The senior actor continued, voice grave.
“This kid’s got this fantasy about agencies. I told him already—whatever they give you, it all turns into debt you’ll have to repay.”
The youngest actor pouted, frustrated. “But wouldn’t I get more audition opportunities with an agency?”
At that, Kang Hyeon—who’d been quiet like Do-yeong’s shadow—spoke in a calm, detached tone.
“Just being with an agency doesn’t guarantee auditions. Sometimes, I land a role on my own, but because I’m under contract, I have to split the profit with the agency. And it’s common to be neglected for the entire contract period. That said… there are agencies that work their asses off for you, so I can’t say don’t sign with one. You just need to research thoroughly.”
Hyeon thought bitterly of his time under an agency, when the opportunities CEO Goo Seong-do had brought him far outnumbered the auditions he’d been sent to.
Everyone here’s desperate, he realized.
He remembered how Goo Seong-do had once said it so nonchalantly, like it was just part of the job. Back then, it hadn’t hit him—but now the weight of those words was sinking in.
He also recalled Lee Hyun-sook’s lighthearted remark: “I’m sticking around to repay a favor.”
There weren’t many like Goo Seong-do, who worked tirelessly while keeping his integrity.
As Hyeon drifted into thought, Do-yeong glanced at him and casually spoke.
“Hyeon, I came empty-handed. I was going to order some cake, but the wait time’s 30 minutes. We’re short on time.”
He handed Hyeon a credit card without hesitation. Hyeon took it, clearly used to this routine.
“What kind?”
“Anything. Something everyone can nibble on. Pick up anything else we might need, too.”
With that, Do-yeong turned to the youngest actor. The kid took the hint and got up to follow Hyeon. The older actor tried to wave them off, but Do-yeong smiled and cut in.
“Buy a lot! Rehearsals need fuel—get some energy bars too.”
Hyeon smiled at the request and walked off. Once the door shut, Do-yeong turned his head and confirmed they were alone in the room. Then he looked at Min Ayul and the older actor, and finally spoke.
“I heard a rookie actor attempted suicide.”
The sudden comment made both seniors look at him. Do-yeong pulled a business card from his jacket and placed it on the floor. He tapped a finger on the odd name printed on it.
“Kim Dal-gu. He approached me out of nowhere this morning, asked if I knew anything about MiraeCom2.”
“Why the hell would he ask you about that?”
“He said the police and prosecutors aren’t touching it.”
“No, seriously—why would he come to you? Did something happen?”
“Not to me. But a few days ago, I went to the beach with Hyeon. Took Ji-gyeong with us. He’s signed with MiraeCom2.”
At the mention of that agency, both seniors went quiet. And since Do-yeong fell silent as well, the air grew heavy with tension. If even the prosecutors weren’t investigating, then this clearly involved the powerful. And with Do-yeong’s mother being in the prosecution, no one dared speak first.
Noticing the silence, Do-yeong smiled faintly, making eye contact with each of them.
“Hyeon ended his contract with his agency. He’s been spending time with Ji-gyeong lately.”
The unexpected news made them glance at each other.
“That’s why I want to be in the loop. I need to know what Ji-gyeong’s involved in—if I’m going to pull him out. And I have to be ready in case clueless Hyeon gets caught in it.”
He put emphasis on “pull him out” and “clueless Hyeon”, then looked squarely at the bearded senior.
“He’s an escort.”
He said it bluntly, then elaborated slowly.
“It’s… kind of common knowledge now that they match them with sponsors. But lately, it’s gotten more blatant. High-level clients, even.”
“I’m not looking for gossip or surface-level info. I can dig that stuff up with time. I need something specific—just for two people. I’m not trying to make this blow up. Not at all.”
Do-yeong’s tone was calm and measured. Min Ah-yul, sitting diagonally across, hesitated before opening her mouth—only to be stopped by the older actor who gripped her arm.
“You got your next project lined up?”
The sudden subject change made Do-yeong respond with a faint smile and deliberate slowness.
“Not yet. I’m meeting with Writer Chae Joo-ah today.”
“Chae Joo-ah?! No way. She’s a hit-maker. Her work always dominates. You landed a guaranteed success.”
