“Yeah, what’s up?”
It must’ve been a trick of the light, that fleeting moment when Kim Jae-ha seemed to slump.
When he turned, his face was as composed as ever, betraying nothing.
Hang-yeol didn’t yet know that Jae-ha was a master at masking his emotions, and that ignorance gave him the courage to voice the question that had been gnawing at him.
“Brother, can I ask why you chose (Seorim High School Student Council)?”
The image of Jae-ha boldly picking the role everyone else shunned, stepping forward with such confidence—it was impossibly cool.
Hang-yeol was certain there was some deeper meaning behind Jae-ha’s choice, a conviction he couldn’t doubt.
“…Oh.”
But how could he know the truth?
That Jae-ha had been strong-armed into it, his life practically held hostage.
A heavy silence settled, thick and suffocating.
Just as Hang-yeol’s eyes widened in confusion, Jae-ha spoke.
“I thought I could do it well.”
It was a half-hearted excuse, tossed out because no better reason came to mind.
But Hang-yeol, oblivious to the truth, clasped his hands together, eyes sparkling as if he’d just heard something profound.
“That’s so cool…!”
‘What the hell…?’ Jae-ha thought, genuinely baffled, but he kept his mouth shut when he saw Hang-yeol’s earnest conviction.
“I’m so excited to see you play Eun Si-hyuk. Your visuals are perfect for it. I’ve always wanted to see you in a role that’s just… blatantly awesome!”
“Eun Si-hyuk… awesome?”
“Huh?”
“No, never mind.”
Jae-ha decided not to argue.
And so, the first night passed peacefully.
***
[Special Mission | Take on the Toughest Challenge!]
[It’s no fun if it’s too easy, right?!]
[Select (Seorim High School Student Council) and successfully complete the short film for the first evaluation!]
[(Seorim High School Student Council) selected: 1/1]
[(Seorim High School Student Council) short film completed: 0/1]
[Reward: 3,000 coins, 10 Black Deer Musk]
[Penalty: None]
[Note: This quest is a special mission from our main sponsor, “Butterfly’s Wingbeat,” and carries the same weight as a main quest.]
[Even if no penalty is specified by the sponsor, failure to complete the mission after three attempts will result in penalties determined by the Channel Management Committee.]
The moment Jae-ha opened his eyes, a mission window hovered obnoxiously in front of him.
He nearly cursed into the void.
As he glared silently, a new message popped up above the mission.
[**^^**]
A message from the gods, no doubt.
They’d only ever sent cryptic hints before, and now this?
“Ha… haha.”
He barely managed to turn a sigh into a weak laugh.
Then, a head poked out from above.
“Brother! Good morning!”
“Oh, morning to you too.”
‘At least you’re chipper.’
The morning alarm blared, followed by an announcement detailing the filming schedule, meeting times, and locations.
As expected, they’d be shooting team meetings and rehearsal scenes today.
“Haa.”
Would things actually go smoothly?
***
Why did the lighting here feel dimmer than everywhere else?
The cameras were rolling, and the team next to them was buzzing with discussion, but Jae-ha’s group sat in near-silent meditation.
Even the sunlight seemed to favor the other teams, leaving theirs in shadow.
Was it just the seating?
He tried to deny reality, but no—it was the project.
(Seorim High School Student Council) was the problem.
Only three people, including Jae-ha, had willingly chosen it.
The rest?
They’d been pushed into it after failing to secure their preferred projects, relegated to this one by their low rankings—mostly D and F grades.
Their team had two D’s and one F, and their expressions were uniformly grim.
It wasn’t fair to say, but (Seorim High School Student Council) actually had its strengths.
It featured four distinct student council members, inspired by the legendary “Four Heavenly Kings” of a bygone era.
Unlike other projects, it offered four clear roles, each with a well-defined backstory and personality.
The problem was the overwhelming flaw that crushed those strengths.
Even Jae-ha had wanted to avoid it.
But there was no choice now.
If they were doing this, they had to do it right.
Especially since failure meant game over for him.
Recalling the updated quest from yesterday, he summoned the quest window in his mind.
A translucent screen appeared.
[ Main Quest | 2-1. (Casting with My Own Hands!) Achieve Top 3 in the First Team Evaluation]
[Secure a top 3 ranking for your team in the (Casting with My Own Hands!!) first team evaluation.]
[Additional rewards will be granted for achieving 1st place.]
[(Casting with My Own Hands!] first team evaluation completed: 0/1]
[(Casting with My Own Hands!) achieve top 3 team ranking: 0/1]
[Deadline: Until the first team evaluation rankings are announced.]
[Reward: 500 coins / Additional Reward: ??? ]
[Penalty: Elimination from the Revival Project and death]
Even rereading it made his breath catch.
Maybe he should’ve ignored this special mission.
