Chapter 1 Part 1: The Color of Despair is Beautiful

Seongsu-dong, Daehwa Entertainment.

At fifty-two years old, Daehwa Entertainment’s CEO, Song Minsu, spoke with a face thick with irritation.
“This isn’t some charity taking in pitiful kids, so why the hell are there so many money-losing brats?”
“How much did you even give these assholes as signing bonuses?”

Slouched crookedly in his chair, Song Minsu flicked his eyes toward several profiles laid out in front of him as he asked.

Standing before him, General Manager Kim Sunwoo rubbed his palms together and replied.

“Haha, sir.”
“Well, at the time of signing, they looked like kids with real potential, so we moved to secure them early.”
“But they just never took off.”
“You know how this industry is—success rates are low.”

Song Minsu glared at Kim Sunwoo and asked,
“So what, you’re saying we keep carrying these money pits?”

“You never know which cloud might bring rain, right?”

“Bullshit.”
“Manager Kim, you like pro baseball, don’t you?”

“Y-yes…”

“In pro baseball, they hold a draft every year.”
“If they pick ten promising rookies this year, they cut ten hopeless guys they were already carrying.”
“That’s how an organization runs.”
“So what the hell are we?”

Song Minsu lifted one of the profiles and asked,
“This bastard—how much was his signing bonus?”

“It was cheap.”

“How much?”

“T-three hundred.”

“Three hundred is cheap?”
“Manager Kim, how much is your monthly salary?”

“…..”

“Then what about this one?”

“That guy…”
“He had a few minor roles at the time of signing, and since he was a rookie, we lowballed him.”

“Are you f*cking insane?”
“You paid money to a guy who did three or four bit parts and then hogged the practice room nonstop?”
“Other companies don’t even give signing bonuses to rookies!”
“What, do they think using the practice room isn’t a cost?”

“I have no excuse.”

After glancing over the profiles on his desk, Song Minsu said,
“How many of these bastards are there in total?”
“One, two, three, four…”
“Nine altogether.”
“Terminate all their contracts.”
“They’re all past their contract periods anyway, so no penalties, right?”

“Yes…”

“Wrap it up today.”
“Got it?”

“Understood, sir.”

“Get out.”
“I don’t even want to look at you.”

***

Gathering up the actors’ profiles, Kim Sunwoo bowed and turned to leave.

The moment he opened the door, he froze at the sight of a solidly built man standing right in front of him.

“Oh!

Manager Kim!”
“It’s been a while!”

Sadly, he was cheerfully, obnoxiously bright.

And regrettably, he was one of the names listed on the death warrant Kim Sunwoo held in his hands.

“Yeah, Yejun.”
“Did you finish your service?”

“Yes, sir!”
“I was discharged yesterday and came straight here to say hello!”
“Oh, wait—let me greet the CEO first.”

“No, now’s not a good time.”

Kim Sunwoo grabbed Yejun’s arm firmly as he tried to pass.
“Ma Yejun, come out.”
“This isn’t the time for greetings.”

***

Outside the CEO’s office, Kim Sunwoo let out a long sigh.
“I’m really craving coffee and a cigarette.”
“Let’s go.”

Yejun wasn’t stupid.

He had come to report his discharge with a confident, cheerful face, determined to show spirit, but the atmosphere told him something was wrong.

Quietly following behind Manager Kim, Yejun pulled a coffee from the vending machine and sat beside him in the smoking room as he puffed heavily on a cigarette.

“Here.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Kim Sunwoo said nothing, only slurping his coffee and exhaling smoke.

Yejun glanced at the stack of actor profiles in his hand and rubbed his face dryly.

‘So it’s finally come.’

Name: Ma Yejun.

Age: 27.

Height: 184 cm.

Weight: 85 kg.

A solid, well-built physique.

Strikingly handsome, street-cast in his second year of high school.

In his very first drama, he appeared in a minor role with five full lines of dialogue.

Three months later, cast again in another drama as a supporting extra.

Laid out like that, it was enough to make agencies salivate.

Naturally, back then, he’d thought he would make it big.

When Daehwa Entertainment—ranked among the top five agencies in the country—offered him a contract, he had felt like he’d already become a superstar.

But that happiness didn’t last long.

Kim Sunwoo sighed with a cigarette between his lips.
“Yejun.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long has it been since you last worked?”

“…I was discharged yesterday.”

“Before enlistment, you idiot.”

“…..”

“Your last role was that historical drama in your senior year of high school, right?”

“Yes…”

“What role was it again?”
“It’s been so long, I can’t even remember.”

“I was Subordinate Number Three to the male lead.”

“Ah, right.”
“I remember now.”
“You were so excited because you had six lines.”

“…..”

“But that was the last one.”
“You were nineteen.”
“It’s been eight years since then, and you haven’t landed a single role.”
“You fail auditions every time.”

Even with ten mouths, there was nothing to say.

What good was being handsome when it was only vaguely so?

What good was decent acting when it was only middling?

Yejun had all the qualities an actor should have, yet every one of them was ambiguous.

The reason Daehwa Entertainment had kept an actor who couldn’t land roles for nine years was because he wasn’t completely talentless.

But now, it seemed the company’s patience had finally run out.

Smacking his lips bitterly, Kim Sunwoo asked,
“You know what I’m about to say, right?”

“Yes…”

“This isn’t a breach.”
“It’s a termination.”
“The contract period ended two years ago already, so you have no complaints, right?”

“…..”

Only twenty-seven years old.

Couldn’t they give him just a little more time?

Was this really the end?

The words that hovered in his throat never came out.

