Inflection Point
“Oppa, who are those kids? Why are they here?”
Kim Su-jin marched up to her manager, Choi Min-jun, and demanded sharply. Her voice dripped with irritation.
Choi Min-jun broke into a nervous sweat, looking thoroughly uncomfortable. “Ah, well… Director Lee saw Seo-ah and Ji-ah on their way home from school and apparently told the assistant director to bring them over no matter what. I only caught a glimpse from the car, so I don’t really know the details.”
Kim Su-jin glared at him in disbelief. “You only caught a glimpse from the car, yet you somehow know their names?”
“Uh, um? That’s not what I—”
Cold sweat trickled down Choi Min-jun’s back. He looked exactly like a boyfriend who’d been caught staring at another girl during a date.
Nothing about this situation sat right with Kim Su-jin. It was completely incomprehensible. How did her own manager know those little brats’ names? And why was the famously fierce Director Lee Jung-moon smiling so brightly at them? The entire staff had gathered to chat and laugh right before filming—what, were they not planning to shoot at all? Were they showing zero consideration for her, the actual actress? This felt less like a drama set and more like a fan meeting for Yoon Seo-ah.
“Writer-nim, could I speak with you for a moment?”
Director Lee Jung-moon, who had been thoroughly enjoying Yoon Seo-ah’s little performance, called over the head writer as if he’d reached a decision. Yoon Seo-ah was too busy stuffing her face with snacks to notice. Meanwhile, Yoon Ji-ah and Kim Su-jin perked up their ears, focusing intently on the conversation between the director and writer.
“That kid. Don’t you feel it? She doesn’t freeze up in front of the camera, and the range of expressions on that little face is incredible. There’s something magnetic about her eyes too—she just draws people in.”
“If someone was born to be an entertainer, I imagine they’d feel exactly like that,” the writer agreed, nodding.
She had sensed that special aura from many fully grown actors before, but never from a child actor. In her eyes, Yoon Seo-ah was a sparkling raw gem—one so brilliant that failing to snatch her up immediately would make you a fool.
“What if we added a subplot to our drama where the female lead has a daughter?”
“…A daughter?”
“Yes. A child who looks mysteriously similar to the young version of Jung So-young—the role Su-jin is playing now—but is far brighter and completely without scars. She appears as the fruit of the happiness So-young always longed for.”
The director gazed at Yoon Seo-ah with absolute conviction. “How should I put it… like a fearless baby kitten? If we create a character like that and weave her in with the male leads, the visuals would be adorable. For example, while the second-generation chaebol is desperately trying to win the heroine’s heart, Seo-ah could swoop in and give him dating advice. Something like that?”
Yoon Ji-ah, eavesdropping from the side, nodded as if she could already picture it. Kim Su-jin, on the other hand, was stunned.
A daughter role?!
If Yoon Seo-ah took the part of the daughter, she would clearly receive far more screen time and narrative weight than Kim Su-jin, who was only playing the heroine’s childhood self. Korean dramas were typically structured as sixteen episodes to fit broadcasting schedules and production realities. The child version of the female lead usually appeared in episodes one or two—at most, three if the story dragged it out. But a daughter? No matter how the director and writer chose to introduce her, it was a role that would have to continue until the finale. Yoon Seo-ah would shine as the daughter throughout the entire remaining run, while Kim Su-jin simply vanished.
Whether Kim Su-jin was reeling in shock or not, the writer mulled it over for a moment before nodding. “That’s good. Tying her in with the male leads could work nicely too. Having a mother-daughter arc at the ending would be even more touching. And when the plot starts feeling too stifling, we could bring the daughter in to resolve things.”
“Right? We can tweak the script later. For now, let’s focus on winning her over.”
Director Lee Jung-moon put his words into action immediately. He strode straight toward Yoon Seo-ah.
Whether the director was approaching or not, Yoon Seo-ah was completely absorbed in a far more critical dilemma: chicken skewer, hot dog, or frankfurter sausage?
Why am I even worrying about this? I can just eat them all.
Just as her brain—working more furiously than ever—reached its conclusion, the director spoke.
“Seo-ah.”
His voice was so gentle that the staff members, who knew Director Lee’s usual style, felt goosebumps rise on their arms. Yoon Seo-ah looked up at him with clear, sparkling eyes.
Director Lee Jung-moon wasn’t sure if “overflowing with self-confidence” was the right phrase for a child her age, but that was exactly what he felt as he opened his mouth.
“Would you like to appear in the drama?”
The surrounding staff held their breath.
Lee Jung-moon—the director who cast every single role through auditions only, who never compromised with pre-casting or favoritism. The stubborn mule who hated any last-minute additions to a fully coordinated production, even if they came from the broadcasting company. That very man had just casually cast someone on the spot, without an audition, in a project that was already locked and ready to shoot.
Anyone who had ever worked with Director Lee would have automatically blurted out, “Is the director dying soon or something?” at such a shocking turn of events.
