Chapter 5 Part 2: Grab the Bull by the Horns

“Whoa!

Seriously?

You’re shooting a drama?

That’s insane!”

“Did you sign yet?

Did you sign the contract?”

“Wow, Yejun-oppa, this is huge!

Shouldn’t we get your autograph in advance or something?”

When Yejun shared the news with Jeonghwan-hyung and the rest of the troupe, everyone crowded around to congratulate him.

Yejun scratched his head and said,

“I haven’t signed the official contract yet.

I’m going to sign it sometime this week.

Filming starts in two months, so it shouldn’t interfere with the troupe’s schedule.”

Woohyun-hyung laughed as he said,

“Even if it does, go anyway.

Thanks to you dropping out, I might finally get to play Jeong Seongryong.”

Donghun-hyung pretended to frown and joked,

“Hey, if Yejun’s gone, why does that automatically mean you get Jeong Seongryong?”

“Obviously.

You’re worse at acting than I am, you walking muscle lump.”

“What?

These aren’t just for show, okay?

Want a taste of my arm muscles?”

“Don’t touch me.

With that body, laying hands on someone counts as attempted murder.”

The dressing room buzzed with noise.

Everyone was genuinely happy, congratulating him, and Yejun felt deeply grateful for it.

Just then, the dressing room door opened, and Writer Choi’s face appeared.

“Yejun.”

“Yes, Writer-nim.”

“Come see me for a moment.”

“Yes.”

Following the writer into the office, Yejun saw the troupe director seated inside.

“Have a seat, Yejun.”

“Yes, Director-nim.”

The director, smiling warmly at him as he sat beside Writer Choi, asked,

“So, I heard the news. You’ve been cast in Hong Jihyun’s drama.”

“It’s all thanks to the troupe, Director-nim.”

“Oh, please. We’re the ones benefiting from you.”

To be honest, Yejun was a little worried.

Filming four episodes would take roughly a month.

The remaining schedule for The Scarred Mountain Lodge would be fine, but the next production might be a problem.

Balancing rehearsals, performance dates, and the drama schedule was uncertain.

The director looked at Yejun’s face and smiled.

“It seems it’s time to let you fly.”

“Pardon?”

What did that mean?

Both the director and the writer smiled gently.

“When a baby bird learns to fly, you have to let it leave the nest.”

Yejun asked, flustered,

“Are you saying I should leave the troupe? I can adjust my schedule somehow—”

The director raised a hand to stop him.

“It means you should focus on what’s ahead of you.

You need to move forward.

We don’t want the troupe to become an obstacle in your path.

Your drama schedule will inevitably clash with performances.

I don’t want you hesitating because of us.”

“…..”

“But Yejun, you will always be a member of Troupe Mae.

Whenever you want to come back, come back.

No matter when that is, we’ll keep the door wide open and wait for you.”

They were kind words.

Yet, it still felt painful to leave just like this.

Writer Choi glanced at the calendar and said,

“In two weeks, the performance run ends.

Please give your best for the remaining eight shows, Yejun.”

Looking at the two of them with complicated eyes, Yejun realized this was a decision made entirely for his sake.

He stood up and bowed deeply.

“Thank you, Director-nim. Thank you, Writer-nim.”

***

Two weeks later, the final performance of The Scarred Mountain Lodge.

From the eighth show onward, every performance sold out, and aside from one exception, all remaining shows ended with full houses.

After finishing his performance in front of a packed audience one last time, Yejun returned to the dressing room after taking photos with fans.

The actors celebrated by popping violently shaken makgeolli instead of champagne.

‘I really enjoyed these four months.’

He hadn’t realized acting with good people could be this joyful.

People who never looked down on him for lacking skill.

People who celebrated others’ success as if it were their own.

Because of them, he’d found the strength to stand back up.

Jeonghwan-hyung, spraying makgeolli everywhere with a refreshed expression, spotted Yejun and rushed over.

“Well, look who it is—the future star!

Come here, let me give you a hug!”

“Hyung, you worked so hard.”

“You’re not allowed to pretend you don’t know me later, got it?”

“Of course.

I’ll keep in touch.”

“You brat, already saying goodbye?

We’re going to see each other every day anyway because of our part-time jobs.

And we still have the after-party!”

Yejun shouted triumphantly,

“Tonight’s dinner is on me!”

“Ooooh!!”

“For real?”

Yejun thumped his chest and declared,

“My short film appearance fee came in!

I’m spending all 500,000 won tonight!”

“Oooh!

As expected of a future megastar!”

“Praise him!

Praise his name!”

To some people, 500,000 won isn’t a huge sum.

But to struggling Daehangno actors, blowing that much on a single meal was a dream.

It was a lot of money for Yejun too, but tonight, he wanted to feed these people—who had given him so much—until they were full.

***

The next day, clutching his aching stomach after drinking far too much, Yejun boarded a bus.

This was his first time seeing Director Kim Minsu since meeting with Writer Hong Jihyun.

In drama and film, once a project begins, it’s called production, while the preparation phase before filming is known as pre-production.

He’d heard Director Kim had spent an incredibly busy few weeks during pre-production, personally handling staff recruitment, casting, and investment matters.

Out of habit, Yejun puffed air into his cheeks and blew it out repeatedly to warm up his mouth, then stretched.

‘I finally get to see the script today.’

Director Kim hadn’t been able to contact him often due to how busy he was, but Writer Hong had been in frequent touch.

She’d told him he would finally receive the script today, and his heart raced.

He suddenly remembered being cast in his first drama at nineteen, playing Armed Soldier No. 3.

‘My line was just “Yes, General!”’

Short, right?

But he’d NG’d that single line four times.

Not because he slurred or misread it—just because it sounded unnatural.

