Suddenly Misunderstood (5)

Time flew by, and a great many things happened in the interim.

First, the drama's timeslot was locked in: weekend nights at 9 PM, dead center of prime time. This was an unusual move even by tvM's standards. A rookie writer's debut work would normally be shunted into a late-night weekday slot or pushed back indefinitely, so it was a clear measure of just how much the network had riding on Living with an Ex-Boyfriend by Chance.

Location scouting and set construction proceeded without a hitch as well. And before anyone knew it, the final gate of pre-production had arrived — the script reading. If today's reading went off without a disaster, full-scale filming would begin.

"Whoa, how many making-of cameras do they have back there? Anyone would think we're shooting a blockbuster movie."

"Even I'm getting intimidated. How on earth do the actors act in this suffocating atmosphere?"

The large conference room in tvM headquarters' annex building was already packed to bursting. Lead and supporting actors, the production crew, and a ring of making-of cameras and lights circling the room left not an inch of floor to spare. But what squeezed the air out of people's lungs even more than the cramped space was the solemn gravity radiating from the actors gathered at the center table.

"I think today's the day everyone decided to go for broke. The actors' mood is anything but ordinary."

"Choi Taekyung? Isn't he always like that? Look at him, memorizing the script like his life depends on it."

Cha Yerin, a top star who commanded fees in the hundreds of millions of won per episode. Choi Taekyung, the male lead with a fandom to rival hers. And Baek Kangmin, the hottest rising second male lead in the industry, and so on. A gathering of pride-filled egos who would bow their heads to no one, anywhere — you could imagine how ferocious the standoff would be.

Especially between Cha Yerin and Baek Kangmin, seated across from each other at the very center of the table, the air was sharp enough to draw blood if you pricked it. Anyone in the industry could read the situation at a glance. Word had spread far and wide — the kakdara rumors, whispered everywhere — that the two had clashed spectacularly on the set of their last drama together.

"Senior, is your insomnia still giving you trouble? This project has so many emotionally draining scenes, it'll take a real toll on you.... I just worry you'll end up in one of your sensitive moods, like on our last set."

She'd tacked a soft ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠smile onto the end of it, but in truth it was a sly backhanded jab: go ahead, throw another tantrum and wreck the mood again. But a top star who had held her throne for years wasn't about to fall for such a shallow punch. Cha Yerin looked at Baek Kangmin with something almost like pity and beamed brilliantly.

"Oh my, Kangmin. How thoughtful of you, thank you? But I've been playing the title role for ten years straight — schedules like this are second nature to me. My condition's perfectly fine, so don't you worry."

"Ahaha. Is that so."

"Mm. If anything, I'm worried about you, Kangmin. You've been so busy with commercials lately, haven't you? Did you actually find time to look at the script, I wonder~"

"...."

"It wasn't just once or twice that you showed up with your lines unprepared because your schedule was packed, and delayed the whole set, was it? Let's not have that this time. We can't make the staff suffer, right?"

"...Come on, senior, really. Those NGs back then weren't all my fault. Anyway, this time I'll do my best to accommodate your condition, so you'd better not badger the writer for mid-shoot script rewrites like you did before. You're throwing off the writer's rhythm."

To anyone else it might have sounded like a heartwarming exchange between senior and junior colleagues, but the insiders who knew their history could barely breathe. With every line exchanged, the breathing of the surrounding staff seemed to stop a little more.

And that wasn't all. Amid all this mayhem, Choi Taekyung had shut his ears to the world entirely, scratching away at his script with his pen and underlining it into a dense thicket. Across from him, the veteran senior actors sat with arms crossed, chins loftily raised, eyes glinting with a distinct let's see just how good these young pups are.

How to put it.

The atmosphere felt like an ice age could descend at any moment.

"I hear the writer's planning to push the making-of footage heavily around the people who perform best. That's probably why everyone's acting like this."

At those words, the staff members' eyes all tracked to a single spot. The empty seat beside Director Woo Youngtaek — the vacant chair reserved for Ji Yeonwoo, the rookie writer.

"Honestly, it's fascinating. All those high-and-mighty actors being run ragged by one rookie writer."

"Tell me about it. First time I've ever seen Cha Yerin sit there so meekly, just staring at her script. Man."

"The actors, sure, but even Director Woo has fallen head over heels. It's like he's been hypnotized."

