Chapter 1: Rebirth of a Failed Idol

Seoul, Gangnam.

A massive building stood tall among the forest of skyscrapers.

It was the towering headquarters of JJ Entertainment.

A man stepped out of a black sedan accompanied by reporters and strode confidently into the building.

People standing in the lobby greeted him warmly.

It was Lee Jaejun—CEO of JJ Entertainment and South Korea’s top actor.

“Good morning, sir!”

“Mr. CEO, you’re looking sharp today!”

“You look amazing this morning!”

Jaejun responded with a pleasant smile.

He was dressed in a neat suit, his body well-maintained through regular workouts, making him look far younger than someone in their late 30s.

Though his looks were considered average for an actor, he had captured audiences’ hearts purely through his acting.

As he walked further into the building, an LED sign came into view.

[JJ Entertainment]

The number one actor agency in Korea, founded by Lee Jaejun and fellow actor Jung Sungha.

Getting in was difficult, but once accepted, awards at the year-end film festivals were practically a given.

The company had produced countless famous actors.

Without a JJ Entertainment star, dramas and films rarely moved forward.

In other words, it was every actor’s dream.

Everyone wanted a chance to knock on JJ’s door.

Jaejun rode the elevator to a higher floor and stepped out, heading straight to the CEO’s office.

Inside, Jung Sungha was leisurely sipping coffee, as if he had been expecting him.

“Oh, you’re here? Good morning.”

“Good morning my ass. What’s this about suddenly wanting to start a production company?”

“Can’t we start with a proper greeting? And anyway, this is something the company needs to do.”

“Company? You always act like your personal opinions represent the whole company. What kind of business do you think we’re running here?”

Trying to calm Jaejun down, Sungha handed him a glass of cold water.

“Just take a breath, will you?”

“How am I supposed to stay calm? You want to take the money our hardworking juniors bled for and start a production company?”

“Don’t blow up. Just hear me out. First, production companies are profitable. If we succeed, we won’t need to overwork our actors just to make ends meet. Second, we can cast our own talent in our projects—cuts down on contracting costs and creates stable job opportunities. It’s a win-win.”

“Ha. With the money you’re using to launch this company, we could improve conditions for our actors. Do you even realize how many young actors with real passion we could support with that budget?”

“I’ve told you this before. This is business. And the core of business is money. At the end of the day, everything we do, even this business, revolves around money.”

“Money, huh? Then maybe you should’ve just opened a regular shop. Oh wait, that is what you’re doing. Trading people like products.”

Jaejun let out a bitter scoff.

He twisted open the water bottle on the table and downed it aggressively.

That small amount of water wasn’t nearly enough to cool the anger burning inside him.

What he wanted from this company was simple—a support system that helped young actors focus on their craft.

Even before founding the agency, Jaejun’s passion for acting had always been clear.

He encouraged and sponsored promising talents, even helping them with living expenses.

On top of that, part of the company’s profits went to theater troupes and aspiring actors in the form of scholarships.

He had survived in this cutthroat industry not because of his looks, but through sheer acting ability.

Jaejun firmly believed that creating an industry where talent alone could lead to success was the responsibility of senior actors.

Sungha straightened his posture to try and reason with him.

“I get your ideals. But are you forgetting that you’re a co-CEO?”

“What did you just say?”

“The company needs influence. I’ve told you this countless times.”

“All I’m hearing is ‘you’ when you say ‘the company,’ and when you say ‘influence,’ you mean ‘money.'”

“See? This is why people say you’re amazing at acting but hopeless at everything else. Do you even care about the staff who greeted you earlier?”

“Or Soobeom hyung, who worked with us from the start? The investors who expect returns? Have you ever bothered to understand how our profits are split? They’re already mad about shrinking returns from your over-the-top welfare initiatives.”

Jaejun knew.

But he also believed that the only reason JJ Entertainment had grown large enough to go public was because they had provided an environment where their actors could focus on performing.

Each talented actor deserved a platform to showcase their skills to the world.

He and Sungha had always clashed over this—same topic, opposing views.

Sungha gazed out the large window, taking in the cityscape.

The endless rows of high-rise buildings felt like a metaphor for their deadlocked perspectives.

“My head hurts. Jaejun—no, CEO Lee. Let’s talk later. You need time to think too.”

“Fine, Sungha—no, CEO Jung. I’m asking you. Please drop this whole production company idea. With that money, we could support thirty struggling bit-part actors.”

Sungha said nothing in reply.

“Remember why we started this company in the first place.”

“It was for the industry. For actors. For the audience. For everyone.”

“I’m leaving first.”

Jaejun turned and walked out.

The door slammed shut behind him, leaving Sungha alone in the office.

‘Just like always. Everything about him pisses me off—except his damn acting.’

Sungha clenched the half-empty water bottle and muttered to himself.

***

In the elevator heading down to the basement, Jaejun replayed the conversation in his mind.

‘When did things start falling apart?’

He and Sungha had been friends and colleagues for years, grinding through the acting world side by side.

They had both achieved success as actors, but the unstable lives of their peers had always weighed on Jaejun’s heart.

