Episode 10
“…What?”
“You know, thanks to you, I’m doing really well these days.”
At that sudden comment, Se-ah frowned. Since there was nothing to say in return, she ignored it. Yuri started talking to herself anyway.
“The snack chip commercial — remember that? After that, MBS offered me a lead role in a new drama.”
She adjusted the expensive bag on her shoulder, proudly saying she’d bought it with her recent paycheck. Her smug look seemed to say, You couldn’t afford this yet, could you? — which was both ridiculous and childish.
Ye-won, who was standing next to Se-ah, gave Yuri a disgusted look.
“So yeah, thanks. Guess people compare us a lot these days.”
Yuri tilted her chin high and confidently walked into the audition room first. Her manager sighed deeply and quietly whispered an apology.
“Ugh, she’s not going to last long.”
At Ye-won’s comment, Se-ah just shrugged. Yuri’s acting had always been controversial, but she somehow kept working. Maybe her father, the head of her agency, was pulling strings behind the scenes.
“I don’t care.”
Se-ah spoke casually as she walked. She really meant it. She didn’t care what Yuri did or who she met.
She had no intention of wasting this second chance at life on love or jealousy.
She would rise so high that no one could even reach her.
That was her form of revenge.
***
“The audition will begin.”
Se-ah took a seat in the waiting area and pulled out the script for the assigned scene.
It wasn’t an open audition — just a small, private one where people came through connections — so there weren’t many contestants.
“I’m Director Kim Sung-chul. As mentioned, we’ll only be watching the assigned scene today.”
Five people were competing for the lead role. Yuri was first.
“Hello, I’m Heo Yuri.”
She introduced herself confidently, saying brightly that she didn’t want to miss this opportunity. The staff smiled politely and gestured for her to begin.
The audition scene was from Elite High: Love Record Book. The script was simple — almost bare.
The female lead, Ji-an, finds her old piano sheet music at a secondhand bookstore. She cries, then runs into the male lead, Woo-seok, and talks with him. The scene ends with her smiling.
The focus was clearly on how the actor expressed three emotions: discovery, sadness, and warmth.
“Begin.”
Yuri bowed her head slightly to focus. The bright energy she had earlier turned calm.
“This place…”
She looked around nervously. The story setup was that Ji-an’s mother had given away her piano sheets because her daughter wouldn’t give up on music.
Yuri pushed between chairs pretending to open the door and look around. Her eyes shimmered with tears as she searched frantically. Finally, she froze, staring at the imaginary sheet music.
“My music sheet.”
She clutched at the empty table like she’d found something precious. Tears dripped onto the bare surface as she cried loudly, collapsing to the floor. Her sobs filled the room.
A staff member read Woo-seok’s line flatly:
“Seo Ji-an?”
The emotion broke a bit at the dull tone.
“Piano is my everything.”
Yuri continued through the awkwardness, crying even harder.
“I can’t believe it… I can’t play anymore…”
Her voice cracked from the tears.
The staff read the next line.
“You just want to be famous as a pianist, right?”
“No… I just want to play.”
She looked pitiful as she wept. The director and writer jotted down notes.
“Then do it.”
The staff read the next line — encouraging her to rest and recover her hands before trying again.
“I’ll be watching over you.”
The evaluators observed her closely as Yuri smiled faintly through her tears.
“Thank you.”
And with that, she finished the scene.
“Good work. Please take a seat.”
Yuri smiled brightly and bowed.
Director Kim Sung-chul pushed his glasses up and nodded slowly.
Yuri’s acting wasn’t bad — especially considering how dry the staff’s delivery had been.
“Next.”
He leaned back. Though this was just a web drama, many capable actors had shown up, perhaps because he was an experienced film director now working with a major cable channel.
“Im Se-ah.”
When she stepped forward, the director’s interest sharpened. He had seen her in a snack commercial once — something about her performance had caught his eye.
Yuri had a livelier, flashier charm, but Se-ah’s pure acting felt deeper.
“Begin.”
Se-ah stepped forward quietly.
The scene took place long after Ji-an’s accident — after she had injured her hands. By now, she should have accepted reality, not be breaking down in tears.
The director thought: Without experience, they’ll all seem similar.
