Chapter 2 Part 4: When Opportunity Knocks

A short while later, at Yejun’s former agency, Daehwa Entertainment.

CEO Song Minsu glanced at the name displayed on his phone, cleared his throat with a fake cough, and put on an overly cheerful voice.

“Well, well!
Who do we have here—could it be Writer Hong, the one who’s turning the entire Korean drama scene upside down?
To what do I owe this honor, a call from someone like you?”

–What was that supposed to be?
–Not funny at all, CEO Song.

“Haha, you’ve been well, I hope?”

–More or less.

“No dramas these days?
My kids haven’t had any work at all.”

This wasn’t just empty whining.
The current drama industry was genuinely like that.

The number of productions had sharply decreased, leaving actors and staff alike with nothing to do.

With the rise of OTT platforms, broadcasting stations lost a large portion of their audience and, as a result, struggled with shrinking production budgets.

OTT companies, on the other hand, chose to reduce the number of dramas—which often cost more to produce than films—and instead focus on improving quality.
Because of this, the overall number of productions had dropped drastically.

Before COVID, A-list actors would agonize over dozens of scripts before choosing one or two projects.
Now, even receiving two scripts a year was considered lucky.

If even A-listers were in that situation, life for B-list actors and below was nothing short of brutal.

Some networks didn’t air a single weekday drama, while others abolished their Monday–Tuesday dramas that had run for over thirty years.

Broadcasting stations leaned toward variety shows that still pulled decent ratings, and even then, they experimented cautiously using seasonal formats.

Of course, it wasn’t all the broadcasters’ fault.
Rapid increases in appearance fees and production costs, along with stagnation in the advertising market, all played a role.

On top of that, overseas OTT platforms entering the Korean drama market drove up the prices of certain popular actors to unsustainable levels.
As a result, the rich got richer and the poor got poorer during casting.

And since OTT platforms could offer higher production budgets than traditional broadcasters, actors and staff naturally gravitated toward them.

CEO Song let out a sigh.

“Running a company these days really isn’t easy.
In a whole year, fewer than five of our actors end up landing drama roles.”

–It’s the same for us writers.
–Even when we tour broadcasting stations with scripts we poured our hearts into, getting a greenlight isn’t easy.

“What?
Even your scripts, Writer Hong?”

Writer Hong Jihyun was considered top-tier in the drama industry.
In a landscape dominated by romance, she was one of the few writers specializing in action thrillers, psychological games, and mystery.

–Well, one of the things I wrote recently looks like it might get produced, but the younger writers under me are having a miserable time.
–They call every day just to complain.

Song Minsu’s face brightened instantly.

“Oh! Congratulations!
As expected of you, Writer Hong.
What’s the new project?”

–It hasn’t been decided yet.
–Final review stage, so no comment.

“Haha, understood.
But you’ll give us at least one decent role, right?”

–I’ll think about it.
–But that’s not why I called today, CEO Song.
–I had something I wanted to ask.

“Yes, go ahead.”

–You know the actor Ma Yejun, who was with your company until recently?

“What?
How do you know that kid?
He was just a nobody who bounced from one numbered bit role to another.”

–Anyway, a senior I’m close to asked me to look into him.

“Look into what?”

–Does he have any issues with his personality?
–Why was his contract terminated?

Song Minsu pictured Yejun’s face.

Normally, Song didn’t even bother allocating memory space in his brain to rookie actors who couldn’t even handle bit roles properly.
But Ma Yejun had been with the company for nine years, so he did remember him.

“Well, he didn’t cause any particular trouble.
But you could say it was a problem that he occupied the practice room for years without landing a single role.”

–I’m not asking about his acting ability.
–So, bottom line, he didn’t get into any incidents?

“Probably not.
I don’t recall any reports coming in.”

–Alright, CEO Song.
–Thanks.
–Let’s have a meal sometime.

“Oh, absolutely!
If you call, I’ll grab the corporate card and run to you even at dawn.
Call me anytime!”

–Alright, take care.

After hanging up, Song Minsu recalled Yejun’s face lingering in his mind.