Click—

Just then, the conference room door opened, and Director Woo Youngtaek and Writer Ji Yeonwoo stepped in side by side. In that instant, the heavy, oppressive tension that had blanketed the room reversed itself as if by magic. The top stars who had been glaring at each other like they were about to devour one another all softened their eyes at once and straightened up in their seats. Before anyone noticed it happening, their gazes had taken on a very particular quality — a transparent deference, the unmistakable resolve not to get on the rookie writer's bad side.

"Haha. Sorry to keep you waiting. I'm Woo Youngtaek, the director. And this is our writer, Ji Yeonwoo."

"I'm Ji Yeonwoo, the writer. I look forward to today."

Yeonwoo's expression as he greeted the room with flat, minimal politeness was unusually stormy. The reason, of course, was the dazzling lineup of actors seated before his eyes.

Dammit. This really is a hidden camera prank, isn't it? Why does everything keep going so wrong?

He had scattered salt so blatantly, so unmistakably, in an open invitation for them to walk — and instead they'd come sprinting, tripping over themselves, licking the salt right off the floor. Yeonwoo was still reeling from the sheer absurdity of it all.

Gulp—

The actors, of course, knew nothing of his unjust secret circumstances, and their nerves were at their absolute peak. Terrified of fumbling a single line, of falling out of the writer's favor, they clutched their scripts all the tighter.

"Then we'll begin the reading immediately. Episode one, starting from scene one."

In the suffocating silence, the script reading began in earnest.

The air inside the conference room had been utterly transformed — overwhelmed, this time, in an entirely different sense than before.

Whoa.... They're all fighting tooth and nail not to fall behind.

The leads, naturally, and every single supporting actor down the line — all of them pouring their hearts into performances that would have shamed the real broadcast. The faintest breath, the rhythm of lines traded back and forth, the fine gradations of emotional pacing. A dazzling ensemble that proved in an instant exactly why they were called certified top stars.

"Haah, it's not like it's only been a day or two. Why are you like this? Can't we just have a nice date today, huh?"

"Look at that! Another sigh! It's always you who's wronged, you who's the victim, every single time! You never once think about me bending over backwards to accommodate you!"

A lovers' quarrel you could see on any street corner or in any café. But precisely because it was a scene everyone had seen and lived through a hundred times, it pulled the audience in with astonishing force. Even Woo Youngtaek, a veteran with decades of on-set experience, found himself dazed by what he was witnessing.

This.... is even better than I hoped.

The truth was, actors rarely gave their all at a script reading. It was just a rehearsal — why on earth would anyone exhaust themselves over it?

The unwritten rule was to modulate your energy, trade your lines at half throttle. Plenty of actors in the past had been so half-hearted it was hard to tell whether they were performing or reading a middle-school literature textbook aloud. But not a single one of that breed sat in this room today.

"I think this: Ayoung, you looked far happier when we were in that will-they-won't-they stage than you ever did once we started dating."

"That's exactly what I'm saying! The girl changed! Before we got together she acted like she'd rip her own heart out for me, and now guess what — I tell her I'm sick and she snaps, 'Well, maybe dress warmer then.' She gets annoyed!"

"Tsk tsk. No sentiment left for the fish you've already caught, huh. They all change the moment they've got you."

Actors who moved beyond the printed text, folding in their own ad-libs to sharpen the flavor. Actors who locked eyes with their scene partner and detonated their emotions point-blank. All of them had dissolved perfectly into their scenes and were burning at a hundred and twenty percent.

"...Hey. Youngtaek."

Heo Jinman, the cinematographer seated beside him, gave Woo Youngtaek a discreet nudge in the ribs.

"These guys brought butcher knives to a reading. You could kick the camera around and still come away with gold."

"You feel it too, hyung?"

Woo Youngtaek had been staring at the reading in a daze — but only for a moment.

Heo Jinman followed up with a short, hollow laugh.

"We can't leave this as it is. I think we need to rethink the direction of the making-of footage."

"Rethink it? How so?"

"You've got eyes. You can probably guess."

The planned selling point for the making-of videos had been the star-studded cast. The strategy was to hit the public with the faces and name recognition of top actors they already knew. But look at what was unfolding right in front of them. The weapon this drama needed to sell first wasn't their names — it was the spine-chilling acting on display.

"It's uncanny, honestly. These guys have never pushed themselves this hard at a reading before."

"Heh heh. That's what happens when they meet their rightful master."

Woo Youngtaek wore a knowing smile and stole a glance at Ji Yeonwoo.

But.

"...?"

