Chapter 21: Contract Renewal Terms
by GideonZion knew this better than anyone.
The Alpha/Omega romance was the current trend, an unwritten rule that any actor aspiring to be an iconic representative of the era had to conquer.
Every time Do Zion’s next project was announced, the same question followed: “When is he finally going to do a romance?”
It couldn’t be helped. His visuals were a romance in themselves.
“You said you wanted to go to the Thyme Film Festival. Thyme is big on romances. Like, huge!”
Zion nodded languidly, as if he already knew.
“If you achieve your dream with a romance role and reach the top, how amazing will your filmography look? Huh?”
Do Zion’s dream: sweeping the Three Major Film Festivals. It had now become the wish of the entire nation.
“It’s not just me. Your fans all over the world want this! And above all, you said it was your biggest dream!”
CEO Park Ji-bun tried everything to sway Do Zion—flattering him, appealing to his dreams—but Zion just kept smiling, completely unfazed.
“Why the hell are you doing this?” Park Ji-bun snapped. “Are you trying to sign with another agency? Do you really think CEO Moon can pull this off?”
Zion didn’t interrupt. He just nodded.
Frustrated, Park Ji-bun pulled out a cigarette and lit it.
“Tell me what you want,” he demanded. “I’ll agree to anything—as long as it’s not a romance film.”
Zion’s smile turned gentle as he made his request. “First, put out that cigarette.”
“What?”
“The cigarette.”
The smile vanished. Zion’s face went blank. “Put it out.”
Already fuming, Park Ji-bun groaned in frustration. Being forbidden from smoking was the final straw. He crushed the cigarette in his hand.
“You know I hate smoking,” Zion said.
CEO Park Ji-bun carefully tucked the broken cigarette back into its pack. “Fine, my mistake.”
“Can I actually make a demand now?”
“Go ahead, please.”
The CEO sounded practically desperate, his tone so grave it was as if he were begging Zion to hurry up and just say it.
Finally, Zion’s lips parted.
“For my next project, I want you to cast me in the exact romance role I choose. No matter what.”
CEO Park Ji-bun considered the request carefully before tentatively speaking. “About that last condition… if we aren’t under the same agency, it’ll be impossible to coordinate our schedules—”
“Then make it possible,” Zion pressed, his tone imperious.
His expression was unyielding, his voice a heavy, threatening bass that commanded obedience. Zion knew better than anyone else exactly how much power his voice wielded over others.
“CEO, you have enough power for this, don’t you?”
Perhaps he wasn’t just acting the role of King Segyeom; he was simply revealing a hidden side of himself.
“If you can meet my conditions, I’ll seriously reconsider renewing my contract.”
CEO Park Ji-bun let out a deep sigh and leaned back against the sofa, asking bluntly, “Cha Jubin again?”
Zion said nothing, his silence conveying a sense of Why are you even asking?
A short, dry laugh escaped CEO Park as if a flood of thoughts had just rushed through his mind.
“Ha. You’re the one who made it happen so you could co-star with him in Leaf on the Snow. Isn’t that enough for you?”
“There’s no rolling around in bed, and the excitement has worn off.”
His tone implied that a mere kiss was hardly enough.
“Are you so desperate for a relationship that you’re losing your mind?”
“Yes, I’m losing my mind.”
“How have you held back this long?”
“I was just waiting for the right moment.”
Zion’s smile widened as he added firmly, “Until my contract with you is over, CEO.”
When Zion first signed with SUB Entertainment, he was young. Scandals and dating were obstacles to be set aside for the sake of his success.
He had never harbored feelings for anyone but Cha Jubin, and Jubin was the only person whose recognition of his talent he ever craved.
He threw himself into his work, and only after he had climbed to a certain level of success did he finally meet Jubin—only to be met with unexpected words.
“I’ve dated enough. I’m done with it.”
“I’m too tired to waste my energy on emotions.”
“I don’t love anyone.”
Jubin refused to let anyone in.
Zion had been subtly using his pheromones, knowing Jubin was weak to them, but Jubin wasn’t as flustered or swayed as he’d hoped.
If anything, Jubin remained almost entirely unfazed. He was grateful that Zion had helped stabilize his pheromones with a kiss, but that was the limit.
He wouldn’t allow anything more.
From Zion’s perspective, Jubin was kind and gentle. Jubin himself considered it mere courtesy, but he was the type to prioritize others’ feelings, rarely showing his dislike or refusing outright.
