Chapter 17: The Unseen Conflict

‘That guy, who never cared about bad reviews, was seriously annoyed for some reason.’

Jin-woo quickly forgot the incident, but at the time, he found Tae-young’s reaction perplexing. Tae-young was usually the type to simply scoff at any criticism or malicious comments directed at him, dismissing them as ‘pathetic losers collectively seething with jealousy.’

He would coolly brush off any gossip, whether it was about him seeming ill-mannered, having a disastrous mouth, his popularity being fleeting, his impending downfall, or his limitations as an actor.

The first two, he seemed to feel, were undeniable facts, making refutation impossible. As for the latter two, he considered them matters that simply needed to be disproven, leading to the apparent thought: ‘Why bother reacting?’

However, Tae-young’s indifference to malicious comments didn’t extend to outright provocations thrown in his face. He absolutely would not tolerate challenges from entertainment industry insiders who dared to confront him.

His physique was overwhelming, and his skill at raising others’ blood pressure with sarcasm and sharp remarks was world-class. He would delight in tearing apart his opponents’ souls, as if eagerly awaiting someone to pick a fight.

If, for some reason, the situation didn’t allow him to thrash their souls to his satisfaction? Then he would meticulously seek out ways to torment them endlessly.

Yet, when it came to provocations from ordinary people, he maintained a similar attitude to how he handled malicious comments. Simply put, he ignored them.

‘But the rider is an ordinary person, too.’

This was the point that baffled Jin-woo. Tae-young wasn’t the type to flare up just because an ordinary person made some disparaging remarks about his drama. What truly puzzled Jin-woo was that Tae-young hadn’t simply fumed that day and moved on; he was still holding onto it.

‘His looks are certainly beyond ordinary, though.’

Jin-woo zoomed in on the picture with his fingers. Despite the terrible resolution, he could discern that the man in the photo possessed an uncommon handsomeness.

While Jin-woo, an assistant director aspiring to his debut, had a keen eye, truly handsome men, frankly, gave themselves away even by their shadows.

“What are you staring at so intently?”

“Is it someone you know?”

Jin-woo gazed at Tae-young with a ‘what kind of guy is this?’ expression. First, he’d sent the photo himself, and now he was asking why Jin-woo was staring at it—Tae-young was truly a difficult person to understand.

“Of course not. Who memorizes a delivery rider’s face?”

“Your perspective is narrow. Why wouldn’t there be people who memorize them?”

Jin-woo gave him a look that said, ‘there he goes again, spouting nonsense,’ then changed the subject.

“How did you get this photo?”

“I didn’t ‘get’ it; it’s always been mine.”

“This looks like a CCTV capture, but it’s yours?”

Jin-woo tilted his head, a look of confusion on his face.

“Yeah. It’s an automatic visitor recording system.”

Tae-young pointed to the intercom. Recording would begin when a visitor called his unit, and if he was absent, the video would be sent to his app.

Through this app, Tae-young had confirmed Yeon-ho’s visits to Elysium until now. He could also remotely control the opening of the visitor-only entrance.

Yeon-ho believed Tae-young had been inside unit 2104, merely pretending to be out, but Tae-young had genuinely not been home.

Jin-woo, who had been intently scrutinizing the picture, turned his phone screen toward Tae-young and asked,

“Do you dislike this guy that much?”

“He’s the one who cursed my drama to fail. Why would I like him?”

Tae-young turned his head, as if avoiding eye contact with the person staring back from the screen.

“Tae-young, this is the first time I’ve seen you get angry at an ordinary person.”

“If he were truly just an ordinary person, I wouldn’t have been annoyed. But for an aspiring celebrity to pretend to know everything and offer evaluations? That’s what infuriates me.”

As if still indignant at the thought, Tae-young guzzled his cola.

“Are you sure he’s an aspiring celebrity? How would you know that?”

“If a delivery rider has flashy ear piercings and arm tattoos, their life story is obvious. How many punks around here have tried to debut on the back of a decent face, only for things not to work out?”

Jin-woo muttered, ‘It’s not easy to just spout such boomer-like remarks,’ as he cast his gaze back to the photo.

“I’m curious about this guy in real life. Judging by the photo alone, his face isn’t one that couldn’t debut.”

“How do you know if he can debut just from that tiny picture, hyung?”

“I’m part of the directing team. Even if you scatter hundreds of profiles on the floor, I can immediately pick out who’s got it and who’s not. You could call it a sixth sense, possessed only by those who see the world through the camera’s eye.”

“As if.”

Jin-woo let Tae-young’s dismissive remarks go in one ear and out the other. It was a life skill he’d developed from hearing Tae-young spout so much nonsense.

“He looks around twenty-one or twenty-two. Maybe he hasn’t debuted yet because he’s still in school.”