Kim Sunwoo patted Yejun on the shoulder and said,
“I’ll give you one piece of advice as someone older.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yejun, you were always an introverted kid, weren’t you?”
“You forced yourself to be friendly because you wanted to be an actor.”
“Honestly, you don’t care much about other people.”
“I know you pretended to be interested and clung to industry folks because it helped your career.”

“…..”

“I’m not saying that’s wrong.”
“You must’ve tried in your own way.”
“But Yejun.”
“People live most comfortably when they live true to how they’re made.”
“You’re not meant to live as an actor.”
“So find something else to do.”

“…..”

Yejun clenched his fist tight.

‘No.’
‘I won’t give up.’
‘Never.’
‘No—I won’t.’

The company had signed him when he was a second-year high school student and insisted he properly study acting, pushing him into a theater and film major.

At first, like any dreamless teenager, he’d half-assed it.

But after years of studying acting, he’d finally grown a dream in his heart.

And now they were telling him to give it up?

There were late-blooming rookies too.

People who debuted after thirty.

So why not him?

Kim Sunwoo gestured as if telling him to go.

There was no apology.

The look in his eyes said that if anyone should feel sorry, it was Yejun—that the company had already done more than enough.

***

Outside the building.

Yejun looked up at the imposing structure and muttered,
“Is this really the last time?”

He hadn’t grown attached to the building.

During his military service, the company had relocated, so this was his first time here.

And yet, his feet wouldn’t move.

A guard stood watch at the parking entrance, controlling access.

Once he left through there, he’d never be allowed back in.

Just then, shrill screams erupted as a black van pulled in.

When a young male actor in sunglasses emerged, the girls camped outside the parking lot shrieked.

“Jihun oppa!

I love you!”
“You’re so handsome, oppa!”

The handsome actor took off his sunglasses and smiled brightly.

The sight alone sent the girl fans into another frenzy.

Watching him wave and walk into the building with no fewer than four managers in tow, Yejun let out a bitter laugh.

‘Lucky bastard.’

That guy was handsome.

Not ambiguously handsome like himself, but truly sculpted.

Honestly, his acting was awful, but with that face alone, he’d snagged four lead roles in terrestrial dramas.

Still, looks were a talent too, so Yejun had no intention of criticizing him.

“Uh?”
“Senior?”

“…..”

The guy greeted him.

Yejun awkwardly raised his hand.

“Oh, Jihun.”

“Senior, you’re discharged?”
“I heard you enlisted.”

“Yeah.”
“Yesterday.”

Before enlistment, when this guy was still a rookie, they’d practiced acting together in the basement rehearsal room.

Now a star, Jihun practically radiated refinement.

“Oh, but senior.”
“There’s a rumor your contract’s ending.”

“…..”

“Did you already get cut?”

“Yeah.”
“Something like that.”
“I should get going.”

His mood soured.

Was he bitter because a junior had succeeded?

No—let’s say it wasn’t that.

Thinking otherwise would be truly pathetic.

As he trudged away, he heard Jihun and his manager talking behind him.

“The CEO was furious.”
“Not just him—several others probably got cut too.”
“Jihun, you can’t end up like that, okay?”

“Haha, hyung.”
“No way.”
“I’ve got a new drama starting next month.”

“Yeah.”
“Let’s work together for a long time, okay?”

“Don’t worry.”
“I’ll never end up like that.”

Yejun clenched his fist until the veins stood out.

But it was nothing more than the flailing of a loser.

He wanted to turn around and curse him, tell him he’d end up the same one day—but that would only be spitting into the wind.

Leaving the company he’d never enter again, Yejun looked up at the building once more and met the eyes of Jihun’s devoted fans.

“Who’s that?”
“He’s coming out of Daehwa.”
“Is he an actor?”

“He looks decent.”
“He’s tall too.”
“Must be an actor.”
“A rookie?”

A bitter smile crept onto his face.

Calling a nine-year veteran a rookie.

Yeah—that was exactly his position.

An unknown actor no one recognized even walking down the street.

Well, just a few hours ago, if he’d seen people like that, he’d have greeted them warmly, smiling behind a mask, saying he was also an actor from Daehwa and asking for their support.

But now, there was no need for that anymore.

“Just wait.”
“I’ll make you regret it.”

He spat the words through gritted teeth, but he had no immediate way to back them up.

Looking up at the annoyingly clear blue sky, Yejun muttered,
“What do I even do now?”

Should he start a one-man broadcast channel?

Would that cost money?

If he wanted to audition independently without an agency, he’d have to do profile tours himself.

That would cost a lot in transit alone.

Lost and wandering aimlessly, he boarded the subway.

Instead of roaming around without purpose, he decided to return to the one-room apartment he’d just rented in Jongno 5-ga and think about how to continue his acting career alone.

Line 2 to Dongdaemun History & Culture Park, transfer to Line 4, then transfer again at Dongdaemun Station to Line 1.

While studying the route map to transfer to Line 4, his eyes caught the next station after Dongdaemun.

‘Right.’
‘Hyehwa Station.’

Before enlistment, he’d gone to see plays there countless times.

Line 4 arrived, and the train moved one stop.

The doors opened at Dongdaemun Station—the place he was supposed to transfer again—but for some reason, his feet wouldn’t move.

The doors closed, and the subway started up again.

Staring at the next stop displayed on the screen—Hyehwa Station—Yejun murmured,
“I miss it.”

The dream of pondering acting while enjoying Daehangno theater like other actors.

The profession of actor, special in its ability to live another person’s life.

Looking up at the subway ceiling where no sky could be seen, Yejun spoke softly.
“Even if I can’t live like them yet, isn’t it okay to watch from afar and nurture my dream?”
“Just a little.”
“I’ll try just a little longer.”