The senior actor paused and glanced at Chief Choi in the front seat. Yoon Do-yeong, sensing his hesitation, lightly squeezed the man’s hand and whispered.
“Chairman Yoon of Sungjin Group personally vouched for him. I begged my grandfather to bring him in. He’s going to be the president of the investment company I’m founding.”
At that, Chief Choi met Do-yeong’s eyes through the rearview mirror. The senior bowed slightly to him and finally spoke.
“They say the people going in and out of that place are chaebol heads and ministers. They’re not your average sponsors, so actors fall for the temptation easily.”
As the older man shook his head with a mix of resignation and pity, Do-yeong gave a shallow nod and gently tightened his grip.
“I understand why you didn’t want to say anything. Let’s pretend I never heard it. I don’t think anything good will come of getting involved. Please don’t tell Hyeon either. He doesn’t know a thing.”
“Yeah, yeah. Honestly, I don’t think anything we say would reach Ji-gyeong right now. He once called me about how the company kept inviting him to drinking parties, and I chewed him out hard—told him to get his head on straight. After that, we didn’t talk for a while, but we spoke again recently. He seems to have made up his mind. Still, he said he’d leave the moment the contract ends, no matter what. So let’s trust him.”
“…Alright.”
Do-yeong had nothing more to say and politely wrapped up the conversation. As the car began to move, he sank into thought, then slowly turned his head as if rejecting where those thoughts were going.
“Hey, Yoon Do-yeong.”
“…Yes?”
“What the hell is this about an investment company all of a sudden?”
“Then how about you start a company, and I’ll be the chairman?”
“Oh, wow. Really? Chairman-nim, how much are you investing?”
“Let’s start with… ₩10 billion?”
“…”
“Want me to send you a detailed business plan?”
When Do-yeong flashed a cheeky smile, Chief Choi let out a short, incredulous laugh.
“Unbelievable… So basically, you launch a shell company and just invest in whatever you point at, huh?”
“I really like you, Chief. You always get me, even when I barely explain. But… sometimes that’s what scares me.”
“You’re not the only one.”
Do-yeong gave a quiet chuckle and murmured, more to himself than anyone else:
“I always thought I was a good person… but I don’t think that’s true.”
“And you’re just realizing that now?”
He laughed bitterly at Chief Choi’s retort. Then came an offhand comment, meant as a joke but landing like a brick.
“Still, you’re the kindest one in the Yoon family.”
Do-yeong offered a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes and closed them. His fingers resumed softly tapping the seat.
As Do-yeong’s car merged onto the main road, the senior actor slipped back into the theater. He peeked into the envelope before tucking it deep into his jacket and strode back to the break room, steps light with glee.
The youngest actor was already chatting away with Hyeon, apparently having warmed up to him quickly. Hyeon answered with polite, if brief, replies in that gentle voice of his. The senior’s eyes softened. He wasn’t the warmest man, but he had a deep well of affection. He sat beside Hyeon and gave him a hearty pat on the back.
“What have you been up to lately, Hyeon?”
“Working part-time at Ga-yeong noona’s café and auditioning.”
“Any luck?”
“Not yet.”
“Do-yeong said he’s meeting with Writer Chae Joo-ah today. You should’ve tagged along. Get your face out there.”
At the mention of Chae Joo-ah, Hyeon nodded without thinking. She was known as a guaranteed hit-maker, and appearing in one of her projects would only cement Do-yeong’s popularity.
“That’s really great news.”
He smiled brightly. But only for a moment—his lips trembled faintly, and he quickly brought a paper cup to his mouth to hide it, pretending to take a sip. Eventually, he couldn’t stand it anymore and made an excuse about needing to go to the café. He quickly finished his food and left the theater. He smiled as he bid farewell and stepped out the back door. Just a few steps down the alley…
A tear suddenly dropped from his chin onto the ground.
Startled by his own reaction, he quickly wiped his face. But once the tears started, they wouldn’t stop. They streamed down in silence.
“Ah… what’s wrong with me?”
Worried someone might see, he ducked into a narrow alley. As he walked deeper through its winding turns, he found a secluded wall and leaned against it. Since no one was around, he let the tears fall unchecked. His chest felt hollow, an empty ache echoing in his core. He clutched at it, overwhelmed by the sobs that came without end.
When Do-yeong had mentioned liking someone, it had stung—deep and slow. But he had shrugged it off. Do-yeong was always dating someone. It wasn’t new. It was bearable. He’d seen it happen enough to offer advice with a smile.
But this was different.
