Chapter 11: Embodying Kang Iwon: A Spark Rekindled

Three years ago, (Trivial Habits) flickered across a cable channel, a modest mini-series that hit a respectable 11% viewership at its peak.

It wasn’t the kind of juggernaut that dominated watercooler chatter, but among drama aficionados, it earned fond nods and murmurs of “that one was pretty good.” Solid, not spectacular.

Yet, for all its charms—a taut script, deft direction, and magnetic leads—it carried a blemish that clung like a stubborn shadow.  

– The script’s tight, the direction’s sharp, and the leads? Pure chemistry… except for the male lead’s flat, by-the-book acting.  

– The female lead? She carried the whole thing with her raw talent, lol.  

The critique was unanimous: the actor playing the male lead had delivered a performance so textbook it drained the character of life, leaving fans wanting more from a role that could’ve soared.  

That’s why I chose it.

An original script was out of the question, so I sifted through existing works, discarding anything too perfect—too likely to invite accusations of imitation.

But the character had to have a spark, a pulse.

After winnowing down the options, (Trivial Habits) stood alone, its imperfect hero the ideal canvas for what I needed to prove.  

I swept my gaze across the room, the air heavy with expectation, and exhaled softly, steadying myself.  

‘Kang Iwon.’ 

A brash, untamed third-generation chaebol, all swagger and sharp edges, hiding a heart riddled with scars.

A man who, in the presence of the one he loves, unravels into a mess of devotion and doubt.  

From this moment, I am Kang Iwon.  

Kim Jae-ha transformed in an instant.

His rigid stance softened, slumping into a careless slouch.

He cocked his head, eyes locking onto an invisible figure before him, a spark of defiance in his gaze.

His fingers raked through his hair, restless, before his eyes snapped shut in a flash of irritation.  

“Goddamn it!”  

His foot slammed against the floor, the sharp thud echoing.

He flinched, startled by his own vehemence, and in a heartbeat, the arrogance melted into something raw, vulnerable—a man caught off guard by his own heart.  

“Hey, sorry! You know I’m not mad at you, right?”  

He stared at the phantom figure, wide-eyed and pleading, like a puppy caught in a downpour.

Then, as if ignited, he flared up again, pacing in his own storm.  

“Sorry! I mean, not at you—at them! What’s their problem, huh? Why’re they coming at you like that?”  

He leaned in, ear tilted as if catching a whispered reply.

His eyes gleamed, alight with unmistakable adoration, the kind that could only belong to someone utterly smitten.  

“Manager? Not even a chairman, and they’re mouthing off like that? I’m not saying a chairman gets a free pass either. Sure, my grandma chews out stuffy old suits, but…”  

His words stumbled, tangling into a mess of half-thoughts instead of comfort.

Realizing he was spiraling, he pivoted sharply.  

“Forget them. You’re leagues above those fossils. You’re good. Like, stupidly good! And I’m not just saying that because I—”  

He froze mid-sentence, the air thick with silence.

His eyes widened, betraying the secret he’d let slip.  

“…Did I just say I like you?”  

His ears flushed a vivid red, the confession hanging between them like a spark in the dark.

After all his bluster, he’d laid his heart bare.

He stole a cautious glance at the invisible figure, then broke into a grin—boyish, disarming, impossible to hate.  

“So… does that mean I can like you as much as I want now?”  

The grin lingered for a fleeting moment, a snapshot of mischief and longing.

Then, as if shedding a skin, the playful bravado dissolved, and Kim Jae-ha stood tall once more, the stage his own again.  

“That’s all.”  

Applause crashed over him like a wave.

Blinking back to reality, he caught the head writer clapping, her hands quickly retreating as if embarrassed by her own enthusiasm.  

‘Well done,’ she thought.  

It was pristine—no excess, no wasted motion.

He knew when to lean in, when to pull back.

But more than that, his performance gripped you, held you fast, made it impossible to look away.  

‘That diction. Those gestures. And those eyes—God, those melo eyes.’  

She’d noticed his clarity in the PR video, the way his voice carried musical lyrics with precision, but seeing it live was something else entirely.

After enduring a parade of mumbled, half-hearted performances, his words landed like stones in still water—sharp, clear, refreshing.  

‘He gets it. He hits the mark.’  

That was the crux of it.

(Casting with My Own Hands!) was, at its core, a search for rom-com gold.

Storming in with a blatant agenda for a specific role risked coming off as try-hard or crass, but this wasn’t a showcase for lofty acting prowess either.

Some of the earlier contestants had misfired, their earnestness admirable but misplaced, dragging out heavy, tragic characters when the brief called for lightness and charm.  

The head writer scrawled “Nails the point!” on Kim Jae-ha’s resume, punctuating it with a star.  

‘Stage fright? What a load of nonsense.’  

A trusted junior had fed her that tidbit during casting, but clearly, they’d missed the mark this time.  

For a fleeting moment, she wondered if she’d been too quick to judge him based on hearsay.  

Only for a moment.  

The soft ripple of applause yanked her from her thoughts.

Jae-ha offered a belated bow, his hands clenching and unclenching, slick with sweat.

He’d been nervous—heart-pounding, palm-drenching nervous—but it was the good kind, the kind that left you buzzing, like the high after a hard run.  

When was the last time he’d thrown himself into a performance like this, unguarded, in front of a crowd?  

He’d forgotten how it felt—this love for standing under the lights, for weaving a story from nothing.

The hunger for applause, for adoration, was there, yes, but stronger still was the thrill of nailing it, of bringing something to life and knowing you’d done it right.  

That’s why he’d become an actor.

Maybe for the simplest, most primal reason of all.  

“Wow, that was incredible!”  

