled a paper cup from the water cooler, drank it down, and walked fast back to the nap room. I'd come out in just a T-shirt, and it was far too cold. If it was already like this, what was I going to do in winter? Should I buy hand warmers in bulk?

Ugh. I needed to get under a warm blanket and shut my eyes.

The moment I thought it, the phone buzzed again.

I took the elevator down to the practice rooms in the basement. Lee Songha staying late wasn't unusual. I'd seen it myself more than a few times. The first time, watching her wander around at dawn with her hair down, I'd nearly had a heart attack.

All of Neptune put in a lot of practice, but Lee Songha poured more hours into it than any of them.

Tonight, too, the lights in the practice room were on.

Knock, knock.

I rapped a few times and got no answer. When I opened the door, there was Lee Songha in front of the full-length mirror, moving clean and sharp. She was running choreography and vocals to Neptune's title track. She'd been at it long enough that her back was soaked through.

I shut the door and watched her for a moment. The movements in the mirror, and the expressions.

I'd thought it the first time I saw her, too. Lee Songha wasn't simply pretty.

Whether it was inborn or something she did on purpose, I couldn't tell, but there was something genuinely magnetic about her.

"Oh—you startled me."

The song must have ended while I was staring. Lee Songha had turned toward me, eyes round, gone still.

"When did you get here?"

"Just now. Seoyoung was worried she couldn't reach you."

"Ah... I didn't realize it had gotten this late."

Startled by her phone, she tapped out a message, pressing hard.

"I'll do one more hour and then go. You should head back first."

"You've got to be up before sunrise for the schedule. You sure your stamina can take it?"

"I'm fine. I eat as much as I burn."

So that was why every meal turned into a mukbang.

"Staying alone until dawn. You're ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠working hard."

"...Because I'm worried."

"About what?"

"We could lose because of me."

"Lose... Oh. The Next K-Star mission?"

"Yes."

The worry was right there in her voice.

So this was for the team mission.

Watching her, what stung was this: Lee Songha practiced vocals endlessly and still couldn't match Lee Taehee, and she practiced choreography endlessly and still couldn't match Lim Seoyoung. That was why her positions were sub-vocal and sub-dancer. Rap wasn't even worth mentioning.

She knew she fell short of the others. That was why she stayed behind alone.

Because she thought she was a burden on the team.

Even so, relative to the rest, Lee Songha had the most center parts in the choreography. Her face showed up the most in the music video, too. No wonder the weight sat heavy on her shoulders.

Kim Hyunjo said it was simply that the prettiest face made the best picture, so they showed her more. I didn't quite agree. I never said so, figuring I'd only be told I didn't know what I was talking about.

My own personal take was that Lee Songha was good at acting.

Even a short song, three minutes and forty seconds, has a story. Neptune's current title track was about a woman torn between the man who loved her and the man she loved. The confusion sat cleanly in the lyrics.

The others sang well and danced well, but outstanding vocals and dance didn't carry that feeling all the way through. They seemed to be trying to deliver the emotion, and they were always two percent short.

Lee Songha delivered the confusion in the lyrics exactly as it was. With nothing but her face and her voice. And she didn't even seem to be trying that hard.

So for those three minutes and forty seconds—no, for the few dozen seconds Lee Songha was singing—you got pulled all the way in. The lyrics lodged in your ear, of course.

I thought that was something remarkable.

She didn't seem to think so. She only lashed herself over the parts she lacked, and that was a shame.

No matter how I turned it over, that kid needed to be an actress...

I looked at Lee Songha, then blurted out what I'd been thinking.

"Songha."

"Yes?"

"Have you ever thought about trying acting?"

Huh?

I'd landed in the future at a completely unexpected moment.

I hurried to take in whatever I could see. Once again, a bad connection of a future, thick with noise. My future self was sitting in a beige chair at a table, watching a video on a laptop.

The table was awfully familiar... Ah. This was the company meeting room.

The person in the video was Lee Songha. She looked about the same age as now. The hairstyle was different. Still straight black hair, only a little longer than it was currently. Without a sharp eye you wouldn't have caught the difference, but I'd memorized how the kids looked, carefully, for exactly this kind of case.

How long would it take her hair to grow that much? No—she might have grown it longer and then cut it, so I wasn't going to pin down the timing from that.

But what on earth was Lee Songha doing?

I narrowed my eyes and focused. In the video she was moving alone, talking. The static kept me from catching it cleanly, but she seemed to be mixing Korean and English.

Was she... acting?

"Is it done?"

Someone asked from behind me. Who?

My future self answered without so much as a glance back.

"Yes. I just have to send it."

"But how did they even know about Lee Songha and send a script?"

They'd sent a script?

So she really was acting? Was this an audition video?

"Looks like their casting director happened to see Songha's performance as a simultaneous interpreter and put her on the list."

"Ah... That one, the acting was really something. It was a rediscovery of Lee Songha."

I knew it.

I'd been right. I'd thought she'd be good if she acted.

I shoved the excitement down and crammed the information into my head. A simultaneous-interpreter performance. A casting director had seen it by chance and added her to a list.

A heavy arm settled across my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shoulder from behind. Then the voice.

"But you really don't know what kind of project this is?"

"I really don't. I don't know the title, or the director. I don't even know the role. It's a completely closed audition. I'm curious what it is myself."

"Whoa..."

"If Songha makes it to the final audition... I suppose we'll find out then."

"Acting?"

When I came to, I was back in the practice room.

Lee Songha was staring at me from right in front, her face deadpan.

And in that instant, before I could stop them, the words jumped out with no filter at all.