Time passed, and it was already October.
The High Dream filming was progressing steadily.

Since my scenes hadn’t been scheduled yet, I was leisurely spending my time at school.

However, I was starting to worry about something.

‘I should start looking into it soon.’

That "something" was an agency.

With High Dream, the pay and everything else didn’t really matter since I was still considered a rookie. But for future projects, there would be signing bonuses and complicated contracts involved. Handling all of that on my own would be tough.

‘Should I really join ST Entertainment?’

At this point, ST Entertainment, where Kim Yu-ryun was signed, seemed like the best option.
Having someone you know, and someone who was a top actor in the industry at that, would make any minor issues disappear quickly.

‘But I should think this over carefully.’

However, I didn’t want to make any hasty decisions. Typically, actor contracts last at least five years, so it was best to make a cautious choice.

“Hey, you guys! I told you to study, but none of you did, huh?”

While I was lost in thought, my homeroom teacher, Jang Bo-seok, walked into the classroom.

“Your midterm exam results are out, you lot!”
“Aaaargh!”

He brought with him the disastrous news.
Hearing the collective groans, our teacher laughed, seeming to enjoy the students’ misfortune.

“You should’ve studied more instead of just complaining that things didn’t go well.”

Then, out of nowhere, his gaze landed on me.

Clap, clap, clap.

Suddenly, he started applauding.

What’s going on? What’s this about? I was confused for a moment.

“But hey, it’s all good. The top student in the school came from our class—Kim Dong-hoo! Come on up here!”

Speaking in a clumsy dialect, the teacher called me up.

‘Wait, I’m the top student in the whole school?’

Me, who often skips school?

“Our class president got the highest score in the entire school, raising our class average. Give him a round of applause!”

Hold on a second, why am I the class president?
I gave Min-hyuk a questioning look, and he immediately started explaining.

“When you weren’t at school the other day, we all just decided to make you the class president.”

By the way, I’m the vice-president since I’m your manager.

“…What the heck are you talking about?”
“Huh? Oh, don’t worry about it. We all agreed.”

How can I become class president when I’m not even at school often?
Before I could voice my objection, the entire class erupted into applause.

It was just the way things were back then.
In those days, it was common for a teacher to single out a student and have the class congratulate them, a kind of public execution.
Maybe they wanted to celebrate with me?

Vrr, vrr, vrr.

It had been a while since [Sims - The Real Life] sent me a message.
But this time, it was different.
Before, it was just a simple text message. This time, it came in the form of news articles.

-[CyberQA Breaks Down? "Several Managers at Team Lead Level Quit, Including Division Heads."]
-[Choi Seok-ho’s Challenge! "A Space Solely for Actors," Declares Veritas Management’s CEO.]

And then, one headline caught my eye.

-"The First Actor is an Unknown Rookie? ‘A Monster That Shines Brighter Than Anyone,’ CEO Choi Seok-ho’s Confidence Shines."

Wait, are they talking about me?

 

At the same time, in an office in Bundang.
The place was buzzing with preparations for a new opening.

“Careful with that! Please place it down slowly!”

Amongst the chaos of moving PP boxes back and forth, a man directing the placement of the boxes was rushing around without even wiping his sweat.

“That sofa goes over there! Yes, yes! And the vase, place it here!”

As he watched the office slowly come together, the man felt a swirl of emotions.

‘I wasn’t planning on striking out on my own so soon.’

Although it’s common for managers at the director level to think about starting their own agencies, very few actually take the plunge.

It’s because there’s too much to lose.
You have to recruit actors, compete against the company you left, and most importantly, you become "just another guy," without the backing of a large corporate name.

All the people who used to bow and scrape in front of you now expect you to do the same for them. Under the CyberQA name, everything was a given, but now it wouldn’t be so easy—people would feel the difference.

Still.

“No matter what, treating managers like money-making cogs is wrong.”

That much was clear.

CyberQA’s actions were akin to firing the entire server management team just because there hadn’t been any server issues for a few years.
So I just quit.

Out of sheer disgust.

And at the same time, I made a resolution. I was going to create a company that treated both actors and managers with the respect they deserved.

But the problem was, though I left with that grand plan, I didn’t have any actors to recruit.
More accurately, I had some, but they disappeared.

‘CyberQA…’

That once-familiar corporate giant was now just someone else’s company.
And that giant had crushed my small one-man agency before it had even begun.

Honestly, I hadn’t been completely unaware that this might happen.
But I believed I could still recruit a few rookie actors.

“…Please place that chair here. It’s the CEO’s chair, after all.”

With the office completely empty except for the workers, Choi Seok-ho’s voice grew slightly somber.
He had sunk all his money into this office for a fresh start.
He had even maxed out a loan to make the investment, and now the space felt overwhelmingly empty.
Could there be a sadder story than this?

“If only a rookie actor would just drop out of the sky.”

Yeah, if that happened, I wouldn’t be in this situation right now.
Choi Seok-ho slapped his cheeks lightly.

Get a grip, Choi Seok-ho. You can do this.
You’re a lucky guy, after all.

You can do this—if you hit the ground running, recruiting actors won’t be a problem.

‘That’s right, I’m lucky.’

The fact that I managed to rent this office in the first place was already a stroke of luck.

A 7-story commercial building, in a prime location with a large parking lot.
And a landlord who didn’t raise the rent.

‘According to rumors, he made a fortune betting on the World Cup.’

As if that could be true. That’s ridiculous.

 

November.

