Chapter 30
Pfft…! He had the face of a man who owned the whole world just from one cigarette, and then why—why did he cough?
Director Seok Daewan nearly burst into laughter but barely held it back, turning his face away from the camera angle.
The first moment that actor lifted the cigarette to his lips, the sweetness and bitterness of life itself seemed etched across his face.
Even Seok Daewan, who had directed countless smoking scenes, felt his heart race.
And yet—an unexpected cough.
And on a face that looked like it had never even touched a cigarette before.
No way he just did that by accident. Don’t tell me…?
Something clicked in Daewan’s mind, and his eyes narrowed with intensity.
“Yeonhui, are you… are you okay?”
“Cough, cough—!”
Assistant director Shin Yunhwan rushed over to the coughing Yeonhui—Hyuntae in truth—and was equally bewildered.
Just a moment ago, with that single drag, his face had held all the joys and sorrows of life. It was powerful enough that Yunhwan had thought: That’s it. That’s the image I’ll use for the poster.
But then the mood had been broken in a single cough.
No… that was deliberate. He did it on purpose.
Shin Yunhwan reached the same conclusion as Seok Daewan.
That wasn’t just a slip of the throat.
Yeonhui—no, Hyuntae—had crafted ordinaryness itself.
That overly smooth face, that almost inhuman naturalness that made him seem unreal.
He had broken it down, deliberately, with a cough.
A precision adjustment, the kind only an actor who truly understood himself could make.
“…Let’s stop here.”
When Yeonhui offered to try again, Yunhwan smiled faintly.
“No need. That was enough. It was perfect, Yeonhui.”
Yeonhui blinked, a little puzzled, while Yunhwan turned to scan the surroundings.
At some point, quite a crowd had gathered at the filming site.
The youngest staff were already struggling to hold them back.
So the director thinks this is the peak already. Time to wrap it before the magic fades.
Whether he realized their thoughts or not, a spark of sharp energy still lingered in Yeonhui’s eyes.
The alleyway shoot finished, and the crew moved inside the café.
Onlookers began to scatter. Some returned to their errands; others slipped into the café and took seats.
“Sorry, folks, filming’s underway, so please avoid that section for today. Thank you for understanding.”
While taking orders, Yoon Taekyung doubled as customer service, easing the production’s burden.
Whenever he had a spare moment, he helped tidy the surroundings, even assisting Yeonhui with his preparations.
Yeonhui politely declined several times, but Taekyung was stubborn.
So the hours passed busily, until lunch had long since come and gone.
“Shall we go see your big brother?”
“….”
The café door opened. Holding his mother’s hand, little Yoon I-hyeon stepped inside.
Their mother, Yoon Mijin, pointed toward Yeonhui, but the boy only peeked out from behind her and refused to come closer.
Still too soon, huh…
A shadow of sadness crossed Mijin’s face.
That morning, her younger brother had suggested bringing I-hyeon here.
The boy was terrified of people—yet for some reason, he clung to Yeonhui.
Maybe if he saw Yeonhui focused, it would spark some reaction. Maybe it would help him heal, little by little.
The hospital had said his condition was improving, that small stimuli could help.
So she’d come here, clinging to hope.
But the result, so far, was failure.
“Taekyung, we’ll come back later.”
Smiling softly for her son, she held him in her arms. In front of him, sorrow was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s fine. He’s just not ready yet.”
She turned to leave—
But then, a shadow fell across them.
It was Yeonhui, wearing the café’s apron with the <Royeon> logo.
“I-hyeon, finished kindergarten?”
“….”
Something about his familiar voice worked its way through.
The boy, head buried against his mother’s shoulder, peeked up cautiously.
Yeonhui stretched out both arms.
“Want to come to me?”
His smile was bright, gentle.
“….”
But instead of leaping into his arms as usual, I-hyeon only shrank back. Too many strangers today, perhaps.
“It’s okay. Mom’s here. Uncle’s here.”
“….”
The boy still clung tight. But Yeonhui wasn’t impatient. He simply kept his hands open, waiting.
“And you’ve got me.”
He thought of the children who had reached for him too late, erased by the director’s order.
His heart ached, but he waited.
Slowly… the little hand clutching his mother’s clothes began to tremble.
And then—hesitant, but determined—I-hyeon stretched his arms toward him.
