Chapter 32: Echoes of the Past

Could it really be true? 

I buried the thought almost as soon as it surfaced. 

Even now, I can’t fully bring myself to believe it. 

Why would YM, of all things, bother to obstruct someone as insignificant as me? 

Besides, no matter how powerful YM is, I never imagined they could meddle in the casting decisions of other agencies. 

So, I dismissed it as my own paranoia, loathing myself for still looking to pin blame on others.

‘What’s with that attitude?’ 

The words came out of me before I could stop them, a reflex to Seo Eun-jae’s resolute tone.  

‘Don’t.’ 

The word slipped out, unbidden. 

As if I were someone who’d anticipated that Seo Eun-jae had made some kind of sacrifice for my sake.  

No, perhaps deep down, I had suspected it.  

[Brother, I want to quit everything.]  

That text from Seo Eun-jae, left hanging in my memory. 

Why had he suddenly pivoted to acting? 

Why, of all places, had he ended up on this show? 

And why had I, someone who once told him I hated him, dared to ask: ‘Are you really doing this because you want to act?’ 

Why couldn’t I bring myself to voice that question?  

“God, this is driving me insane.”  

My trembling hand raked down my face. 

Come to think of it, my mother’s staunch opposition to my entertainment career had started right after I left YM. 

Around that same time, baseless rumors about me began swirling through online communities.  

If this was all true, then YM would never let me thrive on this show. 

Perhaps even the peculiar editing choices were part of their design.  

‘They clung to it, didn’t they? Even when everyone was cursing them, looking at them through tinted lenses…’

A memory flickered—Nameless man, at our first meeting, his words echoing in my mind.  

‘Maybe Nameless man —and God—knew all along.’ 

No, they must know. 

The certainty settled in my chest. 

If so, could I find a way through them? 

But Nameless man and God weren’t the type to offer direct help. 

That left only one option…  

‘The shop.’ 

Yes, that was it.  

***

‘- Kim Jae-ha. You’re a rare one. A genuinely kind soul. I’m rooting for you ^_^’

‘- Our baby bird ㅠㅠㅠㅠㅠ sacrificing his own practice time to coach his teammates’ acting ㅠㅠㅠㅠㅠ It’s like the descent of Archangel Michael ㅠㅠㅠㅠㅠ’

‘- I swore I’d never fall for celebrity persona hype again, but Kim Jae-ha? I’m sold…’

‘- He’s been acting since he was a kid, so he’s got this effortless vibe and takes such good care of his teammates. So cool ㅠㅠ’

‘- Four unique colors, let’s go all the way! #Let’sDoThis!’

“What a mess…”  

Min Soo-jin, the head writer, pressed her fingers to her temples. 

Clutching a cup of instant coffee, she was pulling another all-nighter at the broadcasting station. 

She knew she should rest when she had the chance, but her compulsive habit of monitoring reactions during a broadcast was unshakable.  

“This guy…”  

Her teeth ground together as she thought of the main PD. 

That infuriating man who saw her—a writer who’d debuted faster than most—as nothing more than a “lucky, inexperienced girl.” 

She’d tolerated him, thinking he at least kept personal biases out of work. 

But now?  

“The edit’s completely different from what we discussed!”  

If it had been an entirely different narrative, she could’ve confronted him. 

But the changes were subtle, maddeningly so. 

Kim Jae-ha. 

The edits for this contestant were veering off from what they’d agreed on.  

If it had been blatantly malicious editing, she’d have noticed sooner. 

Instead, they’d showered him with favorable cuts, the kind that screamed “PD’s pick.” 

So what was the problem?  

‘They said he trained as an idol with Seo Eun-jae back in the day. Seems like they were pretty close, so let’s pair them up. Visually, they’d appeal to idol fans too.’  

‘Sounds good.’

That’s what they’d discussed. 

But somehow, her input as a writer had been completely ignored. 

Instead, they’d crafted this saintly leader image for Kim Jae-ha. 

Naturally, as a writer, she couldn’t help but wonder, ‘Is there another agenda here?’

Recalling her conversation with the PD, Min Soo-jin let out a hollow laugh.  

“He never actually agreed to anything, did he?”  

The real-time reactions kept flooding in, brimming with praise for Kim Jae-ha. 

It felt almost artificial. 

This kind of adoration was a double-edged sword—one small misstep, and a scandal could erupt.  

If the PD had an ulterior motive, this was likely it.  

‘- Thought he was great, but it was just the editing.’ 

That’s the kind of backlash he’d be aiming for.  

Her bloodshot eyes darted across the screen as she let out a heavy sigh.  

“YM. He was with YM…”  

She’d grown fond of this contestant—his acting was better than expected, his attitude diligent. 

But now she remembered: he’d been with YM during his idol days.  

“There was that rumor about Hansung Changtu being tied to YM’s chairman’s brother…”  

Hansung Changtu was one of the show’s investors. 

Nothing was confirmed, but their pattern of recommending YM artists was practically an open secret in the industry.  

“And YM’s notorious for burying anyone who leaves their fold.”  

Fifteen years ago, a legendary idol group, credited with kicking off the idol era, had tried to switch agencies as a unit. 

YM’s machinations shattered them, leading to their disbandment. 

These days, such stories are brushed off as outdated gossip. 

‘That was then, not now,’people would say.  

“But after that senior group got crushed, who’d dare leave?”  

YM had since tightened their contracts. 

Stay, and they’d ensure you had work, whether it made money or not. 

Leaving was the losing bet. 

But that applied only to idols.  