‘Looks like he hasn’t quit acting and is still struggling somehow.
Don’t bother.
You won’t make it with talent that’s so half-baked.
Honestly, it’d be better if you had no talent at all and quit early.
It’s the ones with mediocre talent who cling on and ruin their lives.’

Clicking his tongue, Song muttered as he erased Yejun from his memory.

“Just the fact that he couldn’t contact me directly and had to go through Writer Hong says it all.
That ‘close senior’ of his must be a real nobody.”

Ma Yejun was an actor discarded by Daehwa Entertainment.

Of course, the company hadn’t exactly done much for him—aside from providing a practice room and slipping his profile into producer meetings during manager tours.

He paid for his own meals, and he’d never received any so-called “maintenance fees.”
Still, human nature being what it was, it stung to imagine a former actor doing well after leaving.

Song paused briefly, then let out a dry laugh.

“A guy who failed over three hundred auditions—what’s he going to accomplish out there?
At best, he’ll scrape by as a small-theater actor in Daehakro and fade away.
Does he think that place is easy?
It’s a far harsher jungle than this—packed with starving lions brimming with desperation.
How’s someone like him supposed to survive there?”

With that, Song erased the last remaining trace of Yejun from his mind and returned to work.

***

[Notice] The Scarred Mountain Lodge Casting Note

Jung Seongryong: Ma Yejun
Shin Cheolho: Kim Woohyun
Park Jihwan: Lee Junghwan
Kim Seonghyeon: Ha Donghoon
Ghost 1: Choi Jieun
Ghost 2: Jung Yeona
Sound, Lighting, Stage Management: Jo Younghwan

After the role assignment auditions ended, the director and the writer deliberated at length before finalizing the cast and sending the results via messenger.

***

The next day, at Theater Mae’s rehearsal room.

Located on the second floor of the theater building, the rehearsal room had one wall covered entirely with a full-length mirror.
A sofa, a desk, props used during performances, and personal belongings were scattered about in a roughly thirty-three-square-meter space.

Including Yejun and Junghwan, there were five male actors and two female actors in Theater Mae—a total of seven.

Ten bottles of makgeolli and three bags of snacks.
The small drinking gathering, something like a wrap-up party, was modest.

After the casting decisions, Yejun quietly observed the actors gathered for drinks.

The three male actors who had been with the troupe even before Junghwan and Yejun joined were all theater majors—though they’d either dropped out or were currently on leave.
Both female actors were non-majors.

In truth, you didn’t need an academic background to be a Daehakro theater actor.
As long as you had passion and courage, anyone could try.

Junghwan, who had skipped his evening part-time job just for tonight, poured Yejun a bowl of makgeolli and asked,

“Yejun, can you drink?”

Accepting the bowl politely with both hands, Yejun replied,

“No, I haven’t really drunk much.”

“Why not?”

“My company always warned me that if I got drunk, I’d make mistakes.
They told me never to drink too much.”

“Wow, big agencies really meddle in everything.
Anyway, congratulations.
You snagged the Jung Seongryong role as soon as you joined.
As expected of a major.
I’m jealous, you punk.”

“Thank you.”

“Still, I guess it’s not that exciting for someone like you.
It’s only natural, right?”

“…..”

Taking a sip of makgeolli, Yejun realized how unfamiliar his current feelings were.

Even if he’d been fired, he’d belonged to a major agency and graduated from a theater and film department in Seoul.
Given his background, landing a leading role in a fifty-seat black-box theater shouldn’t have been all that appealing.

But I’m so happy.

Objectively speaking, this was the very bottom of the industry ladder.
Yet because his company had completely cut off connections to theater, it was something he’d never even been allowed to attempt before.

He was practically bursting with joy—but showing it openly didn’t feel right.
From the perspective of the existing actors, a newcomer had just taken a leading role from them.

As he sat in a corner, cautiously sipping makgeolli, Donghoon approached with a bottle in hand.

“Have a drink.”

“Ah, thank you.”

Donghoon looked older than Junghwan and had a large, well-built frame—clearly someone who worked out a lot.