Thinking about how he couldn’t even handle that one line back then made his face flush with embarrassment.

When the bus entered Apgujeong-dong, Yejun checked the stop name and got off, standing in front of a five-story building.

Neither small nor large—just an average commercial building.

On the second and third floors was Studio Jinhon, where Director Kim belonged.

The order of things was unusual, but OAN had contracted Director Kim personally rather than his company, filling most staff positions with people from Studio Jinhon.

Normally, studios work via subcontracted production deals, but this time, since OAN was doing an in-house production, there was no subcontract.

Still, with little work in the industry and staff barely scraping by, the studio accepted OAN’s offer to keep their people fed.

A drama produced by OAN, but staffed almost entirely by Studio Jinhon.

Naturally, the production base became Studio Jinhon’s office.

Hesitating as he entered the unfamiliar office, Yejun saw a female employee sitting near the door look up.

“Profile tour? Just leave it over there.”

“…..”

Apparently, that’s what he looked like.

“Excuse me, but is the production manager here?”

The woman’s eyes widened.

“How did you get here?”

“Ah, I’m one of the actors cast in the upcoming drama.

I met the production manager when we signed the contract.”

“Oh

! I’m so sorry.

This way, please!”

Since the contract had been signed at a café near Daehangno before the base was decided, the Studio Jinhon staff were seeing him for the first time.

The office was about thirty pyeong in size, with most seats empty and only five or six people scattered around working.

“Your name?”

“Ma Yejun.”

“Oh, I saw your contract. Welcome.”

“Thank you.”

Being welcomed by production staff felt surprisingly good.

He’d grown used to people giving him cold looks, thinking, Another profile tour, huh?

Following the employee into the meeting room, he saw Director Kim, Writer Hong, the production manager, and a young man he didn’t recognize, all deep in discussion.

“Hello!”

He greeted them a bit loudly.

Director Kim smiled warmly and gestured to a seat.

“Hey, sit down.”

“Thank you.”

“You know everyone here, right?

You met the production manager when signing, and you’re in frequent contact with Writer Hong.

Youngho’s busy preparing for his short film premiere tomorrow.

And the person sitting at the end there—that’s your Chinese teacher.

He’s a teaching assistant from my alma mater’s Department of Chinese Language and Literature.

Say hello.

That’s Assistant Kim Jungho.”

So that young man was his Chinese teacher.

Yejun bowed.

“Please take care of me, sir.”

The kind-faced man smiled broadly.

“I’m younger than you.

I heard you’re twenty-seven?

I’m a year younger, so please be comfortable.”

“Still, I can’t treat a teacher casually.”

Writer Hong cut in with a grin.

“As expected of Actor Ma Yejun—top-tier character.”

She handed him the script book.

“So, the script is completed up to episode six.

I pulled out just the scripts up to episode four, which you’ll be appearing in.”

A beige hardcover script.

Not a binder, but a properly bound book.

It was the first time he’d ever received something like this.

When he opened the cover, he expected to see the list of character names first.

And next to his character’s name, Zhang Wei, would be Ma Yejun.

But what caught his eye first was the lead actor’s name.

‘Lee Jihoon?

 That bastard is the lead?’

The guy he’d run into the day after being fired, walking out of the company.

The mocking words he’d heard from behind echoed in his ears.

Yejun closed his eyes briefly and steadied himself.

A true professional knows how to separate personal feelings from work.

Calming his boiling emotions, he scanned the cast list.

Many famous names stood out—just as expected from Writer Hong Jihyun’s work.

And at the very bottom, his role and his name were firmly printed.

‘This is… moving.’

As Yejun hugged the script tightly to his chest, Writer Hong burst out laughing again.

“You checked your role name, right?”

“Yes.”

He felt incredibly good.

Seeing Lee Jihoon’s name had irritated him for a moment, but right now, he was simply happy.

Writer Hong chuckled at the sight of him clutching the script.

“You’re going to suffocate that thing. Shall we put it down and check your lines?”

“Oh—sorry.”

“Your scenes start from Episode 1, Scene C, so go over there and review them slowly with the teacher.

We’re in the middle of a meeting.”

“Yes, understood.”

Yejun moved to the far end and sat beside Jungho.

“Please take care of me, sir.”

“I should be the one saying that.

You gave me a precious part-time job.

Let’s take a look.”

“Yes.”

Jungho flipped through the script, found Scene C, and laid it on the table.

The moment Yejun saw his first line, the excitement in his heart froze solid, and his eyes shook.

“过去是痛楚的, 但你要么可以逃避, 要么可以向它学习!”

It was his first line.

And he had no idea what it meant.

Looking at Jungho with an awkward expression, Yejun heard him laugh.

“Let’s try repeating it.

Guòqù shì tòngchǔ de.”

“Guòqù shì dòngchǔ de.”

“Not dòng, tòng.

And not de, but de.”

“Guòqù shì tòngchǔ de.”

“Good.

Dàn nǐ yàome kěyǐ táobì.”

“…..”

Guòqù shì tòngchǔ de, dàn nǐ yàome kěyǐ táobì, yàome kěyǐ xiàng tā xuéxí.

That was his first line.

“Um… what does this mean?”

Jungho smiled.

“It means, ‘The past is painful. But you have two choices—either run from it, or learn from it.’”

“Oh.”

“We’ll start with Mandarin at first, but once you’re comfortable, you’ll need to switch to Wu Chinese.”

“What’s that?”

“Mandarin is the standard Chinese we usually refer to. Wu Chinese is basically the Shanghai dialect.”

“Oh.”

Writer Hong chimed in,

“Zhang Wei is from a Shanghai triad, you see.”

“…..”

I’m doomed.

Chinese alone was hard enough, and now he had to do a dialect too.