If he’d just called me a lunatic and punched me when I kissed him, I could have given up on this agonizing one-sided love, Zion thought. He couldn’t fathom why Jubin had accepted his madness.
So, I need another project to keep him from running away.
At that moment, Zion’s gaze fell upon the trophies he had won at the Aristos and Dunamis Film Festivals, which CEO Park Ji-bun had proudly displayed.
“You want the Thyme trophy next, don’t you?”
CEO Park raised an eyebrow and tilted his head, his gaze challenging Zion to explain further.
“Get me a role in Director Andrew Jin’s new film, Iconic Mood, alongside Cha Jubin.”
“What? Andrew Jin?”
“If you can’t secure the casting, there will be no contract renewal.”
It was an ultimatum, a line in the sand.
“And remove the dating ban from my contract. I’m not a child anymore.”
With his demands laid bare, Zion rose from his seat. CEO Park let out a long, weary sigh.
“What do you mean, I can’t?”
Jubin had visited the hospital first thing in the morning.
The only way to suppress his libido, which was haywire from Do Zion’s pheromones, was to add another chip.
But he received an unexpected answer.
“You can add a chip two weeks after the replacement surgery.”
Thinking about it, both the chip replacement and the addition required incisions in the same area.
“Ah…”
Jubin let out a hollow sigh as the realization finally sank in. He had already agreed to meet Zion at the Action School for training and even scheduled a drinking session. What was he supposed to do now?
Even if he tried to keep his distance and come up with an excuse to run away, that guy would somehow relentlessly find a way to make the time work.
“Would you like to schedule an appointment for the chip addition?”
Jubin’s deliberation was short.
“No, I’ll come back later.”
With that, Jubin reluctantly turned his steps toward MOON Entertainment.
Today was the final session of the Director’s class.
His students had presented him with a bouquet and a rolling paper filled with messages of congratulations and regret.
“Thank you, everyone.”
His heart swelled. He tried not to show it, but he was overwhelmed with gratitude.
Cha Jubin felt guilty for not seeing the class through to the end due to personal reasons, so he had bought notebooks for each of his students. He had taken notes on their acting styles, strengths, and key points during every session, using them to create a one-of-a-kind acting guide for each student.
Despite his poor drawing skills, he had also designed a custom award title for each one that suited them best. He’d been worried, but thankfully, the students’ faces lit up with beaming smiles as they flipped through the notebooks.
“Let’s meet again on set,” he said.
At those words, a few students burst into tears. It was a bittersweet final class.
“Take care, everyone. Get home safely.”
The classroom stood empty after the students left. For six years, Jubin had shown up here every single day, teaching these aspiring actors.
He ran a hand over the desk, letting out a long, heavy sigh.
He had always poured his heart into teaching them, offering endless praise in the hope they wouldn’t give up the way he had. He knew the world outside would be cruel—they’d face unexpected hardships and be crushed by a tide of malicious comments. To him, they were his aching fingers—the ones he couldn’t help but worry over.
He wanted to be the one person who believed in them until the very end. It’s okay. Just a little more, even if it’s hard. You can do this. Don’t give up. He never held back the words of encouragement.
These were the very words he had longed to hear himself six years ago.
Words have the power to instill faith. As he comforted his students, his own exhausted and wounded heart slowly began to heal.
The reality finally sank in: he was no longer a director, but an actor once more. He lingered in the empty classroom, taking it all in one last time.
It was the first day of Action School. Jubin had left earlier than usual.
“What am I going to do…”
Before class, he chain-smoked, his heart aching as he stared at the cigarette glowing between his fingers—a pheromone-infused one, showing off its pristine, white form.
“Huuu…”
The thought of having to endure such a precarious encounter for the next two weeks was a major source of anxiety.
“I should have added a chip right away instead of just replacing it…”
He concluded that, for the time being, he had no choice but to rely more heavily on cigarettes.
Since he would be able to avoid physical contact in a class where they’d be bumping bodies, he needed to be fully prepared. As his anxiety mounted, the ashtray filled with the butts of the cigarettes he’d smoked.
“Sunbae.”
Zion approached with a relaxed smile, dressed in his usual “effortlessly chic” style.
Why does he look like he’s in a photoshoot this early in the morning? Jubin thought. They were wearing similar tracksuits, yet the difference was so stark that Jubin felt utterly disheveled by comparison.
Thinking about how he’d tossed and turned all night because of that guy, Jubin wasn’t exactly thrilled to see him.
The cause of my insomnia, the reason for my smoking.
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