He had vowed that once he made it big, he’d help them too.

At the parking lot, he received the keys from his chauffeur.

“Mr. Jung, take the rest of the day off.”

He handed over an envelope.

The driver flinched in surprise and waved his hands in refusal.

“Oh no, sir, this is really too much. You just gave me one recently.”

“Treat your family to a nice dinner tonight. You’ve earned it.”

“Thank you so much for always being thoughtful, sir.”

“I should be the one thanking you. And please, call me ‘actor,’ not ‘CEO,’ Mr. Jung.”

With a light smile, Jaejun got into the car and started the engine.

Honestly, having a chauffeur still felt awkward to him.

It was something Sungha had insisted on, saying that as a co-CEO, Jaejun should at least try to maintain some dignity.

“How long are you going to keep going around with just a manager? I even got you a driver and a nice car. Please, just use it.”

“Does dignity come from a car? That money could be better spent supporting our actors…”

“That actor support nonsense again?! You think you’re feeding them soup or something? Just take the damn car.”

Sungha, who rarely got angry, finally raised his voice.

Jaejun thought he’d changed.

Back when they were twenty, Jaejun and Sungha had been young dreamers supporting each other.

They used to drink through the night while practicing lines, throwing themselves into heated debates about acting, claiming the other knew nothing.

“Those were good times.”

Over time, Jaejun transitioned from dramas to films, and Sungha moved from films to dramas.

They built up their careers like rivals, constantly pushing each other forward.

Now, they stood together as co-CEOs of JJ Entertainment, a company on the verge of going public.

“I’m so sick of starving just to act.”

“Same here. What if we supported young actors once we make it?”

“That’s a great idea. Let’s work hard and build a company.”

From their debut film—a youth movie they shot together—it had all begun.

There was even a time they fought over a girl. Sungha had been downright pathetic then.

Starting JJ Entertainment hadn’t been smooth sailing either.

They had really been through a lot.

Maybe the cracks in their relationship started showing when the company’s profits began to outweigh what they earned from acting.

Jaejun wanted to stop before things completely fell apart.

He came to a halt at a red light.

‘Why were these memories suddenly flooding in?’

‘It’s like my life is flashing before my eyes.’

And the moment he thought that, Jaejun’s body and the car were violently lifted by a powerful impact.

Yes. It really was like a life flashing by.

Anyone could see that this had been a life worth living.

He’d reached the top as an actor and even led Korea’s biggest talent agency.

‘Could he finally take a rest now?

‘But what was this thirst?’

Only at the moment of death did he realize there was still something missing.

Acting!

If only he had more time, he was sure he could reach the true pinnacle.

He had never really stopped working, yet he was suddenly parched with longing for all the roles he never got to play.

Ah…

If only he had youth again.

If only he had more time.

Even the smallest role would be a blessing.

If he could be born again, he wanted to reach the ‘end of acting.

If another life was possible.

[Are you saying that if you had youth and one more life, you’d want to act again no matter what?]

‘Of course.’

[Excellent. You’re a perfect match.]

***

Thunk—

At age 38, the great actor Lee Jaejun met his end.

Even a performer with enormous influence could do nothing in the face of death.

‘Did I really die?’

He opened his eyes to see a shabby room.

It was bleak, small enough to take in with a single glance.

“I’m sure I died…?”

It felt like he was in a different place altogether.

Cautiously, he took a step.

The sensation of the floor against his feet was vivid.

He looked around and saw the corner of the room cluttered with clothes and neatly lined-up soju bottles.

As he scanned the room, something suddenly flashed before his eyes.

[Lee Jaejun, you have received the youth you wished for at the moment of your death.]

“What is this screen? Wait, come to think of it… I did see something like this right before I died.”

Still, Jaejun was stunned.

[Ahem. Let me explain your current body.]

The text on the screen changed naturally.

[Name: Ki Taehun]

[Age: 26]

[Traits: Long-time trainee. Debuted, but never had a hit. A forgettable name in the idol industry. Tried switching to acting but—unfortunately—utterly failed!]

“‘Utterly failed’…? What kind of phrasing is that?”

‘Seriously, what is all this?’

Looking at the system window, he felt like he was floating somewhere between reality and fantasy.

But one thing was certain: he had died.

According to this screen, he was now living as someone named Ki Taehun.

[You are now living as Ki Taehun. Once infamous on the internet for his terrible acting, he’s a failed idol-turned-actor. You’re starting with a bit part—the final chance.]

“Final chance? Wait, more importantly—acting?”

[Yes. This is your last opportunity. If you fail again as an actor, you won’t be able to continue using this body.]

“‘Unable to use this body’… Then what happens to me?”

[You will return to your original body. Current location: Gwangcheon Cemetery, Row C, second from the left.]

‘So…’

‘I’ll be buried underground.’

“Where’s Ki Taehun now? Is he dead like me?”

[We cannot tell you that right now. This is the youthful body and new life you desired.]

‘Damn it. I should’ve known it’d be someone else’s body.’

Still, it bothered him.

Giving a choice with no way to go back…

Live or be buried.

What kind of—

‘As if I’d fail at acting again.’