A heavy sigh escaped my lips as I concluded the brief performance.
Hatred was a familiar emotion, one I’d grown accustomed to over time.
But I’d always been the one on the receiving end, never the one dishing it out.
Now, trying to embody the opposite role, the emotions didn’t come easily, refusing to settle into place.
‘Why would anyone hate or torment a complete stranger, anyway?’
Swallowing another sigh, I shook my head to banish the pointless thoughts.
Staring at the blank white wall, I let my mind spiral endlessly.
‘I am Eun Si-hyuk. I am Eun Si-hyuk.’
“So what? Who do you think you are, acting like you know me?” I muttered, diving back into practice with renewed focus.
***
How much time had passed?
“I’ll do it. Your guardian knight…! Ah…!”
The line stumbled out, my pronunciation tripping over itself, shattering my concentration.
Exhaustion surged in like a tidal wave, and I collapsed onto the floor with a thud.
Glancing at the clock on the wall, I saw it was already 9 p.m.
My gaze drifted around the meeting room.
The crowd had noticeably thinned since earlier.
Those who remained wore weary expressions, their faces etched with fatigue.
Only the dozens of cameras stood resolute, unwavering in their posts, while most of the staff had vanished.
Almost instinctively, my eyes sought out my teammates.
Surprisingly, all three were still there, each keeping their distance, facing away from one another as they practiced their lines.
Their bodies were tense, their mouths moving as they recited dialogue, but their eyes betrayed them—flickering with uncertainty before they bowed their heads, letting out heavy sighs.
A quick glance at one another, lips twitching, but no words came out.
‘Practicing alone, without someone to play off or guide you, isn’t easy.’
I was used to it—no acting academy, no agency lessons, just me and my own devices.
But my teammates?
They seemed hesitant to ask for help, probably worried about disrupting each other’s practice.
‘Ugh.’
The decision took only a moment.
Before I knew it, I was already moving toward them.
“Hey, Jae-ha senior?”
Yul Choi, spotting me first, widened his eyes in surprise.
‘Jae-ha-senior.’ I’d told them not to call me “senior,” and now they’d jumped to an overly formal honorific.
“Just call me Brother,” I said.
In a temporary team like ours, formed for this evaluation, being called something so stiff was worse than just “Brother.”
At my words, Yul Choi and the other two brightened, their eyes sparkling.
“How’s practice going?” I asked.
But the light in their faces dimmed as soon as I spoke.
Shadows crept over their expressions.
“Uh, well, it’s just…” one stammered.
“Sorry, I… I’ve never really done this before,” another admitted.
I wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come.
‘They don’t need to apologize to me. If anything, I should apologize for not checking on them sooner.’
But who was I to say that?
I wasn’t some great actor, just another contestant like them.
In the end, instead of words, I waved them over to gather around me.
“I’ll play the counterpart for each of you,” I offered.
“What? But Brother, don’t you need to practice too?”
From “Jae-ha-senior” to “Brother.”
Progress, I suppose.
“Of course, I’m still lacking and need practice too,” I said, keeping my tone light.
“But the female lead doesn’t have any lines, right? I just need to stand there.”
“We’re a team. We only succeed if we all do well.”
I tried to sound casual, but my heart was pounding.
Offering to help because I was used to practicing alone while they struggled could come off as arrogant.
Without that context, my words felt awkward, like I’d skipped something important.
‘How am I supposed to act around them?’
During the earlier meeting, everyone had been so drained that I’d impulsively taken charge.
Now, I wasn’t sure if I’d said the right thing.
Hesitating, I glanced at my teammates faces—and to my shock…
“Ugh, Brother!”
“Sniff, thank… thank you!”
“Hic, sob!”
They were crying.
“No, no, wait—why are you all crying? Stop it!”
I could feel the stares of those around us, cold sweat beading on my forehead.
I scrambled for a roll of tissue, tearing off pieces and shoving them into their hands.
“Stop crying, come on! We’ve got to practice, right?”
At the mention of practice, they struggled to rein in their tears.
Thank goodness they still had some sense left.
“And blow your noses,” I added.
‘Sniff!’
Good, good.
The cameras were rolling, so they needed to look presentable.
Their faces were still flushed, but they wiped away the tears and snot.
I turned to Yul Choi.
“Let’s start with you, Yul Choi.”
Tension flickered across his face.
***
By 11 p.m., we’d finished taking turns giving each other simple feedback.
Our goal had been to run through the video composition we’d planned, but as much as I wanted to push through, my teammates were visibly exhausted.