‘YM’s always been an idol-focused company.’

Their image as an idol powerhouse was so strong that the public often overlooked their growing influence. 

Slowly, they’d expanded, signing prominent entertainers and actors. 

As an industry insider, Min Soo-jin knew this well, but even her friends were shocked to learn certain stars were with YM.  

If Hansung Changtu’s connection to YM was real, it explained why the PD was meddling with the edits like this.  

“What a dirty game…”

She’d hoped this contestant would make it to the end. 

With a frustrated sigh, she flipped her phone facedown on the table and gulped down the rest of her sweet, syrupy coffee.  

‘What can you do? That’s just how this industry works.’

Sure, the PD had ignored her input, and she’d confront him about it. 

But deep down, she knew nothing would change significantly. 

All she could do was start planning how to spin the inevitable storm when Kim Jae-ha crashed, and how to weave that into the show’s narrative.  

***

“I object! The prosecution is trying to muddy the waters with irrelevant facts!”  

“No, Your Honor. I’m asserting that the previous case was a rehearsal for this one.”  

Seo Eun-jae finished his line, his gaze locking onto mine. 

But his focus was off, his eyes drifting. 

It was obvious he wasn’t fully immersed in the scene. 

Instead of delivering my next line, I drew an X in the air.  

“Seo Eun-jae! Can you focus?”  

I stepped closer, and his gaze dropped to the floor.  

“Sorry, Brother.”  

He’d barely gotten his bearings, but yesterday’s conversation seemed to weigh on him. 

Hang-yeol, who’d been watching us anxiously, suddenly clutched his stomach with an exaggerated groan.  

“Man, I’m starving! It’s already dinner time. Should we grab some food?” 

“I’m hungry too!”  

Lee Min-seok, who’d been hovering awkwardly, jumped in to back Hang-yeol up. 

I glanced at the time—6:30 p.m. 

I’d been so caught up in Seo Eun-jae’s acting that I’d neglected the team’s schedule. 

Some team leader I was.  

Biting the soft flesh inside my cheek, I bowed my head to the team.  

“Sorry, guys. I dropped the ball on managing our time. You must all be hungry. Let’s eat and take a break before regrouping.”  

“Sounds good!”  

Hang-yeol’s face lit up, and he exchanged a quick glance with Min-seok. 

‘What’s that about?’ I wondered. 

In a flash, Hang-yeol latched onto me, and Min-seok glued himself to Seo Eun-jae.  

“Let’s all eat together!”  

That guy Hang-yeol—he must’ve really hated eating alone all this time. 

I’d always been fine with solo meals, and I didn’t want to force team bonding over food.  

‘Though, honestly, I just prefer eating alone.’

But Hang-yeol? 

He’s the real deal. 

A true social butterfly.  

***

After dinner, I pulled Seo Eun-jae aside during a brief break and urged him to focus on practice. 

He nodded, his face etched with genuine remorse, and we managed to get through the rest of the session smoothly. 

He still seemed to hold back for my sake, but it was a marked improvement from our first practice.  

After filming and practice wrapped, it was time for the official curfew.

I slipped out of the dorm and wandered toward the lamplit pathway. 

A figure sat on one of the benches—Seo Eun-jae.  

“Brother.”  

“Stay there.”  

I stopped him from standing and took a seat beside him. 

On second thought, I was a bit too close. 

I scooted over slightly, and a soft chuckle escaped him.  

“Laughing? You’re laughing right now?”  

“Sorry, sorry. You just… haven’t changed a bit, have you?”  

“And you, Seo Eun-jae, have changed so much, I take it?”  

To me, he was the same as ever. 

Still innocent, still too kind for his own good.  

“I’ve changed a lot. You just don’t see it.”  

The Seo Eun-jae he remembered was a Kim Jae-ha untouched by trauma, unscarred by repeated failures. 

Back then, I was confident—proud of my skills and secure in my self-worth. 

Not this battered, diminished fool I’d become.  

“Really? You look the same to me.”  

“And you’ve changed so much?”  

His light brown eyes slid away from mine, evading.  

“I guess so.”  

“Isn’t that normal? Everyone changes. It’s been almost ten years since we were grinding it out in that practice room together.”  

He flashed a faint smile, tinged with a quiet sadness.  

“Those were fun times, weren’t they?”  

“Fun? Feeding a scrawny kid to fatten him up?”  

“Haha.”  

“Really funny.”  

A light silence settled, cool and crisp like the night air. 

I glanced at Seo Eun-jae, who was gazing at the sky, and tossed out casually: “What I did for you back then wasn’t some grand gesture. So don’t go feeling indebted over it.”  

I’d thought about it for a long time—why Seo Eun-jae went out of his way to look out for me. 

Was it really, as he claimed, just because he liked me? 

My answer was no.  

It felt like the first time I’d brought this up, but… 

“When I was a child actor, I got lucky with a good environment. That’s not the norm. The industry was rough back then, especially for kids. Seeing them struggle made me want to help, even just a little. I know it was meddlesome. I wasn’t some hero.”  

At sixteen, I met Seo Eun-jae, a new trainee so thin he caught my eye. 

There was a timidness to him, a certain wariness. 

Yet his striking face still shone, and I assumed—without evidence—that he’d been a child actor or a kids’ clothing model. 

I got it in my head that I’d help this kid bulk up and smile, and I threw myself into it.  

Then I learned the truth. 

Seo Eun-jae was adopted. 

His parents, unable to conceive, had taken him in, only for a biological child to arrive five years later. 

After that, inevitably, he’d grown distant from them.