The production team had clearly prepped a flimsy excuse, claiming, “It’s common for filming schedules to shift on set, so we decided to hold this mentor evaluation unannounced to give you a taste of the real thing!”
But their rehearsed line was painfully transparent.
The claim that they didn’t orchestrate this deliberately was probably just Sim Youngwon’s wishful thinking.
Youngwon finished speaking and flashed her trademark eye-smile.
With her bold features softened by a delicate charm and that radiant grin, she seemed utterly harmless.
Soft chuckles rippled through the room.
Even Jung Won-seok, as if spellbound, broke into a goofy smile, prompting me to subtly nudge his shoulder.
“Brother? What’s up?”
“Nothing, nothing at all.”
‘Get a grip on that face of yours.’
Thanks to Youngwon’s deft words and her knack for shifting the mood, the practice room’s atmosphere lightened considerably.
‘No wonder they call her the legend of grit.’
Transitioning from a girl group idol to a respected actress was no small feat.
Every detail—appearance, acting skills—was scrutinized to the nanometer.
“She looks fine with stage makeup, but in drama close-ups, she’s not that stunning,” they’d say.
Or, “Is that really her voice? What’s with her diction? Her expressions?”
Everything that had been an asset during her idol days became fodder for criticism.
For Sim Youngwon, the former center of a national girl group, the bar of judgment was set even higher.
It wasn’t for nothing that she’d once said in an interview, “It felt like the whole country was watching with fire in their eyes, waiting to see how well I’d do.”
‘Compared to that, I’m nothing.’
Youngwon had overcome it all, securing her place as an actress and standing here as a mentor.
Meanwhile, I, who couldn’t even succeed as an idol and was still haunted by a single trauma, stood here as a mere contestant.
I straightened my spine, my gaze fixed on Youngwon.
“Now, we’ll begin the mentor evaluation,” she announced.
“We’ll provide feedback on your performances and composition. Some of our words might sting, but they come from a place of wanting you to create better short films. Don’t let the word ‘evaluation’ make you too nervous!”
She flashed another smile at the contestants before returning to her seat.
At a long table on one side of the practice room sat four mentors, including Youngwon.
Lee Jungah, who’d been watching her with an amused, almost adoring expression, spoke up.
“Exactly. Don’t get too tense, everyone. Shall we start? The order is (Chic and Funny), (Beyond Youth), (Unromantic Romance), (Spicy Love), (I Learned Love from Books), and (Seorim High Student Council).”
The team preparing ‘Chic and Funny’ stirred nervously.
“Ugh, we’re last…!” one of them groaned.
Our team, too, felt the weight.
I knew the rundown, so I was relatively calm.
“At least we’re the first of the last,” I said.
“Don’t stress too much.”
“Right, right?”
“Yeah, let’s not overthink it.”
Well, look at that—Park Eun-hoo was patting Choi Yul’s back.
Then he turned to me with eyes brimming with trust.
“With Jae-ha Brother here, our team’s got this.”
‘That’s not it.’
***
“If I were the PD, I wouldn’t feel a shred of excitement watching you all.”
“You need to retrain your basic vocal projection.”
“Stop acting like you’re in love—feel it! There’s no soul in your performances!”
“Where are you even looking? You’re supposed to be talking to the heroine in front of you, so why do your eyes keep dropping to the floor?”
As expected, chaos erupted.
The mentors didn’t just fling vague complaints; their calm, measured tones delivered precise, fact-based critiques.
Compared to the first evaluation, their feedback was sharper, more meticulous, and ruthlessly cold.
Most contestants wore crestfallen expressions.
A few tried to spar with the mentors, but not one of the four so much as smirked.
Of course, it wasn’t all criticism.
“I felt it during the first evaluation, but Kwon Ha-bin has a solid foundation,” one mentor noted.
“Your physicality is especially natural.”
Youngwon chimed in.
“You’re the first contestant I’ve seen truly face the heroine while acting. Your gestures and expressions radiate care and warmth—it was thrilling!”
Murmurs of “As expected of an A-rank” rippled through the room.
“Thank you!” Ha-bin said, flashing a shy smile before bowing deeply.
His sharp, almost sculpted features and drooping eyes gave him an air of gentle sincerity when he grinned.
‘Kwon Ha-bin.’
The name grated in my mouth like sand.
‘Before I died, second place in (Casting With My Own Hand!).’
According to my former agency’s manager at BlueNight, Ha-bin had begged to join this show, clinging to their coattails.
