[Interest]
It wasn’t just the actors who were shocked.
Even the writer, Go Eunjeong, finally realized what was going on.
The role was originally meant for Byun Yoohyun.
‘The script… changed? Wait, does that mean he memorized all of Kyungjun’s lines in just two weeks?’
That confidence—what is that?
She already knew he wasn’t ordinary from the audition, but this?
‘Is it even possible to memorize all those lines? Especially for a role with this much screen time?’
The only one who could read Go Eunjeong’s expression was Choi Jeongseok, the producer working with her from the planning stage to the casting.
He felt a little bad for her confusion, but to him, the situation was… intriguing.
‘So the script changed. That could be fun in its own way.’
The role of Kyungjun was written with Byun Yoohyun in mind, but now that things had turned out this way, he felt like taking a gamble.
Based on the performance he saw during the audition, Taehun wasn’t inferior to Yoohyun at all—if anything, he might be a few steps ahead.
What started as a mistake might actually turn into a masterstroke.
‘I’m curious to see how he’ll pull this off.’
Once all the actors were seated and every role was filled, Producer Choi stood up to speak.
“Hello, everyone. I’m Choi Jeongseok, the director for Butter Campus. Thank you once again for being here today.”
After a round of applause, he continued.
“Writer Go Eunjeong will give a brief introduction to the drama, and then we’ll move on to the cast introductions. Please give her a big round of applause for her hard work.”
The room relaxed as Choi made a light joke.
Go Eunjeong smiled and took the mic.
“Hi, I’m Go Eunjeong, the writer of this show and, as you can see, the person with the new bangs.”
She playfully touched her hair, drawing a wave of laughter from the room.
“This drama, Butter Campus, is something I started because I wanted to write another youth campus story full of that nostalgic, first-love scent. I’m sure we all have memories of our first love, right? I wanted to tell a story that reminds us of those days.”
“As for the actors here today—both I and Director Choi believe each of you has the rich flavor of butter. That’s why we invited you. I’m looking forward to working with all of you.”
Her speech was rather long, but it held everyone’s attention.
When she finished, the applause was thunderous, and her name was called out with enthusiasm.
Next, the tall and striking actor Lee Chaehyuk stood up to introduce himself.
“Hello. I’m Lee Chaehyuk, playing the male lead, Sigyung.”
At 188 cm, he was a former model who had successfully transitioned to acting and even bulked up for the role.
Even while seated, his presence was overwhelming—he was the definition of a ‘shoulder gangster’ and a ‘ratings magnet.’
Any time he appeared in a drama, female viewers experienced what they called “Chaehyuk Syndrome.”
“Hi, I’m Park Gayun, playing the female lead, Yeonhee. I’m really excited and honored to be here. I’ll work hard so I won’t be a burden to anyone!”
Park Gayun had also made a strong debut on the big screen before smoothly transitioning to TV, where she’d been delivering solid performances.
People often complained there weren’t many noteworthy actors these days, but Park Gayun was clearly one of the few who could be called a representative of her generation.
She was widely considered the successor to the previous generation of top female actors.
After the male and female leads introduced themselves, everyone turned their eyes to the next person.
It was time for the sub-male lead, Kyungjun, to speak—and it was none other than Ki Taehun.
‘Wait, what? No wonder he had so many lines. Is this really a supporting role? This is practically a lead.’
In such formal settings, it was natural for key roles to sit close to the producers and directors. Still, Taehun was clearly flustered.
Sure, he did well in the audition, but this kind of promotion was unprecedented.
Most of the actors in the room were seasoned professionals, and now their cold gazes were all aimed squarely at him.
‘Stop staring already. It’s burning.’
No, scratch that—it wasn’t just burning.
It was scalding.
But even that hostility didn’t bother him.
In fact, he kind of liked it.
Taehun hoped they’d give him harsh feedback if his performance sucked—
‘That’s how I learn.’
No matter what role he was given, he’d have approached it with the dedication of a rookie.
‘They gave me the role of Kyungjun?’
Well, that just means he has to prove himself even more.
“Hello. I’m Ki Taehun, playing Kyungjun. I’m glad to see that everyone here takes acting seriously. No idol-actors or wannabes, just real performers. That’s refreshing.”
“Acting should be something you work your way up from, step by step, with sincerity.”
***
The moment he finished speaking, the room fell silent.
Even the sporadic clapping stopped completely.
‘Huh…? Are they all moved by my passion or something?’
[Get a grip. You’re an idol. And not just any idol—the cringe idol actor!]
Just then, one actor broke the silence.
“Ah~ That’s where I remember you from. Ki Taehun!”
“That Ki Taehun? From the cringe acting video?”
“Wait, he’s playing Kyungjun?”
“Byun Yoohyun’s stuck in a bit part and this guy gets Kyungjun?”
“What’s with that arrogant tone? Geez, you’d think he had a 30-year career.”
“Senior, he’s the idol. You know, the one who’s only famous for being pretty and acting terribly…”
Taehun scratched his cheek awkwardly.
‘Yeah… I can hear every word, but I can’t exactly pretend I didn’t.’
He wasn’t surprised by the reaction—but that didn’t mean it didn’t sting.
Even Lee Jaejun, a respected actor, had his own biases against idol-turned-actors.
Rather than giving opportunities to popular idols who saw acting as a fallback once their fame faded, Jaejun wanted to nurture passionate performers from the theater or musical scenes—those still waiting for a real shot.
‘But Ki Taehun is different.’
That worn-out script in Taehun’s hands, the one covered in notes, his own name written over and over as if he wanted to kill it with practice—Jaejun had seen it.