The end-of-term exams and winter vacation were slowly approaching.
The weather was getting colder now, and a once-iconic outdoor brand in Korea was making a comeback.

‘It’s been a while since I’ve seen a North Face jacket.’

Back then, it was almost as if every teenager was wearing a North Face jacket.
The craze had been so intense, it was borderline obsession.

‘I couldn’t even wear one back then, even if I wanted to.’

The North Face jacket, affectionately nicknamed "No-pa," wasn’t something you could wear just because you had money.
It was like a status symbol.

It was an exclusive item worn by the so-called "iljin," and if your social ranking wasn’t high enough, you could even get it stolen.
But as for me...

‘Luxury brands are still the best.’

Thanks to my uncles in Bundang who kept sending money, I was wearing a Moncler jacket.
I’m not the type to feel the cold easily, but warmth is always nice.

Phew.

A light breath sent a thin plume of mist into the cold air, where it quickly disappeared.

‘There are so many people here even though it’s freezing.’

Seeing the swarm of reporters in the distance, I felt my face twist into a grimace.

‘Today is the third day of the public filming, right?’

The making of the film.

Not only does it show the drama itself, but it also turns the filming process into content.
It was one of the essential tasks for promoting the drama.
But I hadn’t had the chance to participate in the making of the film until now.

‘Because I didn’t have any scenes yet.’

Both the first script reading and the first day of shooting were closed events because they were the first.
But now that we’d hit our stride, we had moved to public filming, which meant I would finally be part of the making of the film.

‘But it’s still two hours before filming starts, and yet everyone’s already here.’

Following my dad’s advice to always arrive early, I had shown up ahead of time, but there was no way I could get through the crowd quietly.

“Excuse me, can I just pass through?”

Rustle, rustle.

Carrying kimbap and coffee, I called out, and the reporters slowly, though reluctantly, moved aside to let me through.

Then.

“Wow, he’s really handsome, isn’t he?”

Someone loudly stated the obvious.

“Uh, excuse me, I’m…”

Flustered.

The reporter who had shouted about how handsome I was fumbled nervously before finally pulling out a business card.

“I’m Gil Gil-dong, a rookie reporter at Daily Happy Online Media. Is it you?”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re insanely handsome, so… Were you the one who passed the audition?”

“Audition?”

“Oh, I mean the audition! The public audition! You’re the only one who passed, right?”

It felt like admitting that would be a bad idea. My brain spun quickly.

‘Run.’

I stuffed the coffee and kimbap into my arms and bolted.

“W-wait! It is you, right? You’re really the super-handsome Kim Dong-hoo!”

How does he know who I am? Is he a stalker or something?
Just as that thought crossed my mind, a realization struck me like lightning.

‘Ah, FaceStorm!’

Come to think of it, I hadn’t even thought about checking it since becoming an actor.
How many followers had I gained for a rookie reporter to recognize me?

While running, I quickly pulled out my phone and checked my FaceStorm account.

Ten thousand.

By today’s standards, that number was crazy.
I hadn’t posted a single update—just a few selfies—and still, ten thousand.

No wonder people recognized me.

At least I had locked my DMs.
If I hadn’t, my phone might’ve exploded by now.

‘Thank goodness.’

There was no way anything important would come through there, right?

‘Let’s just focus on filming.’

 

60 days.
1,440 hours.
86,400 minutes.
5,184,000 seconds.

These numbers all had one thing in common—they represented two months.
And at the same time, they marked how long Studio Geumgang had been going crazy.

“I can’t believe there are no talented actors! How can there be no talent?!”

“Kids these days just don’t get it! This, this!!!”

Despite numerous auditions and recommendations from various agencies, they still hadn’t found anyone to play the student soldier role in Endless Frontline.

How could every single one of them act like they were fresh out of acting school?
Did they think war was all about crying and screaming?

The only silver lining was that the movie was already being filmed.
They had pushed the student soldier part to the back as much as possible, buying themselves time.
But even that was reaching its limit.

CEO Park and Director Kang were starting to lose their minds.
They didn’t want to give up.

They knew the difference between completing the film at 100% and producing something at 120%.
They knew which one would lead to success.

“Should we just start searching social media?”

Were they really going to have to scout someone like this?
Was it really going to come to this?

In desperation, CEO Park opened FaceStorm.
He had really hoped it wouldn’t come to this.

‘Tag search... Ulzzang, middle schooler.’

Could this really bring up anything useful?
He thought it was a ridiculous idea even as he did it.

If it were that easy, why had they gone through all those auditions?

“Huh?”

What the… This kid’s insanely handsome.
But there was something more to that face.

At first, he just seemed good-looking, but then…
There was a quiet sadness in his eyes, like a wave left behind by war.

“…Director Kang, what do you think of him?”
“Park… Why are you showing me a picture without even seeing him act?”

But what’s with that face?

“…He might be a good fit. But isn’t he just a regular person?”
“Couldn’t we at least ask him to do a screen test?”

This wasn’t how things were supposed to work. It just wasn’t.
It didn’t make sense.

But that face was just too perfect.
It matched exactly with what they had in mind.

Ah, this really isn’t how things should be done.

Tap, tap, tap.

Even though his mind was saying no, his hands were busy typing out a DM.
Or, at least, they were trying to.

“It’s blocked?”
“What?”
“His DMs are blocked.”

Blink, blink.

“So, what do we do?”

Blinking like a goldfish, Director Kang asked the question, and CEO Park calmly responded.

“We’ll have to find him.”

Shinbit Middle School—everything they needed was there.