‘A hundred percent lie.’
He was likely handpicked from the start.
Ha-bin had already made a name for himself in a web drama before (Casting With My Own Hand!), which was a golden opportunity for him.
Now, he was BlueNight Entertainment’s poster boy.
Truthfully, I don’t know much about Kwon Ha-bin.
I never followed his career closely.
All I know is he placed second in (Casting With My Own Hand!) and became a successful actor.
So why did his name leave such a bitter taste?
‘ “Kim Jae-ha. How’s it feel, huh?” ‘
Because he hates me.
And I have no idea why.
Usually, you can tell why someone dislikes you from their words or actions, even if it feels like a misunderstanding.
But with Ha-bin, I’m at a loss.
We barely crossed paths, even at the same agency.
Our careers never intersected.
His trajectory soared while I was scraping the bottom.
There’s no reason for him to feel inferior to me.
Yet, before I died, after failing to renew my contract with BlueNight, I ran into Ha-bin at the agency.
He openly mocked me: ‘”How’s it feel? Watching someone you looked down on surpass you.”‘
At the time, I thought he was talking about Seo Eun-jae.
But that didn’t add up—I never looked down on Eun-jae.
So he must’ve meant himself.
But I never disrespected Ha-bin either.
To do that, we’d have had to interact, and we barely did.
The only commonality?
We were both child actors around the same time.
‘We never even worked on the same drama.’
Somehow, we ended up on (Casting With My Own Hand!) together, but I have no intention of engaging with him further.
He seems to think there’s something between us, but I don’t.
I don’t see the need to fix anything, nor do I care to know why he hates me.
‘I came back to succeed and survive, not to be everyone’s friend.’
Ha-bin’s team evaluation wrapped up with decent feedback.
As they prepared to leave, our eyes met.
Or rather, I realized he’d been staring at me the whole time.
For a fleeting moment, one corner of his mouth curled upward.
‘…A smirk?’
It was unmistakable mockery, too clear to dismiss as a mistake.
‘He’s not even hiding how he feels.’
Is he acting like this because I’m ranked higher and ahead in other ways?
‘Is he an idiot?The final rankings haven’t even been announced. Why make his dislike so obvious?What if the cameras catch it?’
For a split second, I wondered if he was doing it on purpose, but I brushed the thought aside.
‘Whatever.’
Unless we directly clash, I don’t have the energy to deal with Ha-bin.
I kept my eyes forward, clapping as I had throughout the evaluations.
Ha-bin’s expression flickered oddly before he turned sharply and returned to his seat.
Finally, it was our turn.
“(Seorim High Student Council), Team A, you’re up.”
I clenched my fist, then released it as I stood.
“Hello! We’re (Seorim High Student Council), Team A—Four People, Four Colors!”
“Oh, Four People, Four Colors? I’m curious why,” Youngwon said with a warm smile.
“Shall we begin?”
The signal came.
I was up first.
In the suffocating silence, countless eyes fixed on me.
I met them briefly, then slowly closed my eyes and opened them again.
My vision darkened, then cleared.
In this moment, only one person stood before me: Seo Da-jung, the heroine, blurred and clad in a school uniform.
I gazed down at her with cool eyes, then broke into a gentle smile—polished but not overly slick, warm but with eyes that never laughed.
That’s who Eun Si-hyuk was.
“Hey. You’re the transfer student everyone’s talking about.”
I extended my hand, shook hers, and quietly wiped mine as she walked away.
My cold gaze lingered on the spot where she’d disappeared.
In the next scene, she was comforting a student I’d subtly tormented.
Watching from a distance, I let out a soft chuckle.
“A red-blooded human in the kingdom of blue blood,” I murmured after a low laugh.
“Interesting.”
But as the scenes progressed, my gaze on her shifted.
‘Do I like her? No way.’
I approached her, planning to make her fall for me, then discard her.
She seemed to waver, but then pushed me away.
I crumbled.
In the end, I pleaded with her.
“Don’t abandon me. If you do… I’ll die.”
My performance ended with a desperate stare.
Half-collapsed, I stood and stepped back.
Park Eun-hoo took the stage next, followed by Choi Yul.
Our team lined up, bowing in unison.
“That’s what we prepared,” I said, signaling the end.
Applause erupted—neither loud nor faint, but steady.
Most importantly, no laughter interrupted our performance.
My mind, which had drifted elsewhere, snapped back to reality.