Chapter 4: Comeback Signal
by GideonAsking how someone’s been isn’t always a genuine question—sometimes it’s just a polite greeting. But I guess my anticipation outweighed my nerves.
“Belated congratulations on winning at the Aristos Film Festival.”
I expected a simple “thank you” like any other time, but for some reason, he remained silent. It was a celebratory remark, so did I say something wrong?
Come to think of it, the timing was awkward. The atmosphere grew even more strained.
“…Uh, my congratulations are way too late, aren’t they? Sorry. I just didn’t have a way to contact you personally.”
The moment the words left my mouth, he held out his phone.
“Put it in. Your number.”
He’s actually taking me up on a comment I just tossed out?
My excuse about not having a way to contact him personally was just a casual, polite lie.
I’ve dug my own grave.
Cha Jubin didn’t miss a beat. He pulled out his phone and countered by asking for Zion’s number first.
“You go first. Put your number in.”
“You first, sunbae.”
Damn it. Zion had planned to let Jubin type his number into the phone, then pretend he’d saved it and make a quick excuse to leave. He could just delete the number later, after all.
“Hurry up.”
Faced with the relentless pressure, Zion reluctantly tapped in his number, digit by digit. Is this really a good idea? He briefly considered deliberately mistyping the last digit, but quickly dismissed the thought. He had a feeling Jubin would check if the number was correct.
“Done. Here.”
As expected, Jubin immediately hit the call button, and a strange number flashed on Jubin’s phone screen.
“Save it. This is my personal number, so don’t give it to anyone.”
His tone implied he had more than one.
It wasn’t unusual these days to separate work and personal phones or use dual SIMs to keep a clear boundary between professional and private life.
“If you’re uncomfortable with my personal number, I could just give you my messenger ID instead.”
“I don’t really use social media. When I’m close with someone, I usually just call or text.”
So, if we hadn’t exchanged this number, there would have been zero chance of us ever becoming close. Why give it to me then?
Looking back now, he’d always been like this—constantly throwing these kinds of curveballs—even six years ago.
“Hmm, I’m not really a big communicator myself.”
“…Do you ever reply, though?”
“Yeah, I always reply eventually.”
“Don’t blame me if my replies are slow,” he said, hiding his true feelings behind a cheerful smile.
The awkward silence was broken by Jubin’s phone buzzing.
The caller was Yeosi.
They’d grown up in the same neighborhood, their parents close friends, and had lived next door to each other all through middle and high school. Yeosi was a slightly eccentric webtoon artist and a best friend who always reached out after finishing a deadline.
Jubin didn’t have the mental energy to deal with him right now, so he declined the call.
“Is that your boyfriend?”
“No, just a friend.”
A flicker of hesitation crossed the light brown eyes that held a hint of deep green.
“Do you have a boyfriend right now?”
The question was asked slowly, yet it carried a strange tension, almost a sense of resolve.
For some reason, this question felt like the most important part of their entire conversation today.
“No. I don’t.”
I didn’t ask him back. I couldn’t risk letting myself hold onto any hope that might come from his answer.
Instead, I offered a generic excuse anyone would use.
“I’m too busy making a living to date.”
The moment the words left my mouth, the scent of his pheromones thickened. I need to get out of here. I only had one cigarette left anyway.
This felt like the right time to leave.
“Sorry, Zion. It’s been a while, but I have something I need to take care of.”
Just as I tried to brush past him, he stopped me.
“Sunbae, wait.”
He pulled a clean handkerchief from his inner pocket and began wiping Jubin’s still-damp shoulder and arm.
“Did you not take a car?”
“It just started pouring while I was in the taxi…”
Jubin stiffened, unused to such tenderness.
“Ah, right. It was really coming down earlier. Do you have an umbrella?”
The handkerchief, initially soft and dry, gradually soaked through with rainwater.
“I’m fine. I’ll take a taxi back.”
The handkerchief’s fabric, now damp, transferred his heavy pheromones directly onto Jubin’s clothes.
This is getting dangerous, Jubin thought, snatching the handkerchief from the man’s hand.
“I’ll wash this and give it back to you.”
“Sounds good. It’s a favorite of mine, so make sure you return it.”
Only then did Jubin notice the designer logo embroidered in the corner. Still, handing back the wet cloth felt tacky.
“I’ll buy you a new one, the exact same model.”
“Must have received a big down payment, huh?”
Down payment? What does he mean?
“Sunbae.”
Before Jubin could ask, the man spoke, his voice dropping to a low, chilling tone that sent a shiver down Jubin’s spine.
