“Everyone, please take your seats!”
At someone’s shout, the sharp tension in the air settled. Kang Hyeon’s mind, frozen in the moment, kicked into gear.
Casting determines the investment. He’d heard they’d gone with unknown actors due to a tight budget. Yoon Do-yeong had always only taken roles he wanted—he’d even expressed interest in playing a villain to change up his image.
Kang Hyeon knew in his head that Yoon Do-yeong had auditioned and been cast, but a wave of disbelief rose in his chest. With him in the project, the production budget must’ve been completely covered. That had to be it.
Gripping this assumption like fact, Kang Hyeon took his seat. Yoon Do-yeong, seated across from him, raised a hand slightly with a friendly smile. Kang Hyeon returned the greeting and shifted his gaze to the script on the table.
His grip tightened. The script, clutched unconsciously, crinkled in his hand just as Writer Oh I-seul took the seat at the head of the table. Director Ji Seok-woo strolled in leisurely and sat as well. As everyone took their seats, the camera crew adjusted their focus onto the actors seated at the table. Soon after, what looked to be production staff also settled in along one side.
Kang Hyeon’s entire focus was locked on Yoon Do-yeong, so much so that he barely registered the rest of the room. Trying not to fixate, he looked around. He saw Lee Hyun-sook wave enthusiastically at Yoon Do-yeong, clearly delighted to see him—but Kang Hyeon, detached from the moment, simply blinked blankly.
“Hello, I’m Ji Seok-woo, the director of A Lie for a Lie. Today’s script reading is mainly for everyone to introduce themselves and get to know each other.”
Director Ji stood and began with a brief greeting, then continued in his signature drawn-out tone.
“Since all of you were cast through auditions, I believe you’ll bring out the essence of your characters beautifully. No pressure, of course—just perform like you did in your auditions. Well… maybe that is some pressure?”
He added a gentle joke, his face warm with a kind smile. The room chuckled lightly. Kang Hyeon forced a polite smile, but that was it.
Just then, the door opened and Director Yoo Ji-ha briskly walked in, taking the seat behind Writer Oh I-seul.
“And here’s the one who turned this romance drama into a corporate thriller—our tardy Director Yoo Ji-ha.”
With the spotlight unexpectedly on him, Director Yoo laughed awkwardly and responded.
“Some of you probably came here expecting a romance drama—but that’s a big misunderstanding. I’m Yoo Ji-ha, the one who was supposed to just sprinkle a bit of seasoning on Writer Oh I-seul’s script, but somehow ended up wrecking the genre and playing the oddball.”
The room burst out laughing at his playful comment, and Writer Oh picked up from there.
“I’m Oh I-seul, your writer—pulling the strings like a marionette master using nothing but lines, while these two amazing directors become the wings behind it all. I promise to deliver scripts on time~ no delays!”
As her bright remarks wrapped up, the cast began introducing themselves in a clockwise order, starting with the lead actress Kim Min-ji.
Kang Hyeon gave a textbook introduction and then focused on putting names to faces. The final introduction came from Yoon Do-yeong.
“I’m Yoon Do-yeong, and I’ll be playing Kwon Ji-sang. I’ve worked with quite a few of you before, so just being part of this project already makes me happy. Though the role itself is far from happy—Kwon Ji-sang is vicious and emotionally barren. Still, I’ll do my best till the end.”
Smiling calmly, Yoon Do-yeong glanced at Kang Hyeon, who returned the gaze and clapped along with the others.
“Alright, shall we jump into the reading?”
At Director Ji’s cue, Kang Hyeon opened his script, pushing down a strange discomfort. The first line came from a child actress playing the female lead’s younger self. The actors’ distinct tones began to fill the room. True to the director’s words, the casting had clearly been well done—each actor embodied their character effortlessly.
As the rough outlines of each role became vivid through their voices, Kang Hyeon felt as if the scenes were coming alive before him.
His first scene took place at a corporate prom, exchanging greetings with other businesspeople. While overhearing them gossip behind his back, the female lead approaches quietly and asks which company they’re talking about. He then, as the male lead, offers a brief explanation.
“It’s probably the CEO of US Electronics. They say he’s young and competent but can’t go further without political backing. Just idle gossip.”
“US Electronics is exactly that—just a small-time company.”
Since the grown-up female lead didn’t recognize him, he responded like a stranger, all while observing her closely.
Unaware that he was the CEO of US Electronics, the female lead gave a cold, frank assessment. A supporting character then revealed his identity, causing her embarrassment as she left the scene. The following scenes involved her family emotionally manipulating her, followed by a café conversation between her and her fiancé, Kwon Ji-sang.