Tae-young, regarding Jin-woo, who was analyzing Yeon-ho’s face like a physiognomist, opened his mouth with a look of displeasure.

“He’s the same age as me.”

“Surprisingly, he’s a bit older?”

Jin-woo mumbled to himself, ‘Did he look younger because of his styling?’ before abruptly lifting his head.

“How did you know he’s the same age as you?”

“It just… came up.”

“Do you happen to know his name too?”

“Yeah.”

Jin-woo’s expression became strange. He had expected an answer of ‘no’ to his question, but Tae-young’s contradictory reply left him bewildered.

“Did you dig into his background?”

“Do I look like someone with so little to do that I’d investigate a delivery rider? He told me himself.”

Tae-young bristled.

Seeing his indignation, it didn’t seem like a lie, but then how on earth did he know the name? And why was there a CCTV photo of the rider calling Tae-young’s home?

A sudden question struck Jin-woo. As far as he knew, Tae-young and the rider had met at a cafe, not his home.

“Did the rider deliver here?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow, it’s a small world. What a coincidence that the rider who insulted you at the cafe ended up delivering to your house.”

Tae-young turned his head, a sour expression on his face, like someone with something to hide.

‘Oh?’

Seeing Tae-young’s reaction, Jin-woo suspected this might not be a coincidence after all.

“Did you intentionally order a delivery from him?”

“Why does that matter?”

Inside, Jin-woo exclaimed, ‘I knew it!’

That guy, who couldn’t stand even a speck of injustice, wasn’t denying it, but deflecting? This was as good as a confession that Jin-woo’s suspicion was true.

But how on earth had he managed to summon the rider here? The method aside, a more fundamental question arose: why would he intentionally pay to have the rider come all the way here?

Just then, Jin-woo’s eyes fell upon a tower of disposable cups, stacked high. They were exactly the size of takeout coffee cups.

While caffeine was like a lifeblood to modern people, Tae-young didn’t enjoy coffee due to his sleep disorder. Moreover, it was odd for someone with his personality to keep the paper cups instead of throwing them away.

Even stranger was that all the cafe logos printed on the paper cups were identical.

“Surely, all of those weren’t delivered by that rider, were they?”

“Why are you snooping through other people’s things?”

Tae-young irritably moved the paper cups to a spot where Jin-woo’s gaze couldn’t reach them.

“Is that ‘snooping’? They’re impossible to miss!”

“Ah, be quiet. Stop being so interested in other people’s home decor.”

“You didn’t call the rider just to play some delivery villain trick, did you? Like making them walk up to the 21st floor or canceling the order midway, huh?”

“Are you crazy? No! I’ve absolutely never caused him financial loss.”

“So you haven’t caused financial loss, but you’ve done other things? What did you do? Spill it!”

“I made him wait outside for a bit. That’s all.”

“That’s all? Are you seriously calling that ‘all’? Isn’t that just pure psycho behavior?”

Jin-woo was fuming, then gasped and clamped his mouth shut. He’d made a mistake.

He could have used any other insult, but he shouldn’t have used the word ‘psycho’…

“Why are you so surprised? You didn’t say anything wrong, did you? It’s true that I have mental issues.”

As Jin-woo fidgeted, carefully watching his reaction, Tae-young wore an expression of utter weariness.

“I’m sorry. I know you hate being treated like someone with problems.”

“I don’t particularly hate it. What I hate is you fawning over me, trying to gauge my mood. Honestly, not being able to trust anyone isn’t exactly normal, is it?”

Tae-young appeared to be a person with no major issues, aside from a rather foul temper. However, that was merely his act to seem normal; the real Tae-young had a part of his mind broken by a childhood kidnapping.

The kidnapper was the uncle of a friend Tae-young had been close with at the time. This fact alone was tragic, but Tae-young’s friend had even helped the uncle and his partner abduct Tae-young.

After that incident, Tae-young became incapable of emotional connection with anyone outside his family.

Many mistakenly believed they were Tae-young’s friends, but Tae-young considered no one a true friend. He had never even felt the desire to become close to others.

If necessary, he could pretend to be friendly, but it was merely an act, like playing the lead in a well-written script, not his genuine emotions.

His relationships with lovers were no different. He played the role of Han Tae-young, the actor who adored women, but beneath the surface, his emotions were utterly barren.

Perhaps disliking the heavy atmosphere, Tae-young limped toward the kitchen. Returning to the living room with a bottle of alcohol in hand, he brought up work.

“What was the atmosphere like on set while I was away? Do you think Director Go and Writer Sung Shi-hyuk will reconcile?”

“No. There’s no sign of it at all. In fact, the atmosphere has gotten even worse since you got hurt.”