Yeonwoo's expression was grave. A deep furrow was carved between his brows, and his fingers, propped under his chin, pressed hard against his lips. Anyone could see it: the face of a man deeply displeased, or trapped in some terrible quandary. Irrefutable proof that the actors' passionate performances had failed to satisfy him in the slightest.

Whoa.... Even this isn't enough for him? Just how high are his standards?

Well, he had stood beside Writer Seo Eunhye and witnessed the birth of masterpiece after masterpiece — perhaps no ordinary acting could possibly pass muster with him.

Heh. I'd better be on my toes too.

If the writer's eye was that exacting, then the eye he'd turn on the director's work would be no gentler. With a surge of nerves, Woo Youngtaek quietly steeled his resolve for the production ahead.

But Yeonwoo's true inner monologue was racing down a track that ran precisely opposite Woo Youngtaek's delusion.

Oh for god's sake, would you all just dial it back a notch. Please.

He could hear it. The torrential chorus of outrage from viewers who'd watched a trainwreck of a drama. The fans' accusations — you wasted our oppas and unnis on a script like THIS? Already, the headlines that would grace the entertainment section the morning after the finale were flashing before his eyes.

Ha, I'm seriously losing my mind. How am I supposed to walk down the street after this?

No — seriously, I told you all to drop out on your own, so why won't anyone leave, and why are you all staging an acting circus right in front of me?

Yeonwoo could only resent the actors for being so pointlessly, mercilessly good at their jobs.

Why does literally nothing go my way....

Even as he wept tears of blood inside, the actors' performances marched on, and before anyone realized it, the long script reading for episodes one through four had drawn to a close.

"Phew! Thank you, everyone!"

"Great work, all of you~"

The instant the last line fell, applause and cheers erupted from every corner of the conference room, like a crowd exhaling a breath held for hours. Only then did the actors release the tension coiled in their shoulders, trading light greetings with one another, while the staff, faces flushed, exchanged looks of open awe.

"Wow.... I got chills halfway through. I genuinely thought they'd been possessed."

"You don't think this just ends as a big hit, do you? Are we about to break a ratings record or what?"

"God, I need the episode five script. How am I supposed to survive until filming starts."

The mood on set ignited instantly. Everyone was still half-submerged in the immersion they'd just shared, steeped in a strange, lingering afterglow.

Then Ji Yeonwoo — silent and grave-faced throughout — quietly slid his microphone ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠toward himself.

"I've just watched your performances today."

A flat, cool voice traveled through the speakers. At that single sentence, the buoyant air that had filled the room sank like a stone dropped in ice water. Still frowning, Yeonwoo swept a calm but weighty gaze around the circle of tense actors.

"To be honest with you, this reading exceeded even what I had expected. The timing and emotional lines you all displayed just now... they were far too remarkable to be crammed into the flawed script of a rookie writer."

"Ahem, ahem...."

"And at the same time, it struck me that pouring this much energy into my debut work is more than it deserves."

It was lavish praise. And not just from anyone — from the notoriously exacting writer least expected to give a single compliment. The actors, unable to manage their expressions in time, let the corners of their mouths creep upward, furtively.

But Yeonwoo's next words made every one of them doubt their own ears.

"Which is why, before we move into the official crank-in, I'd like to ask one more time."

Yeonwoo drew a short breath and leaned close to the microphone.

"Having gone through today's reading — if anyone here has decided that this project does not align with your worth, or with the direction of your acting, you are welcome to announce your withdrawal from the cast right now."

"...!!"

In an instant, the warmly thawed air froze solid as a block of ice.

"I will take full responsibility and settle things amicably with the production company, so that no penalties and no media noise reach you. I have no wish to bind people as brilliant as yourselves to something I can't be sure of."

A suffocating silence in which no one dared even breathe too loudly. The actors, paralyzed with disbelief, could only glance sideways at one another. And when Yeonwoo's gaze swept slowly across them, a few flinched and shuddered at the sheer pressure of it. Seizing that exact moment, Yeonwoo spoke.

"Yes. Cha Yerin-ssi."

"...!? M-me?"

At the sudden call of her name, Cha Yerin's shoulders stiffened like stone. The actors seated beside her showed their own flickers of panic in sympathy.

"Yes. You seem to have something to say. Go ahead, freely."

"N-no?! No, I don't!"

"Then why were you about to raise your hand just now?"

"I-I was... I wasn't raising my hand, I just...."

She'd merely trembled under the tension — how had this turned into a misunderstanding of all things? Unable to bring herself to admit the truth, Cha Yerin denied it with silence.

