“Hyung, hold on a second. You just said Hyeon was the one originally cast. What do you mean it came to me because of Grandpa’s investment? My grandfather invested after I accepted the role, not before.”
“…Let’s just go for now.”
Following his manager’s lead, Yoon Do-yeong passed through departure and moved to the VIP lounge. Inside, several National Assembly members—close acquaintances of his father—were enjoying tea with his grandfather. At Do-yeong’s arrival, everyone welcomed him with warm smiles. He bowed politely, shook hands with the elders who reached out to him, and wore his most charming businesslike smile.
Originally, the overseas trip had been scheduled for business purposes with the lawmakers, but his grandfather had decided to bring along Do-yeong and some staff as well.
Do-yeong stood closely beside his grandfather, who beamed with pride as he bragged about his grandson’s international popularity. He gently patted Do-yeong’s back, his face radiating satisfaction.
“How’s that injury of yours, son?”
“It’s nothing, really. Just a twinge when I take a deep breath.”
“Still, you need to take care of yourself. Don’t push it too hard.”
“You’ve always said it yourself, Grandpa—when the one at the center doesn’t do their part, it hurts all the people who’ve put their trust in them. I can’t let down the people who chose me as their model and already set air dates.”
“Even so, your health should come first.”
“That’s something I should be telling you, Grandpa.”
Do-yeong wrapped his arm around his grandfather’s shoulders, giving them a little squeeze.
“Did you ask them to switch the role to me when you invested in the drama?”
“Huh? What kind of question is that all of a sudden?”
When Do-yeong explained what he’d heard, his grandfather turned to the manager nearby and asked for clarification. The manager, still calm and composed, answered with a slight bow.
“I don’t know the exact details, but from what I understand, Chairman Yoon expressed to our CEO that he’d be willing to invest in any project Do-yeong was cast in. That’s why the CEO actively recommended him for the role. He liked the script but knew the production company was struggling financially, so he thought it was a good opportunity. He believed the results would be better with Do-yeong in the part.”
Although a hint of tension laced his tone as he addressed Chairman Yoon, the manager continued with practiced ease, glancing at Do-yeong as if everything made perfect sense.
“From the production company’s and the director’s perspective, it was a good deal too. They got a better fit, and the investment was secured. Honestly, for the company, it worked out better with you in the role, and you agreed to it too. Plus, you know Hyeon went straight into a stage play right after.”
The implication—you’re complicit in this role switch too, aren’t you?—sent a flicker through Do-yeong’s eyes. His heart pounded with agitation, while his fingertips grew cold. Still, the manager nonchalantly kept talking.
“Hyeon didn’t mind at all. And after that, not only did he do that web drama he’s filming now, but he also shot a supporting role for a film—just hasn’t gotten a release date yet—and he’s been in an indie film too. And now the CEO’s planning to cast him in a key role in that fusion historical drama. You know how it is—roles always go to the person who fits best. Even during filming, things get recast. This happened before shooting even began—hardly a big deal.”
As the manager continued to rattle off dismissive justifications, Do-yeong’s eyes turned icy. But he didn’t show it. Instead, he gave a practiced, polite smile.
Truth be told, Do-yeong had always viewed casting changes the same way the manager did. He’d experienced it before. He understood how the industry worked.
His start in acting had been thanks to his appearances in commercials—people liked how he looked on TV. Probably because of his background, he was always cast in the same types of roles. But acting is supposed to be about living lives you haven’t lived yourself. He was never offered roles that required complex emotions. And the one role he truly wanted? That had gone to Kang Hyeon.
The sense of loss and jealousy he’d felt back then—he couldn’t even begin to describe it. But whenever he saw Hyeon in those dramas or films, he had to admit it: He’s just that good. No wonder I lost out.
It hadn’t been easy coming to terms with that strange cocktail of emotions. He had only taken the role of Seon-woo in Little Science Explorers, a character he didn’t even care about, for one reason.
To watch Hyeon act on set.
He wanted to understand—what made Hyeon so different from him? Hyeon was quiet, practically invisible off-camera, but once the cameras rolled, the atmosphere flipped like a switch. He was subtly attentive to his co-stars, helping them shine.
But before they even finished shooting episode one, Hyeon had to drop out—his parents had died in a car accident.
At the time, Do-yeong struggled to connect with the other child actors. They’d say he was annoying no matter what he said. He didn’t understand why. Trying to befriend them, he even booked a hotel and treated them to a full-course meal—but they just felt uncomfortable. Meanwhile, the kid who brought a few pizzas from a franchise got all the attention.
That was how the isolation started.
