I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again.
‘Damn it, fine. I’ll do it!’
There was no threat like this. To prey on a person’s most primal fear—this was exactly the kind of thing a company would do when forcing someone into employment just because they chose death on their own.
The moment I declared surrender, the overwhelming terror that had gripped my entire body vanished as if by magic.
I exhaled deeply, finally releasing the breath I’d been holding, and pressed my palm to my forehead.
I suddenly remembered I was still wearing makeup, but right now, it didn’t matter.
‘What should I do? What can I even do?’
The first thing that came to mind was Karmamall. Since there was no practical solution, I had to rely on the unreal.
I quickly opened the Karmamall window and scanned through the item list.
‘Damn.’
Unfortunately, there was nothing useful for my current situation.
‘Should I even consider this a relief?’
Even if there had been something, I couldn’t afford to buy it.
I didn’t have any Okchun to spend on items right now. Still, I couldn’t help but hope.
Maybe, just like when I got the Seal Release skill, some incredible luck would come my way.
‘So, I have to do this on my own…’
It was frustrating beyond words. It really felt like they knew exactly what my situation was and did this on purpose.
At the same time, I couldn’t help but recall Team Leader Kkaebi’s sneaky smile as he looked at me, and anger welled up inside.
‘Just wait. I’ll get my real revenge.’
Grinding my teeth, I started moving forward.
The filming set was in chaos. Director Choi Young-hwan was nowhere to be seen—probably off trying to persuade Lee Choi.
The remaining staff exchanged bewildered looks and whispered among themselves.
Most of their questions were like, “What’s going on?” or “Are we even filming today?”
I didn’t know how long I walked before spotting a makeshift tent set up as a resting area for the staff, surrounded by various luggage.
I knelt down halfway and saw Director Choi Young-hwan staring intently at someone with a serious expression.
I carefully tried to minimize the sound of my footsteps and slowly approached the tent.
“Lee Choi! What’s wrong with you? Are you really not going to act? Are you going to give up just like this?”
From inside came a familiar middle-aged woman’s voice. It was Lee Choi’s manager—her mother.
“Mother, please calm down just a little…”
“No! This needs to be said firmly. She’s not a child anymore. Maybe because our Choi has been acting since she was a child, she still seems to be living under a misconception. Get a grip, Lee Choi. You’re not a kid anymore. You need to finish filming responsibly!”
Listening to her words made me feel queasy.
‘Does she really not know?’
Lee Choi didn’t do this out of mere whim or because she couldn’t bear a little pain.
As someone who had watched and acted alongside her since filming began, I could say that much with certainty.
Lee Choi had been enduring for a very long time.
She’d hit her limit and finally snapped.
And above all, she must be the one who knows best that she’s no longer a child.
She must have witnessed how shockingly the atmosphere on set changed as she grew up.
Moreover, unless you were exceptionally lucky, the working conditions for child actors weren’t very good.
Even adults got tired and exhausted on set—so it was even harder for a child to get any consideration.
Despite her mother’s harsh words, Lee Choi said nothing.
At first, I thought she might be crying, but there wasn’t even a sob.
After a short while, I heard the sound of someone collapsing heavily.
“Choi, what’s really wrong with you…? Why are you doing this all of a sudden, huh? You’re a good girl. You got through puberty just fine, so why now? If you keep acting like this on set, what will happen to your reputation?
You said you’d become a famous actress and make your mom proud. You said you’d fulfill your mom’s dreams for her…”
Hearing the voice broken by sobs, I involuntarily sighed.
‘So that’s what it was.’
The reason a child starts acting is actually simple.
Not always, but generally the child had to be pretty or handsome—or obviously talented.
And at least one parent had to have some interest in or admiration for the acting world.
Usually, it began as a casual suggestion, a casting call, or connections.
If the child seemed to enjoy it and the reactions were positive, they would keep going.
If they were lucky enough for the child’s acting to attract significant attention…
‘They’d keep acting because of the money or recognition.’
The problem was that it was the child doing the acting.
Children’s interests change quickly, but the moment adults’ expectations and circumstances get mixed in…
‘That’s when all sorts of unfortunate stories begin.’
Having witnessed various cases starting as child actors, many involved parents projecting their own dreams onto their children, just like Lee Choi’s mother.
Of course, most of those dreams end up shattered like bubbles.
It’s hard for a child actor to keep working steadily until adulthood.
But if, like Lee Choi, they receive attention and recognition and the child herself has a will to act…
‘At some point, the roles inevitably get reversed.’
What’s more, Lee Choi’s mother was also acting as her manager.