Almost too much.
With a body that big, the range of roles he could play was limited.
That was likely why he’d once again been cast as Kim Seonghyeon, the grade-level head and P.E. teacher.

“The rehearsal period is one month, and the run will be three months, so we’ll be together for four months.
Mind if we speak casually?”

“Of course, sunbae.”

Donghoon chuckled.

“You’re the senior here, actually.
The director said you debuted nine years ago, right?”

“Ah.”

“I dropped out of school, did other things, and only entered the industry about seven years ago.
So if we’re talking seniority, you’d be my senior.”

“Then let’s just go by age.”

“Haha, sounds good.
Junghwan, you’re okay with that too, right?”

When Junghwan nodded quickly, Donghoon clapped his hands.

“Alright!
Everyone, listen up!
Starting today, let’s talk casually with the new members.
We’ll do hyung–dongsaeng.
Woohyun and I are the same age—thirty-six—so call us hyung.
Younghwan’s the youngest at twenty-three.
Jieun and Yeona are twenty-five, so speak casually with everyone else.”

What a relief.
Having someone as good-natured as Donghoon made things easy.
He’d half-expected some territorial behavior, but there was none at all.

Jieun and Yeona had seemed friendly from the start, so he hadn’t worried about them.
But Woohyun—who looked a bit prickly—had concerned him.

Seeing how tense Woohyun had been in the audition waiting room yesterday, it was clear he took acting very seriously and had been hungry for a role.

Woohyun walked over with a bottle and plopped down beside Yejun and Junghwan.

“Here, take a drink.”

“Thank you.”

After clinking glasses, Woohyun spoke.

“Yejun, I didn’t see it myself, but I hear you’re pretty good.
The director has high standards, and he picked you for a lead role right away.”

“Ah, I was just lucky.”

“Heh, lucky my ass.
That’s skill.
Daehakro is full of temptations, so if anything comes up, talk to me right away.
Don’t decide things on your own.”

“Temptations?
Like what?”

Woohyun glanced at Donghoon.

“See how big that guy is?”

“Yes.”

“Guys built like that usually get approached by adult film directors.”

“Ah.”

That made sense.
With that much muscle, it wouldn’t be strange for adult film offers to come his way.

Donghoon smacked his lips, rummaged through his bag, and pulled out a stack of papers.

“An assistant director from the adult film industry stopped by earlier and left this.”

Seeing the title written on the cover, Yejun let out a small laugh.

Desperate Lady Geumja.

Donghoon continued,

“Guys with bodies like mine—or looks like yours—get tempted a lot.
They offer pretty high pay, so plenty of people give in.
But remember one thing.
Once you go into adult films, it follows you for life.
If you’re aiming higher someday, don’t touch it from the start.”

“Thank you for the advice, hyung.”

“And Junghwan, you’re at risk too.”

Junghwan tilted his head.

“I don’t have a body like yours or looks like Yejun’s.
Who’d cast me in adult films?”

“No, not that kind of risk.”

“Then what?”

“Scammers.”

“Oh.
That.”

Junghwan looked like he knew exactly what he meant.
After all, he’d been grinding in this industry for three years already—he’d probably encountered it at least once.

Yejun asked,

“What do you mean, hyung?”

Junghwan grinned.

“Scammers usually work in teams.
They recruit actors to play landowners or real estate agents to trick victims.
They carry around cash—usually five million won per job.
I almost fell for it once when things were rough.
But my seniors warned me—actors who got blinded by the money, teamed up with scammers, and got caught ended up taking all the blame alone when the scammers disappeared.
They went to prison.
So I didn’t do it.”

“Oh…
That kind of thing happens too.”

“Yeah.
There are all kinds of temptations in this line of work.”

It was a world Yejun had never known, having grown up sheltered under a major agency’s protection.

He felt newly grateful for seniors who would give him this kind of advice.
If he hadn’t known, he might have been tempted himself.

Honestly, if someone showed up with five million won in cash, how could your heart not race?
The average annual income of a theater actor was only three million won.

Taking another sip of makgeolli, Yejun looked around at the troupe.

These people are my new family now.