He knew casting often involved investment and return. But to him, it felt like the others were ignoring that reality, pretending the industry didn’t work that way. Hyeon, at least, had offered advice. He gave honest feedback. The others? They formed cliques and froze him out.
Following his parents’ advice, he eventually stopped trying. He limited his conversations to polite greetings and safe, agreeable comments. As long as he kept quiet and acted like furniture, he wouldn’t be hated.
But he never imagined something like this would happen while in the same agency as Hyeon. His grandfather must’ve called the CEO, who then pushed Hyeon to give up the role under the pretense of investor demands—and forced it onto him. From the outside, it would’ve looked like his grandfather had invested because he landed the role.
Why hadn’t Hyeon said anything? Not even once.
Did he really think Do-yeong suited the role better? Was that why he ran lines with him? It must’ve hurt. Was that why he found a partner and got closer to Ji-gyeong?
A sharp headache throbbed through his skull.
As Do-yeong instinctively pressed his hand to his forehead, his grandfather gently patted his shoulder and asked,
“Did something upset you?”
“No… I think I just wasn’t sensitive enough to understand how my friend felt.”
“Hyeon, you mean? That friend of yours?”
“Yes…”
“Then let me invest in his next project. Just tell me the production company and the title if he gets cast.”
Hearing this, the manager’s face lit up. He immediately stepped in, sensing an opportunity.
“Chairman, actually—we were planning to offer Hyeon a supporting role in the upcoming fusion sageuk drama. If the investment goes through, we could push for a lead-level supporting role as part of a secondary couple. He’s a great actor, and if the funding increases, we could give him more screen time too.”
“This isn’t the time or place. Set up a proper meeting.”
Chairman Yoon gave both his grandson and the manager a pat on the shoulder before returning to the conference table with the lawmakers.
The manager looked at Do-yeong with something close to awe, like he’d just caught a prized fish. But Do-yeong, staring back with a frosty expression, made his displeasure clear. The manager offered an awkward smile.
“I’m going to rest for a bit.”
Unlike their earlier, casual exchange, Do-yeong spoke now with a cool, distant tone and walked away.
He bowed respectfully to the lawmakers and stepped behind the curtain at the back of the room. Once out of sight, he said to a staff member nearby:
“Please call Chief Choi for me.”
Once he was alone, Do-yeong tapped the back of his hand anxiously with his fingers. His eyes, lost in thought, gleamed with sharp intensity that contrasted with his soft features.
A few minutes later, a solidly built man in his early forties entered. A long-time aide of his grandfather’s, Chief Choi was a discreet man. During Do-yeong’s childhood, he often stood in as a manager on set when his mother was too busy. He was someone you could rely on when needed.
As soon as he entered, he gave a warm smile and waved. But Do-yeong, clearly in a rush, skipped the pleasantries.
“Sorry to call you in here, sir. I should’ve come to you, but there were too many guests outside.”
“No worries. What would a big star like you need from me?”
“I want to make a request.”
“A request?”
Chief Choi looked momentarily confused, then smiled curiously.
“What is it?”
“Please assign someone to follow my friend. I want photos of who he’s meeting and where he’s going.”
Despite the abrupt request, Chief Choi didn’t flinch—just raised his brows slightly as if waiting for an explanation.
“I’m about to lose someone because I’ve been too focused on work. I need to understand what’s happening around him. The most important thing is… who he’s seeing.”
“If you want someone in your life, you go talk to them directly. You don’t sneak around taking pictures. If there’s a misunderstanding, clear it up. Buy them a drink, have an honest conversation like a decent human being.”
Trying to dissuade him gently, Chief Choi leaned in with concern. Do-yeong’s shoulders drooped, his voice quiet and dejected.
“He’s pulling away from me now… unlike before.”
He’s even dating now—something he used to have no interest in. Do-yeong swallowed those words.
“He’s the only person I can really call a friend. I… I just want to stay friends with him.”
Do-yeong gave a bitter smile, his tone filled with desperation.
Chief Choi, sensing how serious it was, asked solemnly:
“What happened?”
“It’s personal… I can’t say.”
His smile was wistful, laced with unease. When Chief Choi didn’t reply immediately, Do-yeong added more, hoping to sway him.
“I need to understand his schedule so I can plan something. It’s harder to run into him these days—if I at least know where he’s going, I might get a chance to bump into him and grab a coffee.”
Chief Choi, who’d been watching him closely, suddenly shifted into a far more serious tone than before.
“Tell me the truth.”
He wasn’t someone to take a request like this at face value—not from someone asking for surveillance under the pretense of friendship.
But Do-yeong didn’t flinch. With the same emotionless clarity his parents and grandfather always used, he answered plainly:
“I need to cut some people out.”