But the coins and the ingredients for the revival elixir were too valuable.
He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced at his teammates.
‘No one’s saying a word.’
It was maddening.
Five minutes had passed since they sat down, and the silence was deafening.
In a reality show with multiple contestants, five minutes of dead air was a death sentence.
If Jae-ha’s memory was correct, the last (Casting with My Own Hands!) broadcast had captioned a similar moment with “An Atmosphere Shrouded in Silence,” and their entire meeting and rehearsal footage had been edited out.
They needed to nail the short film, but it wouldn’t hurt to secure some screen time too, right?
“Hoo.”
Taking charge made his skin crawl, but bombing this evaluation and getting kicked out of the Revival Project before even starting wasn’t an option.
Plus, he could use this to build an image of “the guy who’s trying hard despite everything.”
“Hey, everyone. I’m Kim Jae-ha. Nice to meet you all. Let’s do our best. First, we need to decide on a team name and a leader. Anyone want to volunteer?”
Yes, he was nervous.
He wasn’t good at this either.
No one responded.
Instead, they glanced at him, then exchanged looks among themselves.
The three of them already seemed bonded by their shared low rankings.
Jae-ha, a former child actor and the only B-rank in the group, was likely an unwelcome presence.
He’d expected as much.
Anticipated dislike was something he could handle.
What suffocated him was the vague, faceless hatred from unknown sources.
That’s why, on every set, he memorized the names and faces of every staff member, extra, and cast member.
He didn’t have clear memories of these three from the original broadcast before his death, but he remembered their performances from yesterday’s initial evaluation—names, faces, and acting.
“They weren’t that bad.”
Not utterly hopeless.
“Um…”
Finally, someone spoke.
It was Jung Won-seok, a D-rank with an agency, his large, gentle eyes reminiscent of a cow.
“Yes, Won-seok?”
Jae-ha’s immediate use of his name startled Won-seok, who blinked rapidly before continuing.
“Uh… since you’re the highest rank here, Jae-ha, and you’ve got the most experience… maybe you could be the leader?”
“Yeah, that sounds good,” chimed in Choi Yul, the F-rank with an agency, his delicate, refined features catching the light.
“I agree too! I mean, we’re all… low-ranked anyway…” added Park Eun-hoo, the other D-rank, tall and affable, also with an agency.
Jae-ha understood their reluctance, but their defeated attitudes stung.
Something inside him churned.
“Alright, I’ll be the leader then.”
The words came out almost impulsively.
As he agreed, he saw their gazes drop again.
“Look, the ranks are already set, and we’re stuck with this project. Right?”
The three nodded slowly.
“Is there any way to get out of doing this just because we don’t want to?”
“…No.”
“Then we have to do it. So let’s do it well.”
“…Okay.”
‘Thanks for at least answering, Eun-hoo.’
The team name was decided quickly.
Jae-ha suggested it, and the others agreed without hesitation.
“Our team name is ‘Four Colors, Four Souls.'”
Nods, then silence again.
‘Why does this remind me of my idol trainee days?’
When Jae-ha started as an idol trainee at sixteen, he was, shockingly, one of the oldest.
Some kids began as early as elementary school, even kindergarten.
Despite his surprise, Jae-ha, who’d been pampered as a child actor, wanted to pay that kindness forward to the kids thrown into this industry so young.
He’d been lucky to work in decent conditions, but most child actors weren’t so fortunate.
On set, kids were treated no differently than adults—endless waiting, shivering in the cold or sweating in the heat.
One small mistake in front of the camera could unleash a director’s tirade or earn glares from other actors.
Non-payment for petty reasons was common.
That’s why Jae-ha developed an almost compulsive need to look out for others.
He’d worked hard to boost the morale of trainees whose self-esteem had been battered by monthly evaluations and harsh adult criticism.
‘It didn’t end beautifully, though.’
He’d thought he was doing well, but when his debut was confirmed, most relationships soured.
Some were caught badmouthing him, others left malicious comments, and some spread rumors that he’d stolen someone else’s spot.
‘Whatever. I’m doing this for myself anyway.’
Not to build trust or relationships like before.
They’d settled the essentials.
Jae-ha dove into the main issue.
“I think there’s only one way to do this: fully immerse ourselves in our characters. Reinterpreting the material might be too hard, but what if we skip or tweak the scenes and lines that have already become memes?”
His memories of these three from the original (Casting with My Own Hands!) were faint, but he recalled Team A for (Seorim High School Student Council).
They’d leaned into the meme-worthy moments, and while the audience loved it during the screening, they ended up dead last.
The film even went viral on the official YouTube channel, turning the team into a second-generation meme rather than being known by their names.
Jae-ha thought it was a pity.
They weren’t bad-looking.
If they’d played it straight instead of leaning into comedy, they might have earned decent praise.