Chapter 10: Bitter Lessons and a Cinematic Chance

A rainy Friday night. Men in a bar quietly sipped their drinks.

“Sigh…”

Film director Yang Jinhyung stared at his empty glass, letting out a heavy sigh.

The liquor tasted especially bitter tonight. It always did when things went wrong.

ㅇㅇ: Did they have to cast 00?
ㅇㅇ: Ruins the mood every time they’re on screen.
ㅇㅇ: Is the director an idiot?
ㅇㅇ: Why cast an idol with zero acting experience?

The film he spent two years making was trashed from its opening day.

The story and direction were solid. The criticism all pointed to the lead actor’s performance.

Idol-turned-actor A. Cast for buzz and to secure funding.

Yang had voiced concerns from the start, but the pressure from a major sponsor left him no choice.

Casting A was a condition for the production budget.

“It’ll be a huge boost for box office success.”

He had no choice but to agree—or at least pretend to.

Even then, he didn’t expect things to spiral this badly.

“They’ll improve their acting as we shoot…”

With a long filming period, he believed A could hone their skills.

But that hope was spectacularly dashed.

“A says they’re unavailable until next week due to scheduling conflicts.”

A’s main job wasn’t acting—it was being an idol. Their packed schedule left no time for acting lessons.

The film showed signs of doom from the preview screening.

Whenever A appeared, the theater fell silent. At the climactic scene meant to evoke tears, the audience burst into laughter.

Laughter at a moment meant for tears. It was a complete disaster.

The film he labored over for two years ended in mockery.

“I’m never casting an idol in my work again!”

Yang downed his glass in frustration. His colleagues around him chuckled softly, trying to console him.

Among them, screenwriter Kim Siu poured him another drink, looking concerned.

“But, Director…”

A memo had recently come from the major sponsor. They wanted another famous idol cast in the next project.

Relying entirely on the sponsor for funding, Yang couldn’t ignore their demands.

He groaned quietly, knowing this all too well. A colleague sipping nearby offered a suggestion.

“Hyung, if it’s like that, how about I recommend a good idol actor?”

“An idol actor…?”

“Yeah. Someone with buzz and solid acting skills.”

Yang stroked his chin silently.

Not all idols are bad at acting. Some are genuinely talented.

The problem? Those idols come with sky-high price tags.

“You know our production company’s situation. We can’t afford that.”

“No worries there. This one’s newly debuted, no acting experience, so their rate in this field won’t be high.”

“And their public recognition?”

“Sky-high. They’re the hottest thing right now.”

Yang narrowed his eyes.

Newly debuted, highly recognized, no acting experience, but great at acting? He was skeptical such a person existed.

“Is there really someone like that…?”

“Contact this number.”

The man handed Yang a business card with the SJB Entertainment logo.

Yang looked at him, half-doubting.

“…This is legit, right?”

The man, raising his glass with a relaxed smile, was Lee Jinsu, a successful ad director.

“If this works out, buy me a drink. An expensive one.”

My image was broadcast live on the stadium’s LED screen.

“Now, Ruti will throw the ceremonial first pitch!”

Thud.

The baseball I threw landed perfectly in the catcher’s glove. Cheers erupted from the stands with the crisp sound.

A clean strike on my first-ever pitch.

“That was Ruti’s ceremonial pitch!”

I waved and exited the baseball field. Outside, paparazzi were waiting to snap photos.

Those paparazzi follow me like ghosts wherever I go.

“Coming through.”

Protected by my managers, I barely made it into the van.

“Wow, Siyeon, that was a great pitch! Did you practice?”

“A bit at school.”

I practiced during PE class. Thanks to the baseball team guys in my class, I got some help.

“Teach you how to throw? Sure, we got you.”

It was the guy who accidentally hit me with a dodgeball. He felt bad and taught me well.

Thanks to him, I pulled off a cool pitch.

“What’s the next schedule?”

“Let’s see…”

My manager checked the schedule sheet, packed with no empty spaces.

“This afternoon, you’ve got that cosmetics ad shoot. Tonight, you’re heading to the radio station for a broadcast.”

“Still that much left?”

The schedule’s endless. Probably because the album just dropped.

New releases mean promoting through events and broadcasts.

It’s the same for the other members, but I’m extra busy with ad shoots piled on.

Schedules keep popping up, like now.

“Incoming call.”

My manager glanced at me after answering the phone.

No doubt another appearance request.

“…Got it.”

She hung up and clicked her tongue.

“What’s up?”

“You got a role offer. For a movie.”

“A movie? What’s the problem? I can act.”

She crossed her arms, looking displeased.

“They want you to audition. They won’t cast you unless your acting’s proven. Can you believe it? They reached out first.”

“Isn’t that normal?”

“For competitive, high-profile projects, sure. High-profile.”

Her emphasis on the last part suggested it wasn’t a big project.

Still, I figured I’d at least hear the title.

“What’s the movie called?”

“To Reach You, I think? Sounds like an original work, but the director’s not well-known, so box office potential is low…”

To Reach You.

The moment I heard the title, I answered without hesitation.

“Sounds fun. Let’s do it.”

“You sure? You’re already swamped.”

“I’m fine.”

Honestly, it’s a stretch, but I can’t pass up a project like this. You’ve got to make money when the opportunity’s there.

The audition was set to take place discreetly at the distributor’s (CI) office.

It was originally a public audition, but considering my status, the production team switched it to a private one for the day.

The competition ratio was 1:41. Pretty high for a small-scale production’s audition. The acting market must be saturated.

And now I’m jumping in.

“Ahh…”

In the car heading to the audition, I flipped through the script I’d received, memorizing lines.

I’m good at memorizing song lyrics and stage lines, so the script wasn’t too hard.

“We’re here.”

I entered the audition room with my managers. Three judges sat at a table.

I bowed politely first.

“Hello. Thank you for having me today.”

The judges stood and returned the bow.

“We’re the ones who should thank you.”

“Wow, you’re even prettier in person.”

They welcomed me warmly—except for one.

“Thank you for coming.”

The person in the middle had a sour expression. Judging by their seat, they must be the director.

…Why so grim?

It’s like they’re unhappy I’m here. I decided not to dwell on it. Maybe that’s just their face.

You shouldn’t judge people by their looks.

“Did you memorize the script?”

“Yes, just…”

“Just?”

The director shot me a sharp glare. I quickly improvised.

“I reviewed it again just in case.”

“…Alright. Let’s start the audition. Ready?”

“Yes.”

I set the script aside and took a deep breath. I was about to play the female lead, Lee Haeun.

A quiet, gloomy, timid girl. No friends, always eating alone in a classroom corner during lunch.

Wait.

She’s almost identical to the “Kim Siyeon” I’ve been playing for three years.

This is second nature.