When the time came to divide all the participants into Teams A, B, and C after selecting their projects, I brought those three along with me.
The system granted the top three rankers the privilege of forming their own teams, which made it possible.
The leader who had spearheaded the comedic version ended up in Team B for (Seorim High School Student Council).
“Some of the lines might make you cringe a bit,” I said, “but if we throw ourselves into the performance with full commitment, it’ll turn out pretty impressive.”
The truth was, they all had the looks to pull it off.
At my words, the heads of my teammates, which had been drooping as if touching the ground, slowly lifted.
“Really… do you think we can make it look cool?” one of them asked, voice tinged with doubt.
They were all worried about the same thing, weren’t they?
I unleashed the speech I’d prepared.
“Listen, the senior who played the student council president? He proved his acting chops in this project and went on to soar. The one who played the vice president, the secondary male lead? He used this as a stepping stone, honed his skills like crazy, and now he’s hailed as a serious actor.”
“And the senior who was the cultural affairs head, another secondary lead? He started with this project, nailed a one-sided love role in his next gig, and became known as the go-to actor for unrequited love. Now he’s thriving as a musical theater star.”
“Lastly, the planning department head, also a secondary lead, leaned into his tsundere image, landed lead roles in project after project, and is still killing it. They all made it big, didn’t they? And this drama itself? It had killer ratings. Why? Because the characters were magnetic—that’s what I think.”
As I finished, I worried I might have sounded too rehearsed, a touch embarrassing.
But it worked—the spark in my teammates’ eyes was undeniable.
“Now that you mention it… you’re right,” one said softly.
“I used to love this drama when I was a kid,” another admitted.
“Same here! I mean, who didn’t love it back then?”
Sure, the nostalgia of childhood feels different from the perspective of adulthood, but I kept that to myself.
No need to dampen the mood.
If the actors are invested, that’s what matters.
A little indulgence in old memories wouldn’t hurt.
‘Alright, let’s move to the next step.’
I picked up the character breakdowns and the adapted script provided by the production team and asked, “Shall we start revising the script?”
Maybe it was their newfound enthusiasm, but the script revisions and scene planning flowed quickly.
Once the dam broke, ideas for their characters poured out.
Still, the workload was no joke, and by the time we wrapped up the meeting, the sun was dipping low, casting a golden glow.
I tilted my head to gaze through the large window at the setting sun.
The world outside was bathed in red, yet the spacious room still buzzed with the voices of the participants.
My throat stung slightly from all the talking, and though I hadn’t moved much, I felt the strange satisfaction of finishing a long workout.
“This… might be the first time I’ve prepared for a performance this intensely,” Won-seok Jung said suddenly, his voice pulling my attention.
I turned to see him, along with the other two, staring at the sunset.
“It’s also the first time I’ve talked so passionately about a project we’re all acting in together,” Eun-hoo Park added, his eyes glistening with emotion.
It made sense.
Filming often involves countless staff and actors, yet paradoxically, acting can feel like a solitary battle.
Your character’s screen time and significance are decided by the writer and director.
Since everyone’s roles differ, it’s hard to have open, honest discussions about acting with your co-stars.
These days, life often means waiting in a van all day, shooting your scenes, and going home.
You study your character alone, maybe ask a trusted few for feedback, and that’s it.
But looking like we’d already aced the rankings?
That wouldn’t do.
I stood up and said, “Let’s grab dinner, practice on our own, and meet back here at 9:30. The lines aren’t too long, so I trust you’ll memorize them quickly.”
“What?!”
“Uh, Senior, that’s…”
“We’re all participants here. No ‘Senior.’ Just call me Kim Jae-ha, like earlier.”
Letting them call me “senior” would only invite accusations of arrogance later.
I tossed out a “see you later” and moved to leave.
As I scanned the set, I noticed Seo Eun-jae was nowhere to be seen.
‘Did I miss him?’
Or maybe he left early for dinner.
‘Ha Condescending gone too.’
A bad feeling crept in.
Hopefully, I’d just overlooked them.
‘Ugh, whatever.’
Seo Eun-jae would thrive on his own—why was I worrying about him?
I quickened my pace and left the set.
***
After a decent dinner, I stepped outside to walk off the meal.
There was a nice path just behind the lodging.
The night air, already warm with the hint of spring, brushed my cheeks.
Spring had snuck in, though it’d probably turn swelteringly unbearable soon enough.
I hoped I’d rank in the top three by then, maybe lounging and watching the female version of (Casting With My Own Hand!) without a care.Â
I shook my head at the thought.