“Welcome back.”
He wore the same smile Jubin had always admired in his dramas, movies, and photoshoots.
“And congratulations on becoming an actor again.”
The words were almost identical to what Jubin had said to him six years ago.
Jubin walked past the first-floor set and climbed the stairs to the second level, Zion’s words still echoing in his mind.
Had he misunderstood? Why was he so eager to congratulate him on his comeback?
As he reached the second-floor landing and turned left, he saw the one room he dreaded entering most: Director Bae Eun-hye’s office.
She would have already seen the security report about his visitor’s pass, so she definitely knew he was coming. Jubin took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves.
Keep a poker face, he told himself, then knocked.
“Come in.”
He pushed the door open cautiously. Inside, she was hunched over a script, scribbling notes with a pen in one hand.
“Director Bae.”
She stopped writing and looked up. For a fleeting moment, a flash of joy crossed her face before she quickly cleared her throat and averted her gaze.
“Welcome.”
Her voice was laced with irritation. Cha Jubin cautiously closed the door and approached her, his movements slow and deliberate. He couldn’t help but read her expression.
“CEO Moon is such a fox when he wants to be,” she said, slipping into her usual casual tone. “Sending you—my weak spot—to do this?”
Outside the company, her informal speech was natural and familiar. But this wasn’t a casual meeting; he needed to maintain his professional courtesy.
“Ah, CEO Moon is currently—”
“I know. He’s looking for me, right? How’s he supposed to find an actor from his own agency who’s hiding on purpose? Don’t you think?”
When she switched to formal language, her words stung even more.
Director Bae Eun-hye seemed frustrated, perhaps because she was just waiting for the situation to resolve itself. She tossed her pen onto the desk and let out a heavy sigh.
“Didn’t you take a car?”
Seeing Cha Jubin’s soaked figure, she asked in a worried tone, “Did you not take a car?”
Jubin deliberately shook his wet hair and trailed off. “I was in such a rush…”
“Don’t tell me you took the subway and then a bus all the way here?”
“I took a taxi for part of the way.”
Of course, that was a lie.
“CEO Moon is really crossing the line. I’ll break his damn legs!”
I’m sorry, CEO Moon. But you reaped what you sowed, so please bear with a little slander like this, even if you find out later. Jubin offered a silent, insincere apology in his mind.
He lowered his head before her exaggerated display of anger. “The CEO gave me the corporate card, but I felt too guilty to use it.”
If it could appease her anger, he had to lower himself as much as possible and use every method at his disposal.
“Yeon-a. Why are you the one feeling guilty?”
In truth, Director Bae Eun-hye seemed to have already given up on the idea of having Lee Seo-rim play the role, even if he were brought in.
That was why she had been frantically scribbling revisions with a marker right before the table read.
“I was the one who recommended Lee Seo-rim.”
Jubin’s voice was heavy with self-reproach, as if he were taking all the blame. But in reality, CEO Moon Woo-jin had been the one to insist vehemently. He’d spouted all sorts of nonsense, foaming at the mouth, claiming that a face like Lee Seo-rim’s was destined to become a superstar like Do Zion. He’d argued that the boy was just young and reckless right now, acting like a wild fish out of water, but would be completely different once he matured.
“It’s also my fault as a director. I bear the greater responsibility.”
“Is this something you should be taking the fall for alone?”
Director Bae Eun-hye let out a deep sigh, her voice low and weary. “You might have made the recommendation, but I’m the one who made the casting decision. So, I’m the one who has to fix this mess right now.”
She added firmly, “We can’t just sit around and wait.”
Her words were a clear demand for a solution, a display of the decisive leadership expected of a project’s head. She pulled out her phone and checked the time.
“We have two hours until the table read.”
Is there even a way to resolve this in the direction Director Bae Eun-hye wants within two hours? No matter how hard he thought, nothing came to mind.
“Do you have a plan?” he asked.
“I do,” she replied. “Right in front of me.”
The only things on the table before Director Bae were a marker, the script, and her phone. Is she saying she’ll rewrite the entire script involving Lee Seo-rim in two hours?
“Yeon-a.”
He had known her for a long time. He had always been grateful to her, ever since his debut, for the way she had passionately supported him, even coming to see him in person to cheer him on.
Back then, all the fans called Jubin “Yeon-a.” Even now, his heart still races whenever someone he’s close to calls him by that name.
He was grateful that they made an effort to remember him.
But lately, whenever CEO Moon Woo-jin or anyone else called him “Yeon-a,” his heart sank.
That tone… that look… this timing…
“You’re taking this role.”
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