In the script, Kim Ji-ah was supposed to be cowering in the corner of the storage room until Jin Kang-sik opened the door to rescue her.
Since her kidnapping, her mental state had been pushed to the limit.

Locked in a dark storage room, waiting for the day she’d be killed, Kim Ji-ah never imagined that Jin Kang-sik, a man unrelated to her by blood, would come to save her.

Because of this, Ha-eun’s choice to open the door herself and step out before Jin Kang-sik entered needed an explanation.
Though the resulting scene was undeniably moving, this ad-lib could potentially disrupt the film’s flow.

To ensure smooth editing, Director Kwon Jong-hyuk needed to understand Ha-eun’s intent behind the ad-lib.

“So, Ha-eun, persuade me. Why did Kim Ji-ah open the door on her own?”

Kwon understood the emotions Ha-eun was trying to convey through her performance: the confusion upon seeing the unconscious thugs defeated by Jin Kang-sik, and the childlike vulnerability she finally allowed herself to show as she realized she’d been saved.

While the outcome differed from his original plan, the scene still resonated deeply.
However, he couldn’t quite grasp why Ha-eun, who usually adhered strictly to the script, had chosen such a different approach.

He invited her to sit beside him at the director’s seat in the middle of the set, and as he replayed the scene, he asked her to explain her interpretation.

Ha-eun found herself facing not only Director Kwon but the entire crew, including Kang Sun-woo, who had flawlessly adapted to her unscripted move. Their focused gazes were unnerving, but she didn’t feel she’d acted incorrectly.

“I thought this approach would convey a sense of suspense better,” she explained.

“Suspense, you say?”

“Yes, suspense.”

Ha-eun began explaining her intentions for the scene, step by step.

“It would have been safer for Kim Ji-ah to stay in the storage room rather than stepping outside. She had no idea what was happening beyond that door.”

“True, all she knew was that someone was fighting outside.”

As Ha-eun described, the odds of Kim Ji-ah surviving if she ventured outside were slim.
It wasn’t an easy decision for her to make.

“But if she stayed locked in the storage room, she would eventually die. If she did nothing, nothing would change.”

“So, are you saying Kim Ji-ah’s decision to open the door was a desperate attempt, regardless of the risks?”

“Yes.”

In a way, it was a gamble—a leap of faith with odds stacked against her.

If, against all odds, Kim Ji-ah miraculously encountered Jin Kang-sik outside, the audience would experience a powerful sense of catharsis.

“Kim Ji-ah must have felt the suspense too. But if she stepped out and miraculously found herself face-to-face with Jin Kang-sik…”

“The scene would carry an even stronger dramatic impact?”

“Um, yes, I think so.”

In the end, the film was set to have a happy ending, so building up dramatic tension wouldn’t hurt.

This scene, where Kim Ji-ah—who had endured so much hardship—was finally saved by Jin Kang-sik, was a pivotal moment in the movie.
Ha-eun believed that stepping out of the storage room to face Jin Kang-sik would better convey the sense of “salvation” than if she’d waited to be rescued.

Instead of focusing solely on Kim Ji-ah’s fear of imminent death, Ha-eun chose to emphasize the “moment of salvation” in her portrayal.

At the same time, she didn’t discard Kim Ji-ah’s underlying fear, directing it toward Jin Kang-sik to evoke a sense of safety in his presence.

Through this approach, Ha-eun’s performance had evolved beyond merely adjusting her own character.
In this scene, she wasn’t just performing her role; she was subtly influencing the overall mood and even the actions of her co-star.

“I understand your reasoning, Ha-eun.”

Director Kwon’s expression returned to his usual composed demeanor, though a brief hint of intrigue had flashed across his face.

“Alright, let’s reshoot the scene.”

“…What?”

“Why so surprised? You’ve convinced me, Ha-eun, so it’s only right that you follow through.”

It was a kind of blunt tone she couldn’t mistake.

“We didn’t capture you coming out of the storage room. We’ll reshoot from the part where you’re contemplating in the storage room to when you step outside.”

And so, Ha-eun found herself back in the cold storage room. This time, though, the cameraman accompanied her.

She positioned herself at the doorway, her gaze focused on the crack between the door and its frame, allowing the camera to capture her tense expression.

Finally, after deciding to step outside, she turned the doorknob with her trembling hand—a subtle but impactful moment that was preserved on film.

“Cut! We’re good!”

Returning to Director Kwon’s side, Ha-eun silently watched the sequence they’d pieced together.

“…I… I missed you, Mister…”

Watching herself on the screen, with her own tearful expression, felt strange. She felt a bit embarrassed, yet she was satisfied to see that her emotions had come through.

“Is there any part you’d like to redo?”

“…No, there’s nothing.”

She shook her head at Director Kwon’s question. After all, she had given her very best to every single part of it.

“Good work.”

“Yes, thank you. You as well, Ha-eun.”

Strictly speaking, Ha-eun still had a few scenes left to shoot, but she felt a sense of accomplishment after finishing the one she had prepared for the most.

It was the first time she’d felt she had truly achieved something.

And that feeling was so new to her.

‘…Wait. I just… smiled, didn’t I?’

For a brief moment, she caught herself smiling—not acting, but genuinely smiling.
From afar, Joo Jung-yoon, who had been watching her, could hardly believe the soft smile she’d seen.

---

“…Time flies. I can’t believe it’s already June.”

“Right?”

The movie’s production was nearly complete, with filming wrapped up and post-production nearing the final stages.
With the release date of *The Man Next Door* approaching, the marketing team held yet another meeting to discuss promotional activities.

Highlight trailers summarizing the film’s key scenes had already aired on TV, and the online reactions were promising.

Still, they knew they needed additional promotions, such as a press conference.

“So, the director and Kang Sun-woo will definitely attend. I think having Ha-eun there would be ideal for the third spot.”

“Ha-eun would be the best choice, but she’s still a child. I’m not sure if she’ll be able to handle the reporters’ questions.”

The PR team of *The Man Next Door*’s distributor, MakeFuture, debated who should attend the press conference.

“Maybe it’d be better to have So-hyun Kim or Gwang-hyun Jung attend instead. Although they’re both supporting actors, their characters stand out.”

“But Ha-eun is the lead. It would be odd for her not to appear at all.”

“If she stumbles over her words, it could backfire. We need to be cautious.”

Ultimately, they couldn’t reach a firm decision, so they reached out to Director Kwon for his input.

[ What’s there to debate? Of course, the leads should attend the press conference. ]

“But, Director Kwon, while it’s fine for Kang Sun-woo, Ha-eun is only seven…”

[ Ha-eun’s age is irrelevant. I want the press conference to include the director and the lead actors. ]

With such an unusually firm response, they had no choice but to suppress their concerns and agreed to include Ha-eun.

About two weeks later, on the day of the press conference rehearsal, Ha-eun’s words took everyone by surprise.

“I tried to portray her in a balanced way, not too pitiful but not overly bold either.”

“Oh, um… I see. That definitely came through in the trailer.”

Her mature vocabulary and tone left them speechless, making some reflect on what they had been like at her age.

But Ha-eun simply spoke her thoughts as they were, her mind focused on presenting herself as a serious child actor to the public.