"It's perfectly all right. You can speak up right now, no strings attached. And if Kangmin-ssi there has any grievances of his own, feel free to raise them too."

"N-no, sir!"

"Is that so? Hm, though I did hear that Kangmin-ssi seriously considered dropping out over a falling-out with a certain actor.... It's fine to be honest even now."

"I-I'm truly fine! I am extremely satisfied right now! I will devote my entire being to this production — I'm prepared to bury my bones in it!"

...What is this, the army?

Baek Kangmin's drilled, parade-ground bellow only flustered Yeonwoo further. Even so, he pressed the actors relentlessly to the very end.

"No one, then? Just say the word right now, and I'll confer with the director and...."

Once the hellish hours of the script reading were over, the venue shifted, and the gosa — the traditional rite marking the official start of filming — got underway. At the very center of the set stood a sumptuous offering table, and atop it sat a pig's head, grinning ear to ear. Under normal circumstances it would have been a plump, auspicious symbol of fortune, but in my eyes right now, that piglet could only be laughing at me.

Oink oink. You're screwed now, buddy.

Whether it was my imagination or not, I could even hear it. And come to think of it — that pig looked a lot like Ji Seoyun. Which made it that much more loathsome for no particular reason.

"All right, let's have Director Woo Youngtaek take the first bow!"

Ushered along by a staff member, the assembled cast and crew hurried into the rite. Someone lovingly stuffed a wad of fifty-thousand-won bills into the pig's nostrils and mouth; someone else knelt reverently and bowed to the floor. Hmm. Viewed from a distance, this was, without question, a cult revival meeting.

"Writer-nim, aren't you going to bow?"

"Ah, well.... I don't really feel the need to."

My family was irreligious to the marrow. I'd never believed in this kind of sporadic, pick-your-god worship — never even given it a thought. Had he read my mind from my sour expression? Director Woo Youngtaek flashed a good-natured grin and cracked a joke.

"Haha, I was the same when I debuted. I figured it was just superstition and slapped down an envelope and moved on. But after watching several productions get scrapped mid-shoot, I came to think — you know what, I need peace of mind wherever I can get it."

"Oh. I see."

"Mm. A film set is nothing but variables, after all. Don't think of it as anything ominous, Writer-nim — call it mental health maintenance and give it a try."

"Hmm...."

While Director Woo and I exchanged this brief back-and-forth, the rite was in full swing. Broadcasting station executives streamed in, bowed, and filed out, only to be replaced by the production crew. Then came the actors, and after them the staff of each department in turn.

Everyone's doing it except me.

Watching them all press their palms together and pray for the drama's success, they looked genuinely earnest. Someone was whispering, please, just let the first episode break 10 percent. Someone was bowing their head, murmuring, please let us get through crank-up without a single accident. And yet another was chanting under their breath, please let this blow up so big I sweep every CF deal this year.

That last one was Cha Yerin, of course. She already has a mountain of ads filming, and still she wants more. Greedy woman.

But watching them all so devotedly sincere before the offering table, a strange discomfort began to stir ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in the corner of my heart too. In the end, I dragged my feet over to the table.

"Oh. Have you had a change of heart, Writer-nim?"

"Yes. I'll skip the bowing and just stand for a moment of silent prayer. And maybe a wish or two while I'm at it."

"Aha. Wonderful. Just put your offering in the envelope over there and set it on the table."

I tucked a bill into the envelope and placed it beside the pig's head. Then I quietly closed my eyes and pressed my hands together.

"...."

I did not pray for the drama to become a hit like everyone else. I had a conscience, after all — hoping for success with a script I'd written on purpose to fail would be a miracle beyond any luck. So I had exactly one modest wish.

Just let one catastrophic accident blow up in our faces, right now. Let us never even start filming, and let this whole project fall apart. Please, please, pretty please.

Since it was doomed to flop anyway, meeting a death with honor before it ever began was my one and only way out.

. . . . . . . .

A few days later, on the long-awaited day of the crank-in.

But the filming set had descended into complete pandemonium before a single shot had even been called.

"You sons of—! What are we going to do about this?! I told you to come up with a contingency, ANY contingency!"

Director Woo Youngtaek was raging, his face flushed scarlet. And before him, the staff stood with heads bowed like convicted criminals, utterly at a loss. Anyone could see that a major disaster had struck. I edged quietly closer and strained my ears.

"It's hopeless! We can't shoot like ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠this! We'll have to pack everything up and retreat home!"

...Huh?