Do-yeong was thriving as an actor, rising steadily. Meanwhile, Hyeon had no results. He felt small. Worthless.
“Just this year… only this year.”
His self-soothing murmurs soon took on a desperate edge.
It’s because I didn’t try hard enough. Because I didn’t give it everything. That’s why I’m still like this.
The silent self-loathing clawed at his chest. He was overflowing with the desire to act but still worked part-time, telling himself he had to survive. He casually attended the auditions Goo Seong-do sent his way. He had wanted to find time to greet the theater seniors and offer help, but seeing them treat the snacks Do-yeong had brought like precious gifts… it was clear they were just barely scraping by.
That word—desperation—kept echoing in his head. Everyone was desperate. Everyone was trying.
But Hyeon had spent all of his twenties hanging on to his feelings for Do-yeong. That wasn’t enough.
He hadn’t even called his grandfather recently—couldn’t bring himself to, with nothing to show.
How long could he keep living like this?
The longer the spiral of self-disgust spun, the more he felt like he was wasting time, wasting life. A hollow laugh escaped him just as his phone began vibrating in his pocket. Wiping his face, he reached in and pulled out—
Do-yeong’s credit card.
“Whoa! This has no limit, doesn’t it?” the rookie had said with wide eyes.
Hyeon hadn’t paid much attention then, but the words had made him look at the card in curiosity. He could never own something like this. For the first time, he felt an intense disconnect.
He had never envied Do-yeong’s wealth before. It had always felt… inevitable.
But now…
He didn’t even know how much effort it would take to get a shot at acting—let alone how long he had to keep pushing. It felt endless.
As he stood there, numbed, the vibrating stopped—only to start again moments later. He pulled the phone out and saw the caller ID. Wiping his face quickly, he answered.
“Hello, President.”
—Hey, Hyeon. You said you’re working at a café, right? You can make coffee, yeah? Uh… what’s the word… fruit juice? You can make that too?
As usual, CEO Goo jumped straight into questions. Hyeon quickly answered.
“Yes, sir.”
—Alright, great.
There was some back-and-forth in the background before Goo returned.
—The role’s a café part-timer. Just a few lines taking customer orders. I’ll send you a photo of the script. Originally, we were going to give it to an extra, but it turned out to have a lot of cuts. So I asked for the role. You’re okay just taking the extra’s pay, right?
“Of course!”
—Good, good. Think of it as a chance to get your face in front of the staff. Oh! And I’ll send you an email—send me your profile. There’s a drama doing document screening first, then an audition. It’s a high-teen drama, I think… man, my brain’s shot lately.
Even with that scatterbrained delivery, Hyeon’s face lit up. He wasn’t even a signed actor, and yet Goo kept looking out for him.
“Thank you so much for taking care of me.”
—Take care? You just got lucky, that’s all.
He brushed it off, then added:
—Hey, if you hear about someone looking for a middle-aged actor, let me know. Hyun-sook doesn’t have a next project yet. Oh! That web drama you shot—it’s airing on cable TV. Congrats!
Hyeon blinked in surprise. Goo had heard the news before he had.
“Thank you.”
—Come on, no need for that. You’re the one who shot it.
Goo was mid-sentence when he suddenly said something about a guy named Ji-woong being a great runner and asking for an audition, then quickly wrapped up the call.
He really was working tirelessly, connecting people left and right.
Soon after, a message came with the film’s title and shooting location, followed by his lines. Hyeon stared at them for a moment, thinking about what kind of shirts to bring. Then came one more message:
[The casting director knows who you are.]
His heart gave a tiny leap. He quickly typed a reply.
[How?]
[Thought you were an extra, but you gave advice to someone in the bathroom—told them to speak their line while turning on the sink.]
It took a second, but the memory returned. He’d once seen someone rehearsing lines in the bathroom and told them to try acting like they were washing their hands during the scene.
His tears had stopped without him noticing. With his hands in his pockets, he stepped out of the alley and headed toward the bus stop.
And toward Baek Ga-yeong’s café—with a heart just a little lighter.
***
Every convenience store was overflowing with boxes and baskets of colorful candies and chocolates. The midday sunlight made their shiny wrappers sparkle with energy.
At Baek Ga-yeong’s café, chocolate slices and packaged treats were selling faster than usual. As Kang Hyeon restocked the third chocolate cake into the display, he apologized to Baek Ga-yeong, who was pulling espresso shots.
“Sorry, noona.”
“Shut it. Nothing nice is gonna come out of my mouth right now. Just wipe the damn coffee cups.”