Carefully, Yeonhui gathered the boy in his arms, brushing a hand over his head.
Good job. I’m proud of you.
“How was kindergarten today? Fun?”
“….”
“Did you play with your friends?”
“….”
As always, the boy answered only with nods or shakes of his head.
But this time—it was in a room full of strangers.
My son… he’s getting better.
Mijin’s eyes grew moist.
“…I’m fine,” she whispered, quickly dabbing at them with a tissue Taekyung handed her.
After a short break,
“Yeonhui, let’s continue—”
Yunhwan’s call brought him back before the camera.
Though he left his arms, I-hyeon did not tremble. He only watched quietly from his mother’s embrace.
“Standby—action!”
The next scene: Hyuntae sneaking a glance at his phone during a café shift.
[…After careful consideration, we regret to inform you that we cannot proceed with your application. We wish you the best in your future journey…]
Another rejection.
Yeonhui’s eyes quivered faintly as he stared at the message.
Then—
“Aah—!”
A customer carrying a tray of drinks collided with him. The slushy spilled all over the floor, whipped cream and all.
“S-sorry! I’ll clean it—”
“It’s fine. I’ll take care of it.”
Hyuntae pocketed his phone and knelt to wipe the mess.
“…Cut. Yeonhui, keep the emotion just under the surface—visible, but restrained.”
“Yes, Director.”
As with the dawn shoot, they ran many takes.
Yeonhui kept adjusting, molding his performance to the director’s request.
From the sidelines, Taekyung and Mijin watched in silence.
Then—
Huh?
Mijin felt movement in her arms. She glanced down.
Her son’s lips were moving. His hands and feet twitching slightly—mimicking someone.
She nudged Taekyung, eyes wide.
Ah!
His eyes grew round too.
The boy was imitating Yeonhui.
* * *
The historical drama The King’s Right was nearing its finale.
After the assassin’s sacrifice on the cliff, the Chief State Councilor had been driven into a corner, finally resorting to rebellion.
During a break in filming the palace battle scene—
Exhausted from action sequences, actor Im Sohan slumped against a pillar, scrolling his phone.
-So is the assassin actually dead…?
-Nah, he became a bodyguard. Went to poop in front of the writer’s house.
-lol stop looking for him, the guard is the new trend now
-What are you talking about, the guard died too…
-[Day 26 of wishing for the assassin’s return] Please…
-The guard just took vacation leave. He’ll be back.
Sohan tilted his head.
After the cliff scene, Yeonhui—the assassin—had popped up in a weekend drama, playing “the guard.”
Most viewers accepted his exit. But diehard fans still clung to hope.
Strange, in an industry where things changed overnight.
And besides—
“How the hell did he pull off action like that in a weekend drama?”
Rumor had it he’d beaten out even Seo Eunho, Chungmuro’s rising star, in that audition.
And yet to deliver that kind of fierce, refined action scene—in a family drama slot? No one saw that coming.
He just never stopped surprising people.
Still smiling in admiration, Sohan savored his rare break—
“Hey, Sohan. Got a minute?”
It was his manager, phone in hand.
“Team Manager Shim from JS Entertainment wants to talk.”
“…JS? That’s the #2 agency’s scout. But didn’t we agree to stay indie? My filmography’s still too thin to take on the Big Three head-on.”
He chuckled, shrugging.
Right now, he was managed only by this older-brother figure. A tiny one-man company.
So if JS was reaching out… the reason was obvious.
“It’s… about Woo Yeonhui. They want to ask a few things.”
His manager’s voice had grown cautious.
A sour pang hit Sohan’s chest. Not for him—for another actor.
But then he remembered—
Yeonhui didn’t seem to have an agency.
On The King’s Right, he’d always traveled alone, riding the staff bus.
Even after landing Strong Yu Taerin, there’d been no word of a contract.
Is he… hiding on purpose? To raise his value?
If it was one of the Big Three, they’d already know. And yet they’d gone through him, a lead actor, to try and connect.
They must not be happy about it either.
As expected… I’ve got so much to learn from him.
Smiling now, Sohan accepted the phone from his manager.
“Hello, this is Im Sohan.”
As the scout’s voice filled his ear, he made up his mind.
If this was the plan—then he’d throw himself in fully.
To send his hyung’s value skyrocketing—beyond the moon, all the way to Mars.