That was how he knew this former “cringe idol” had a real hunger for acting.
This could be a turning point—not just for Taehun, but for the rest of the cast to reflect on their own prejudices.
It was one of the reasons Jaejun chose to be here today.
Choi Jeongseok, sensing the tension in the room, stepped in.
“Actor Ki Taehun was cast for the role of Kyungjun through a fair and open audition. I’m sure once you see his performance, there won’t be any disagreements.”
Even though the word “fair” triggered murmurs, the real thing that made everyone uneasy was when he said “Actor Ki Taehun.”
It was hard to believe that Ki Taehun, known more for his bad acting than talent, had been cast based solely on merit.
Maybe if the production team had taken a bribe and cast him for promotional purposes as an idol—it would have made more sense.
But contrary to the actors’ opinions, PD Choi Jeongseok had high hopes for him.
He was curious to see whether Taehun could recreate the breathtaking performance he had shown previously, this time in front of skeptical professionals.
Would he be able to overcome the tense atmosphere, where everyone seemed ready to tear him apart?
Even writer Go Eunjeong nervously swallowed.
She still remembered the moment Taehun’s eyes had shifted during the audition.
He had instantly transformed, perfectly portraying a younger man angry and heartbroken from a breakup.
But could that same Taehun now embody the gentle and sweet Kyungjun?
Breakup scenes and love scenes are completely different.
Eunjeong glanced over at Lee Chaehyuk, who had been cast as the main lead.
He would be going head-to-head with Taehun, who was playing the second male lead.
Chaehyuk had been handpicked by Eunjeong herself—someone known for her picky standards.
She’d written the role of Sigyung with him in mind.
He was, in every way, a perfect fit for the character.
Taehun, though arguably better looking, had a smaller frame and a slender, somewhat fragile appearance.
Could he even hold his ground against someone like Chaehyuk?
Then there was the female lead, Park Gayun.
Although in her late twenties, she was still considered one of the top three actresses of her generation in terms of acting.
‘This won’t be easy for Taehun.’
The script hadn’t even been written with him in mind for Kyungjun’s role.
As Go Eunjeong tried to soothe her nerves with a sip of water, her eyes remained locked on Taehun.
And she wasn’t the only one.
The other actors were watching him too—though not for the same reasons as Eunjeong and the PD.
‘Writer Go… you should’ve cast me as Kyungjun instead. Not that I’d have done much better against Chaehyuk either…’
Byun Yoohyun knew his own limits.
He wasn’t untalented, but he also knew luck had played a part in his rise.
Being noticed by writer Go had brought him into the living rooms of viewers nationwide, but he still hadn’t built up the acting chops to match someone like Chaehyuk.
Even if his skills had improved recently, comparing himself to someone who had trained and honed his craft earlier was absurd.
And it wasn’t just about acting skills—it was about charm.
The second male lead never ends up with the female lead, which means he has to earn the audience’s support through distinct charm—something different from the main lead.
He had to shine so brightly that viewers saw him as equal to the male lead.
‘To be more appealing than Chaehyuk? That’s near impossible.’
And yet, somehow, the role had landed in the lap of Ki Taehun—a guy more famous for his wooden acting than his idol status.
Yoohyun quietly predicted Taehun’s fate.
Overshadowed by Chaehyuk’s charisma, Taehun would fail to make any impression and vanish quietly from the spotlight.
‘If he manages not to embarrass himself, that alone would be a miracle. May he rest in peace.’
***
And so, the script reading session began.
Many assume these sessions, where numerous actors gather, are filled with cutthroat tension.
But in truth, script readings are all about pacing and flow.
Actors typically exert around 60% of their energy, breezing through the lines in a brisk and steady rhythm—just reading, not performing.
That’s how it should have started.
If someone hadn’t fired the first shot.
“You should at least apologize if you’ve hit someone.”
It was the first meeting scene between Kyungjun and Yeonhee—when they accidentally bump into each other on the street.
Park Gayun, who was playing Yeonhee, was caught off guard by how naturally Taehun delivered the line.
His tone had a smoothness, as if played at 1.5x speed, and his pronunciation and intonation were spot on—not stiff at all.
‘Is it just my imagination?’
It was still early in the reading, too soon to assess his skill.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t do it on purpose… But, why are you speaking informally? Do you know me?”
Though it was only a reading, Gayun bowed slightly, like her character Yeonhee would, and replied with a firm voice.
“Uh, excuse me. That’s really rude. If this were Georgia, where I used to live, I’d have dumped this Georgia coffee on you.”
Taehun chuckled, then pretended to splash his coffee before taking a sip.
His rhythm was stable, his lines flowing like water.
He was fast.
Unhesitant.
To deliver with this kind of pace, he must have read the script over and over.
The witty, snappy lines came out effortlessly, yet with noticeable polish and control.
“Well, you look fine to me. Let’s just move on. Seems like it was both our faults.”
Gayun responded coolly, delivering her line with a touch of sass.
“But your apology was way too short, and lucky for you, I’ve got time to spare. So… what now?”
Taehun tapped his wristwatch and grinned.
The line was cheeky, but with a charming playfulness that made it clear—Kyungjun was definitely interested in Yeonhee.
Park Gayun found herself pulled into the moment by the glint in Taehun’s eyes as he looked from one of her eyes to the other.
Without realizing it, her eyes were glued to the script, completely absorbed.
She barely managed to continue her lines as she caught the subtle curl of his lips.
‘What the hell is with that look… and during a reading, no less?’