Their professional relationship must have been excessively close.
As the child grows and naturally faces worries and pain about her future and acting, the parent is likely to deny those feelings.
They’re probably afraid that if they accept it, the child might quit acting.
In reality, Lee Choi’s mother was at a loss.
It was even clear she spoke more harshly on purpose to provoke a reaction.
“All right, do as you please!”
Eventually, Lee Choi’s mother left first.
Director Choi Young-hwan remained, watching Lee Choi’s condition closely but hesitating to speak. His troubled expression was obvious.
“Choi, if it’s too hard, maybe we can skip filming today…”
When those words escaped his mouth, my body moved without thinking.
As I appeared, both Director Choi and Lee Choi, who had remained silent until then, looked at me.
I greeted the director and gave a strained smile.
“I was worried… so I came.”
“Ah…”
I wracked my brain for something natural to say here.
Then one of the staff called Director Choi, and with a serious face, he excused himself for a moment.
“Chae Min, please stay with Choi so she’s not alone.”
“Ah, yes. Don’t worry, go ahead.”
Watching Director Choi leave with a heavy heart, I cautiously approached Lee Choi.
“Lee Choi.”
“I’m sorry. Because of me, filming’s become like this. I really caused trouble. I’m so sorry.”
I only said her name, but words poured out like someone pressing buttons on a vending machine.
‘She’s the same as when she was little.’
When Lee Choi was young and caused problems on set because of herself, she behaved like this.
Although, her attitude was the complete opposite then.
She was pretty and cute, and admitting her mistakes in a clear, mature tone while acting adorable made the adults smile and overlook it.
But surely, that wasn’t because she was truly mature.
That image lingered painfully, bringing back a memory I hadn’t thought of in a long time.
When I filmed with young Lee Choi, there was a similar situation.
The child who always delivered her lines confidently suddenly froze, unable to say a word.
At first, the staff coaxed and comforted her, but as the silence dragged on, they began to get annoyed.
What did I do then?
“Boss! What’s wrong? What’s going on?”
At the time, my role was her older brother who’d become mentally slow due to an accident.
Lee Choi played the younger sister who took care of him diligently, mature beyond her years.
In the drama, the older brother always called his sister “Boss.”
When I spoke in character, Lee Choi finally opened her tightly sealed lips.
“Oppa, I’m sorry. I’m not really the boss. I’m an idiot. An idiot who can’t even act properly!”
She broke down crying and revealed her worries.
She wanted to act well, but her desire had become a burden.
Back then, Lee Choi’s feelings toward acting were sincere.
That was probably the driving force that carried her this far.
No matter the dreams of her mother, she couldn’t have come this far just because her parents wished it.
‘…Though I’m not as close to the current Lee Choi as I was then.’
Still, acting together brought ‘Yeoreum’ and ‘Yoon Jihwa’ closer.
I even sensed that the real Lee Choi found some comfort in Yoon Jihwa’s attitude.
Clearing my throat softly, I spoke.
“Choi.”
Using Yoon Jihwa’s voice, I deliberately called her name.
Though my voice was a mess, the difference was noticeable enough to make Lee Choi flinch.
had a major theme besides the love lines—namely, the characters’ dreams, often expressed as ‘willpower.’
Lee Choi always showed strange reactions whenever Han Yeoreum and Yoon Jihwa talked about their dreams.
Sometimes it seemed like envy, other times like consolation.
Watching those moments gave me a certain conviction.
Perhaps the worries troubling Lee Choi now weren’t all that different from what had burdened her when she was a child.
I plopped down next to her.
She seemed a little surprised but didn’t move away.
“You told me once that if you don’t know what you truly like, think about what you’re good at first. People inevitably like what they’re good at. When I heard that, I thought of the violin—the violin I quit because I felt I couldn’t get any better than I already was.”
This wasn’t a line in the script, but a mix of conversations Han Yeoreum and Yoon Jihwa had shared.
Right now, I was Yoon Jihwa.
“But I suddenly got curious. Choi, what is it that you’re good at and like?”
“…….”
“Choi, what are you good at and like?”
Lee Choi didn’t answer.
Instead, she raised her gaze from the floor.
She looked straight into Yoo Chaemin’s eyes—into mine—and then smiled wryly.
“I don’t have anything I’m good at.”
Her voice was heavy with self-mockery.
“And what about things you like?”
I asked without hesitation.
Lee Choi moved her lips a few times before answering.
“Acting. I used to like it… but now, I don’t really know.”
“Why? Do you hate acting now?”
She immediately shook her head.
Then, with wide eyes, she seemed a bit surprised at her own reaction.
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