Next came Yoon Do-yeong’s first line, as the fiancé—loved only in name.
“Ji-ah.”
With that sweet call, the atmosphere shifted instantly.
“There’s a lot to prepare for a wedding, don’t you think? Isn’t it a bit much to leave everything to the adults? I mean… it’s our wedding, after all.”
His languid voice carried a subtle frustration. Every word struck the ear with precision. His impeccable diction naturally drew attention.
Even while others were acting, Yoon Do-yeong remained focused, constantly checking notes and analyzing the script.
When the scene shifted to one where he had to exchange lines with Kang Hyeon in a conference room, their eyes met.
Yoon Do-yeong’s expression was charged with tension, but his voice remained flat and calm.
In that scene, Kang Hyeon had previously delivered the line with a mocking sneer, daring his opponent to bite back. But Yoon Do-yeong’s version was calm, like a man offering a lesson.
“And why do you speak as if the employees are the only victims?”
After his line, he mimicked pressing a key—an implied gesture of dismissal. Blatant disregard.
It triggered something deep in Kang Hyeon. The way Yoon Do-yeong looked down on Kang I-chan’s character boiled something in him. Swallowing his rising emotion, Kang Hyeon delivered his next line a beat too slow.
“…Don’t insult the passion of workers who gave their youth to the company.”
Yoon Do-yeong replied with a dry, lengthy line, ending with a sigh and a subtle click of the tongue, as if annoyed.
Kang Hyeon noticed Director Ji Seok-woo shift slightly in his peripheral vision.
Yoon Do-yeong’s Kwon Ji-sang viewed Kang I-chan as pathetic—he didn’t blatantly disrespect him but continuously belittled him in subtle ways.
Kang Hyeon glanced over at Yoon Do-yeong. His eyes held a sleepy smirk. Kang Hyeon unconsciously swallowed. With costume, makeup, and lighting, that look would come off chilling on camera. Probably…
His gaze drifted to Director Yoo Ji-ha. As expected, he was watching Yoon Do-yeong with interest.
Kang Hyeon’s senses sharpened.
He flowed smoothly through the scenes with supporting actors until another exchange with the female lead. Things were going well when suddenly, Director Ji tapped the table lightly, pausing the reading.
“In this scene, Ji-ah’s been practically abducted by Kwon Ji-sang and only answers the phone after he’s called five times. She has an unrequited crush on I-chan. But the way you’re playing it now… feels more like a big brother scolding a mischievous little sister.”
The critique chilled Kang Hyeon’s spine. His mind went blank. All he could do was repeat the line with a delayed beat, following the director’s cues.
Director Ji seemed to have gotten a general sense of the cast and began questioning each actor, starting with Kang Hyeon. Yoon Do-yeong wasn’t spared either.
What surprised Kang Hyeon was how willingly Yoon Do-yeong responded to every question—and once he had the director’s go-ahead, he started asking other actors detailed questions too.
Questions so oddly specific that it made others wonder why he even needed to ask.
But Kang Hyeon understood. Whenever he’d helped Yoon Do-yeong rehearse, the man always got stuck on parts that didn’t feel emotionally intuitive. He would reverse-engineer the emotion, trying to understand why a character would feel that way.
Back then, Yoon Do-yeong didn’t understand desperation—he’d never lived with it.
If something didn’t work out, he just felt mildly disappointed. He’d never known the crushing despair of failure.
He said even his grades came easily. And if he scored poorly, he simply figured he hadn’t tried hard enough.
So… it didn’t go my way. That sucks, but why get that worked up over it?
That kind of emotional disconnect made no sense to Kang Hyeon. He’d even once told Yoon Do-yeong, “It’s honestly a mystery to me that you can act at all.”
Which is why Yoon Do-yeong practiced every possible interpretation.
He imagined camera angles, adjusted his gaze, refined each movement to eliminate flaws.
Knowing his process, Kang Hyeon now wondered who he’d been rehearsing with—and how he’d developed such detailed analysis.
When the script reading finally ended, everyone looked drained—some even let out small sighs.
Though the atmosphere remained upbeat overall, the tension lingered due to how intensely the unknown actors had engaged with the material.
“I’ve booked the samgyetang place next door, so let’s have lunch and then run the reading again from the top.”
At Director Ji’s announcement, everyone cheered and began rising from their seats.
Kang Hyeon, seated near the inner side, followed the group—when he sensed someone falling into step behind him.
Then, a smooth voice whispered softly near his ear.
“Been doing well?”