‘Don’t think about the future. Focus on now.’
“Next time, it’ll work out.”
“You’ll land a great role soon.”
“You’re not bad at acting—you’ll be famous in no time.”
I’d let myself get swayed by those sweet promises from industry folks, drunk on the fantasy of a future that wasn’t guaranteed.
It took me too long to snap out of it.
Before I died, I’d re-signed with my agency after my military service and kept acting bit by bit until the contract ended.
But they refused to renew again.
The shock was unreal.
‘If this was how it’d end, why re-sign me at all?’
Just days before, they’d been all “let’s do great things together,” and then they flipped.
I couldn’t understand it.
But I also couldn’t deny I hadn’t delivered results, so I left without a word.
After that, no agency wanted me.
Even when I swallowed my pride and knocked on doors, I faced rejection after rejection.
No one looked for me.
At auditions, I couldn’t bear the nameless gazes sizing me up, and I’d flee.
Only when I hit rock bottom did it hit me:Â ‘There’s no “next opportunity” unless I make it happen now.’
From then on, I tried to see myself objectively, tackling my flaws head-on.
Miraculously, an agency took a chance on me.
I started making a name with (The Bachelor Club)…
‘And then the school bullying scandal hit, and I died.’
Life really sucks sometimes.
That past is gone now, undone by time’s rewind, but I remember it vividly.
Whenever I start to slack, I dredge up those memories to keep myself grounded, to avoid falling back into futile fantasies about the future.
I slapped both cheeks lightly with my hands, steeling myself.
‘Get it together. From now on, even more so.’
I had to complete the final main quest and take first place in this revival project.
That’s how I’d survive.
That’s how I’d avoid my life ending in pathetic failure.
That’s how I’d keep the possibility of becoming the actor I truly wanted to be.
‘I’ll show them.’
I’d prove how far I could climb, what kind of actor I could become—to those who mocked and blocked me, and to myself.
***
During filming, all participants were supposed to practice in the shared meeting room.
Honestly, I wasn’t thrilled about exposing my acting prep to others or having it broadcasted.
But what choice did I have?
I headed to the farthest corner.
‘A mirror would’ve been nice.’
The production team provided dummy phones, but they were shared by the team, so for solo practice, I was stuck staring at a wall.
I gazed at the plain, white-painted wall.
My role was Eun Si-hyuk, the male lead of (Seorim High School Student Council).
Student council president and heir to the Seorim Group conglomerate.
Tall, with chiseled features, a Mensa-level IQ, always topping the school rankings, and excelling in every sport.
On the surface, he seems to have it all, but inside, he’s rotten to the core—a deeply flawed, twisted character.
The quintessential troubled bad boy.
His backstory is predictably clichéd.
A patriarchal father and a mother disrespected by everyone for her ordinary background.
His father claims to love her, but to Si-hyuk, their marriage looks more like a boss-subordinate dynamic.
Worse, his father sides with his grandmother and relatives against her.
Si-hyuk can’t openly rebel, though.
If he shows any weakness, his mother bears the brunt of the criticism.
So he plays the model student, biding his time.
When he inherits the company, he plans to tear it apart, sell it off, and escape with his mother.
Does he perfectly hide his festering resentment?
Of course not.
Si-hyuk channels his stress by subtly tormenting those who cross him.
Then his eyes land on the female lead, a transfer student from a poor family who dares to attend the elite Seorim High.
He deliberately gets her into the student council, setting her up as the school’s public enemy.
Naturally, he ends up falling for her—a predictable arc.
‘Talk about hypocrisy,’ I thought.
‘Si-hyuk pities his mother for being mistreated due to her background, yet he tries to drive out the female lead for the same reason. He denies it, but he’s inherited the same mindset he despises in his father and grandmother.’
When the female lead calls him out, he resists but eventually accepts the truth—and his feelings for her.
After a long phase of denial, he becomes a lovesick fool who can’t handle being around her.
I took a deep breath.
‘Think. How does Si-hyuk breathe? How does he walk? What’s his usual expression?’
At school, he’s probably always smiling.
But look closer, and his eyes are cold as ice.
Picturing it in my mind, I lifted just the corners of my mouth into a smile.
“Hey. You’re that transfer student everyone’s talking about, right?”
The scene where he first meets the female lead.
I imagined extending my hand to her.
In my mind, she hesitantly takes it.
I lock eyes with her, flashing another smile.
Moments later, she’s dragged away by Si-hyuk’s jealous followers.
Alone now, the smile fades from Si-hyuk’s face.
He pulls out a handkerchief and roughly wipes the hand she touched.