He leaned back and crossed his arms as Se-ah began.
She slowly approached the imaginary bookstore door. Her face looked weary — like someone who had given up but still carried regret.
“This place…”
Unlike Yuri’s desperate tone, Se-ah’s voice carried emptiness.
She stood there staring, then lowered her head, looking at her trembling hands. She turned away from the bookstore as if trying to move on.
Why is she leaving?
The director narrowed his eyes. Actors were supposed to stick to the script — even great acting couldn’t excuse ignoring it.
But just as he was about to mark her down, Se-ah stopped. She turned her head slightly, glancing back at the store — her eyes filled with longing.
Oh… that’s an interesting interpretation.
The director raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
Se-ah walked back inside — slowly, unlike Yuri’s frantic pace. Her movements carried hesitation, self-doubt, and quiet pain.
As she walked between tables, she sighed — aware of how pathetic she felt for not being able to let go of her dream.
Then she froze. Her gaze landed on the table.
For a moment, Director Kim swore he could see the music sheets there.
“My music sheet…”
Her whisper sounded like a sigh — heavy with regret and confusion. Her expression was restrained, but her emotion ran deep.
The director’s hair stood on end.
She didn’t move. She just stood there, locked in place, completely immersed.
How will she handle the next part?
He found himself sitting forward, arms uncrossed.
“Seo Ji-an?”
At the staff’s line, Se-ah’s fingers twitched — not because she broke character, but because she hadn’t expected someone to speak to her. She turned her head naturally.
Unlike Yuri, who had focused only on the judges, Se-ah’s reaction was alive.
Her eyes showed a flicker of surprise, then calm acceptance.
“Piano is my everything.”
She picked up the imaginary sheet music, her hands trembling slightly. The way her veins stood out captured her emotion more vividly than sobbing could.
“I can’t believe it… that I can’t play anymore.”
Her voice quivered but didn’t break. The tension in her body said everything.
The director rubbed his lips with his hand — completely absorbed.
When the staff read the last line — “I’ll be watching over you” — Se-ah’s eyes shimmered. Hope and gratitude flickered together.
Her lips trembled with a faint smile as one tear dropped.
Silence filled the room.
Even the other actors forgot to breathe. It felt less like an audition and more like a real performance.
“Thank you.”
If Se-ah hadn’t stepped forward to bow, the room might have stayed frozen longer.
“Yes… next actor, please.”
But the director couldn’t focus anymore. None of the others mattered now.
He had to cast Im Se-ah.
Her acting transcended appearance or style.
And she would be perfect — perfect — for the lead role in the old script he’d been saving.
Her empty yet determined eyes fit that character exactly.
He grabbed his pen and started scribbling notes furiously, eyes gleaming with excitement.
***
Later that day
“Gun-ha, when are you free?”
Director Kim’s urgent call led to a dinner meeting that evening.
Gun-ha, a famous actor, had been taking a break from work — he hadn’t found a script that truly inspired him.
“I hope this one’s good,” said his manager, Seung-yeop, half-joking.
Gun-ha chuckled. “You just want me to get back to work.”
“Exactly. Do something! Watching you be unemployed is painful.”
Gun-ha laughed again. His manager complained a lot, but it was just because they worked closely — when Gun-ha rested, Seung-yeop had to manage others.
“You love acting so much, yet you refuse to take roles,” the manager grumbled.
“That’s because I love it. I have to choose carefully.”
He wasn’t just any actor — his very first movie had been a blockbuster, drawing 8 million viewers. Offers flooded in constantly.
“You’re picking scripts like you’re choosing a lover. You won’t even do romance films!”
Gun-ha laughed again. “That’s actually a good comparison.”
He only chose scripts that truly spoke to him.
***
They arrived at a quiet restaurant in Sinsa-dong — a private place where celebrities and politicians could meet discreetly.
A moment later, Director Kim came in, smiling broadly.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“No problem, we just got here,” Seung-yeop said cheerfully, shaking hands.
After exchanging greetings, Gun-ha noticed how unusually bright the director looked.
“Did something good happen?”
“Oh, yes. Very good.”
And with that, the story of Se-ah’s performance — and a new collaboration — was about to begin.