Sim Youngwon’s voice cut through, bright and earnest, her striking features softened by a delicate warmth as she gripped the microphone.  

“It was short, but it just… landed. I know that sounds amateurish, but I can’t think of a better way to say it.”  

Her words carried the weight of someone who’d built a career on raw, emotive power—likely why her critique learned so heavily on feeling.  

“First, your diction is excellent.”  

A man, seated beside her, took the mic next.

His sharp cheekbones and chiseled jaw gave him a cutting edge, honed by years of obscurity before a breakout role in a romance drama catapulted him to stardom.

Now a top actor, his focus was technique, and his own crisp delivery and expressive face were the gold standard.  

“Your expressions were spot-on too. Nothing awkward about your movements.”  

‘Too much praise,’ Jae-ha thought, recalibrating.  

This was the first shoot, the baseline evaluation.

The bar would only rise from here.  

“But…”  

And there it was.

The mentor who’d been silent finally stirred—Choi Hyuncheol, the grizzled veteran known for his masterful supporting roles.

Time had rounded his frame and etched deep lines into his face, but his bold brows and intense features still commanded attention, especially among older audiences.

Since (My Son-in-Law!) aired, though, he’d earned a new moniker.  

“Your acting’s got no soul!”  

The “Soul Master,” they called him, a nickname born from his relentless obsession with the intangible spark of a performance.

But he wasn’t just a cranky old-timer spouting platitudes.

His staying power came from something else.  

“Technique? Solid. The emotions you’re going for? I felt them. But were you in it, completely? No.”  

His words cut clean, precise.  

“It looks like you’re playing to the audience, always thinking about how it’ll land. That might work for now, might even seem like something special. But acting like that? It burns out fast.”  

He wasn’t wrong.

Jae-ha’s performance was the product of two weeks of meticulous study, built on the habits of his pre-regression self.

Knowing his immersion fell short, he’d leaned hard into crafting a performance that looked right, banking on polish to mask the gaps.

When it worked, like now, it could pass for brilliance.  

Then Lee Jungah, silent until now who was sitting right next to Choi, spoke.  

“But, senior… those melo eyes? They were real.”  

The room erupted in laughter, and Choi’s eyes bulged in comical disbelief.  

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”  

Clearly, “melo eyes” was a foreign concept to him.

Lee Jungah leaned over, offering a gentle explanation, then turned to Jae-ha with a warm smile.  

“I believe an actor’s individual talent matters, but chemistry with their co-star is just as vital. With that kind of expressiveness, you’re tailor-made for a rom-com.”  

‘Of course,’ Jae-ha thought.

A kind opening didn’t guarantee a kind follow-through.

Lee Jungah, with her feline grace and commanding presence, was a legend—a child actor turned national icon.

On (My Son-in-Law), she was the anchor, ensuring the mentors’ critiques stayed true to the show’s vision.  

‘I don’t know if I’ll be able to make a living from acting in the future, but what I’m saying is that if I do well here, I might be able to get a role. ,’ Jae-ha told himself.  

Before his regression, he’d pegged her as the most intimidating mentor.

Choi, the Soul Master, might grumble, but he’d soften over time, even throw you a bone if he took a liking to you.

Lee Jungah, though?

She didn’t mince words.  

‘She gave Seo Eun-jae second place in the final round.’  

In her eyes, Jae-ha figured he’d be lucky to claw his way to third.  

Lee Jungah, having steadied the room’s buzzing energy, pressed on.  

“You were a child actor?.”  

‘Here it comes.’

Jae-ha gripped the mic tightly, forcing his voice to stay even.  

“Yes. Years ago, I played Hyo-won in (Destined Match). I was lucky to receive so much love.”  

“And then you became an idol.”  

“Yes… I was given the chance, and I took it.”  

“Why come back to acting?”  

The question was inevitable, one he’d wrestled with endlessly.

No answer felt foolproof—editing could twist anything into a soundbite.

But after all his agonizing, he’d settled on one truth: if it was going to be skewed, he’d at least be honest.  

“It might sound like an excuse, but I became an idol because I loved acting… and wanted to keep doing it. Even after that, the urge to act never left me. So, I started again.”  

“That could offend aspiring idols. It sounds like you used that path as a stepping stone for acting.”  

“Answer honestly. Take your time. And PD-nim, please don’t edit this strangely. I’ll have words if you do.”  

Her firm tone, coupled with the freedom to speak at length, pulled him in despite himself.  

“I was overwhelmed with love as Dalkong, more than I ever deserved. I’m still grateful for it—it made me love acting even more, enough to dream of it as a career. I kept acting through my teens, but… Dalkong’s shadow was hard to shake.”  

The mentors listened, their faces unreadable but attentive.  

“I think I felt trapped as a kid. Then the idol offer came, and I saw it as a chance—a new path, a way to show the world Kim Jae-ha, not Dalkong. So I jumped in. It didn’t last long, for personal reasons, but… it meant something to me.”  

Lee Jungah’s gaze held steady.  

“Do you regret it?”  

She didn’t clarify what she meant, but he heard both questions: the idol years and the return to acting.  

The answer had been settled long ago.  

“No. I don’t regret it.”  

Silence followed.

Their expressions gave nothing away, no hint of whether his truth had landed.

Lee Jungah nodded, said, “That’s all,” and set the mic down.  

“We’ll now discuss Kim Jae-ha’s grade and ranking.”  

The mentors huddled, their deliberation stretching longer than it had for others—a notable pause.  

Sim Youngwon took the mic.  

“Kim Jae-ha, your grade is B, and you’re ranked 14th.”  

“Thank you.”  

Fourteenth.

With the top seven earning A grades, he sat comfortably mid-tier in B.

Yet, for reasons he couldn’t quite pin down, his gaze lingered on the grade, not the number.