“What’s the role?”
Yoon Seo-ah, completely unaware of any of that, asked back indifferently. Director Lee’s lips curved upward even more, clearly pleased.
“The protagonist’s daughter.”
“…Wow.”
Daughter role.
Yoon Seo-ah’s gaze slid toward Kim Su-jin. For a brief moment, their eyes clashed in midair. Kim Su-jin glared. Yoon Seo-ah observed her with open interest.
Yoon Ji-ah tugged lightly at the hem of her sister’s shirt from the side. No words were exchanged, but the message was clear: Take this opportunity no matter what.
Yoon Seo-ah pretended to think for a moment, then opened her mouth with the most innocent, pure, harmless expression in the world.
Everyone stared at her lips, waiting for her answer in tense silence.
“You bought me so many delicious things, sir, so I do want to do it… but I’m still very young.”
She flashed a bright smile and left her decision hanging.
Director Lee, the staff, and even Kim Su-jin couldn’t hide their stunned expressions.
Of course a child actor needed parental consent. Why hadn’t any of them thought of something so obvious?
…We already accepted her as an entertainer.
There was no way a rookie would turn down a drama with Lee Jung-moon. No rookie would pass up an opportunity like this. They had unconsciously been thinking along those lines.
From a normal person’s perspective, was that a polite way of refusing?
Were they really about to lose a gem like this? Would he have to let go of the first actor who had made him want to break his own ironclad beliefs and rules?
Just as Director Lee’s face began to darken—
“I think you should talk to my mom and dad first. I can only do it if they give permission.”
Neither rejection nor acceptance. A perfect stall tactic aimed directly at Lee Jung-moon.
At that cunning yet utterly adorable answer, Director Lee burst into hearty laughter.
There was no way parents who had raised a child like this would oppose her doing something she wanted. In his eyes, Yoon Seo-ah was currently engaged in a fierce tug-of-war. She clearly understood the ways of this industry, yet she pretended to know nothing and spoke with pure innocence—while subtly steering everything in her favor. That was what made her so crafty. And the fact that she could pull it off so cutely at such a young age was utterly lovable.
Of course, to the rest of the staff, it simply sounded like a perfectly normal response from a little kid who needed her parents’ okay and therefore couldn’t answer on the spot.
But to Director Lee, who already had heart-shaped eyes for her, Yoon Seo-ah was a once-in-a-millennium—no, once-in-ten-thousand-years natural-born entertainer.
“Hahaha! Yes, yes, of course parental permission comes first. Why don’t you ask them when you get home? Here, take my business card too.”
Director Lee practically shoved his card into her hand, treating her like a mirage that might vanish at any second.
Kim Su-jin stood there in a daze, watching the scene unfold. Her set. Her director. Her staff. Everything was shifting toward that eight-year-old brat in the blink of an eye.
Was this reality? Or was she trapped in a nightmare?
She stared at Yoon Seo-ah, completely out of it, when—
“See you later, unnie!”
“…Huh? Uh… uhh…”
Yoon Seo-ah had already finished saying her goodbyes to the production team. She gave Kim Su-jin a deep, respectful bow—practically a ninety-degree one—then grabbed Yoon Ji-ah’s hand and skipped cheerfully out of the filming area. In her other hand swung a plastic bag bulging with snacks.
Watching that small back disappear, Kim Su-jin instinctively knew.
A colossal rival had entered her acting career—one she could never avoid. She would have to compete with that child for the rest of her life.
The girl who had just burned that unforgettable scene into Kim Su-jin’s mind for the rest of her days was, in fact, far more delighted about the bag full of snacks in her hand than the fact that she had been cast.
The black plastic bag crinkled noisily. Inside were hot dogs, sausage pancakes, fish-shaped pastries, and of course, all kinds of chocolates and candies.
“You really are such a grade-schooler. Look at you, eyes spinning over snacks.”
“This is no mere snack.”
“…Here we go again.”
It wasn’t strange, exactly, but the tone was completely different from Yoon Seo-ah’s usual way of speaking. It sounded like she was performing, yet perfectly natural. Like everyday speech, yet theatrical. Almost like an impression, but still using her real voice. In any case, it was incredibly vague, ambiguous, and subtle.
The moment she started using that particular tone—
“This is the trophy I obtained by stealing Lee Jung-moon’s heart and grinding Kim Su-jin’s mentality to dust. That is what this is!”
—she would launch into bizarre sentences in some weird dialect that no one could tell where she had picked up. Sentences so strange you had to wonder how she even came up with them.
Yoon Ji-ah let out a deep sigh, unable to decide whether this was the mark of a genius or just an absolute idiot.
They do say there’s only a fine line between genius and fool…
Seeing her swing her shoe bag and the plastic bag together while giggling “Hehet, hehehet,” she looked like nothing but a fool no matter how you sliced it.