As Jin-woo relayed the dire news from the set, he suddenly widened his eyes. He had spotted a bottle of whiskey and a glass in Tae-young’s hand.

“Han Tae-young, you crazy bastard. Is this really the time to be drinking? Aren’t you thinking about your injured ankle?”

Tae-young fended off Jin-woo, who was trying to snatch the bottle, with his long arm and wagged an index finger.

“Brother, judge carefully. Is the probability of something going wrong from drinking higher, or from not being able to sleep?”

“Ugh.”

Instead of answering ‘the latter,’ Jin-woo let his arms fall limply.

“You said you’d try to sleep, but why is that effort specifically alcohol?”

“It’s better than sleeping pills, isn’t it?”

Tae-young poured alcohol into his glass, an unrestrained torrent, as if pouring cold water.

“Passing out from drinking and falling asleep, or taking sleeping pills and sleeping—there doesn’t seem to be much difference. Just find a new partner as quickly as possible.”

“That’s my business, so don’t worry about it. Just tell me why the director and Writer Sung fought even more fiercely. Weren’t they trying to find common ground?”

It was often said that one could tell if a drama was going well or not just by observing the atmosphere on set. If ratings were high, the psychological pressure on staff, writers, directors, and actors would decrease, naturally leading to a harmonious environment. Conversely, if ratings were low, the atmosphere would become increasingly strained.

However, *Cold Reading* defied this rule. Despite receiving a boost in viewership, the set’s atmosphere remained rigid, like a conflict zone.

The reason for the hostile atmosphere on set was the discord between the writer and director.

While Director Go Woo-seung and Writer Sung Shi-hyuk were seen by outsiders as a brilliant duo, in reality, far from having good chemistry, they had been at odds since the planning stage. This was due to their conflicting visions for the drama.

Director Go Woo-seung wanted the drama’s story to revolve primarily around the main character. Writer Sung Shi-hyuk, however, preferred to give more narrative weight to the supporting characters rather than focusing solely on a single protagonist.

In summary, it was a battle between ‘Let’s stick to the initial plan and go with a single lead’ versus ‘What drama only follows the initial plan? Let’s ditch the stale single-lead format and go for an ensemble with a twist.’

From Tae-young’s perspective, Writer Sung Shi-hyuk was simply being unreasonably stubborn. However, Writer Sung Shi-hyuk was protected by the EP, who oversaw the entire drama.

And Writer Sung Shi-hyuk, having played his cards well, had become fixated on Baek Hwi-kyung, a supporting actor, and was now channeling all the narrative into his character, desperately trying to elevate him to a lead role. Everyone knew that his insistence on an ensemble cast was merely a pretext to promote Baek Hwi-kyung.

Jin-woo pressed his temples, as if massaging his head with all ten fingers, then divulged the information Tae-young wanted.

“You got hurt, so Director Go asked Writer Sung to revise the content slightly, right? And Writer Sung said okay.”

This much Tae-young already knew. What Tae-young was curious about was what happened afterward.

“But after you stopped by the hospital and went home, Writer Sung changed his mind. He said he couldn’t revise the script.”

Tae-young replied with an unperturbed expression.

“Didn’t everyone expect that guy to change his mind? That’s why we decided to adjust the schedule so we could reshoot anytime, right?”

“Yes, that’s true, but… when Writer Sung communicated that he couldn’t revise the script, he didn’t just say that; he suddenly lashed out, telling them to stop ‘damaging the script.'”

“Damaging the script?”

“He complained that the broadcast content differed from the script. He got angry, telling them to stop messing with the editing and air it exactly as written in the script. Meaning, Baek Hwi-kyung didn’t get as much screen time as he wanted.”

“He crossed a line.”

“Yeah, and that’s why even the usually mild-mannered Director Go couldn’t take it anymore and exploded.”

“That’s messed up.”

Tae-young tossed back a mouthful of whiskey, without even adding ice.

It wasn’t uncommon for directors and writers to clash during drama production, and it happened surprisingly often for the story to change because a director or writer favored a particular actor or role.

Villains, more often than not, stimulate a creator’s artistic drive more than protagonists and are also easier to capture the audience’s attention. Even in Tae-young’s opinion, the role of the sworn brother, played by Baek Hwi-kyung, had many elements that could make him a scene-stealer. However, Baek Hwi-kyung, the actor portraying the sworn brother—the character Writer Sung Shi-hyuk was so eager to push—was a terrible actor. Not only was his acting poor, but his attitude towards the project was also arrogant. The fact that every staff member who had worked with Baek Hwi-kyung would invariably ask if he was the son of a chaebol family spoke volumes about how uncooperative he was on set. Ironically, the actual son of a chaebol family didn’t act out as much on set as Baek Hwi-kyung did.