‘There’s an unannounced mentor evaluation tomorrow afternoon.’
Forcing practice now, when they were already drained, wouldn’t do any good.
“Let’s call it a day for group practice,” I said.
“You’re all tired—go rest.”
Their faces lit up.
They exchanged glances, then suddenly stood and bowed deeply.
“Thank you so much for today!”
Their voices were loud, their bows precise—clearly not their first time.
I recalled they were all signed with agencies; the discipline must still be strict.
But this… this was a bit embarrassing.
‘If someone saw this, they’d think I was some drill sergeant.’
All I could do was laugh it off.
“No, no, really—it’s nothing. And seriously, we’re just fellow contestants. You don’t need to be so formal.”
‘Please, production team, if you air this, include that last part,’ I thought, sending a silent plea as I tidied up.
Only a couple of teams, including ours, remained in the meeting room.
As we moved to leave, the others quietly followed, as if we’d accidentally started a silent competition.
Back at the dorm, Hang-yeol, who’d been reviewing the script, greeted me enthusiastically.
He rambled on, but I was too drained to listen.
I escaped to the bathroom, and only after washing up did I feel my senses return.
‘It’s over, right?’
The realization that the long day was finally done hit me, and my legs nearly gave out.
I barely made it into a bathroom stall, my entire body trembling.
‘Anyone would think I’d done something monumental.’
I wiped my still-damp face.
It wasn’t just being around so many people—it was the conversations, the interactions.
The aftermath was overwhelming.
‘I survived military service, didn’t I?’
Though, aside from group living, there wasn’t much in common.
I laughed at my own foolish thoughts, running a hand over my now-dry face.
‘Did I do okay?’
Somehow, I’d ended up as the leader, even helping with their practice.
Honestly, it felt like I might have overdone it.
But as we parted, my teammates looked satisfied.
Of course, expressions can be faked, and emotions are fleeting.
‘No, stop overthinking.’
Pushing aside the stray thoughts, I silently called for Loki.
The ever-invisible Loki materialized.
To avoid being overheard, I issued the command in my mind.
‘End recording.’
[Recording terminated.]
Loki’s convenience lay in its ability to respond to mental commands with a status message instead of sound—a perk of being a transcendental item, I suppose.
‘Though it still looks creepy sometimes.’
Even now, its black, orb-like appearance could startle me.
And the name—Loki.
Familiar from movies, but a quick search revealed it as the Norse god of mischief.
‘Wait, god of mischief?’
I recalled the sponsor who’d sent me a [^^] message.
The vibe felt oddly similar.
Could my sponsor’s true name be Loki?
Was this really Loki’s eye?
‘No way.’
It’s just a camera.
A camera.
I reassured myself, then mentally issued another command: ‘Transmit data.’
[Transmission of recorded data to ‘Yoon Jiwon’ completed.]
I immediately made Loki invisible again.
The footage was uploaded to the Project Revival channel, edited by an anonymous manager on schedule.
I’d only glanced at the uploaded videos, not diving into them.
Right now, I wanted to focus on (Casting With My Own Hand!)
The Project Revival spanned two years, and we were still in the early stages.
Knowing myself, checking reactions to my videos on IdeaTV would overload me, so I prioritized.
To qualify as the final winner, I had to complete the main quest.
‘Talk about a rigged game.’
Clearing two massive missions?
Well, considering it was for a second chance at life, it seemed fair enough.
Anyway, time to sleep.
Before leaving the stall, I opened the quest window one last time.
[Main Quest 1-2-1: (Casting With My Own Hand!)]
[Rank within the top 3 in the first team evaluation.]
[Additional rewards for achieving 1st place.]
– Complete the first team evaluation: 0/1
– Rank within the top 3 in the first team evaluation: 0/1
[Deadline: Until the first team evaluation results are announced]
[Reward: 500 coins / Additional reward: ???]
[Penalty: Elimination from Project Revival and death]
Burning the goal into my mind, I headed to the dorm.
The next morning, as soon as it dawned, our team and the other contestants rushed to the meeting room, diving back into practice.
Around noon, a staff member announced that the mentor’s interim evaluation would start at 2 p.m.
Chaos erupted in the room, but our team, along with a few others, quickly resumed final preparations.
“Hello, everyone! Sorry for the sudden setup—you must be startled,” Sim Youngwon said, addressing the contestants gathered in the practice room.
“Unexpected situations happen often in this field. Of course, we don’t create them on purpose… usually.”