They clapped in congratulations, but Do-yeong’s pleasant smile remained unchanged as he spoke again—this time, with pointed calm.
“I want to ask her why she rejected me.”
Silence fell instantly.
“I’m not trying to pick a fight. I don’t have that kind of pull. If she thought I didn’t suit the role, that’s fair. But… this keeps happening. I always get turned down for the roles I want.”
“What was the role?”
“A genius psychopath.”
“That actually suits you,” the older actor said, snapping his fingers, as if it were obvious.
“That’s why I want to show her what I’ve got. Talk honestly, face-to-face.”
Do-yeong’s smile faded completely. He checked his watch—it had already been 20 minutes.
“Um… Do-yeong.”
“Yes, Ah-yul sunbae?”
“Ji-gyeong… will he be okay?”
“What part are you most worried about?”
He asked gently, prompting the older actor to click her tongue and raise her voice.
“Hey, forget it. He knew what he was getting into. He needs to rise fast and get out.”
“But getting to the top doesn’t mean you can get out,” Min Ah-yul muttered, swatting his arm hard. Even though there were only three people in the room, she kept her voice low.
“Tell him to leave as soon as the contract’s up. It all looks legit on the surface, but I’ve heard it’s rotten inside.”
The older actor sighed, clearly uncomfortable, and changed the subject again.
“What’s taking Hyeon so long?”
They all checked the time. It had been over 35 minutes since the pair left. Do-yeong pulled out his phone and called.
“Hyeon, where are you? What’s taking so long?”
—Wait.
“We need to leave soon.”
—Fifteen minutes.
“Why?”
—There’s a sushi place here.
“Why there?”
—Let’s all eat together.
“……”
—Be there soon.
“…Okay.”
Do-yeong hung up, consciously softening his expression as he looked around the small theater. Despite saying 15 minutes, it took Hyeon 25 to return. His arms were full—sushi, side dishes, all kinds of food. The youngest actor kept chatting excitedly beside him, laughing nonstop. That irritated Do-yeong, who called out sweetly.
“Hey, rookie—come sit here.”
He patted the seat to his left. Once the kid plopped down, Do-yeong even slid some food over to him. Then he pressed up close to Hyeon on his right, put on his professional smile, and picked up his chopsticks.
He picked pieces that Hyeon laid out in front of him, one by one, silently watching him with discontent. But Hyeon focused on his food without reacting.
After just a few bites, Chief Choi called.
—Leaving in 20.
“……”
—Why aren’t you answering?
“Yeah…”
Do-yeong hung up and texted a request for ₩10 million in cash.
“Sunbae-nims, I should get going now.”
“Already? At least finish eating.”
“My manager’s waiting outside. I should go.”
Do-yeong picked up the reporter’s business card off the floor and gave a subtle nod toward the door. He turned down everyone trying to walk him out and left with the older actor. Once in the waiting car, he handed over an envelope that Chief Choi had prepared.
“Please use this wherever it’s needed.”
“What’s this? You don’t need to…”
Despite his words, the older actor gripped the envelope.
“It’s just ₩10 million. I know it’s not much, considering how much you probably spend taking care of the troupe. I used to stand on stage with you, remember?”
He spoke with a trace of nostalgia, making eye contact with the emotional senior.
“Don’t quit theater. Keep producing good work. We’ll cover the venue costs through Chief Choi here. It’ll be a formal investment—under the company name.”
“What? No, seriously…”
The older actor was so stunned he covered his mouth, eyes glistening. But before the emotion settled, Do-yeong pulled the business card from his pocket again, tapping it.
“This guy’s from the social affairs desk.”
“Social desk?”
The elder’s emotional gaze instantly sobered. He stroked his bushy beard and muttered,
“Every long tail gets stepped on eventually…”
“What kind of tail’s so long he’d come after me?”
“They say the company’s building has a separate VIP suite.”
He toyed with the envelope before tucking it into his jacket and went on.
“It’s a seven-story building. Starting from the fifth floor, it’s all for entertaining VIPs. I know someone who went to the top floor once—didn’t know any better, and apparently they were holding a hallucination party.”
He mimed injecting his arm, winked, and gave Do-yeong a look that clearly said, Don’t you dare acknowledge that out loud.
“Even though people know, they all keep their mouths shut because…”
