Chapter 46: Past Sense of Crisis
by GideonSix years ago, on a rainy day.
I first met Do Zion at the practice room of BAY Entertainment, an agency that no longer exists.
My first impression of him was that of a cold, handsome young man. If he hadn’t been wearing a school uniform, I wouldn’t have even realized how young he was—his presence was so intense and noble.
His face seemed to hold both a boy and a man. His features were so unreal, like a 2D character brought to life.
“This is your first time meeting, right?”
Chief Moon Woo-jin, our manager, broke the ice by handing out warm honey water.
Do Zion had large, upturned cat-like eyes. Deep within his pupils lay a profound indifference. His eye sockets were deep, his eyelashes long.
Is this what it means to be truly handsome?
Even the way he reached out to take the honey water from the adult was so cold it felt dismissive.
“You two, greet each other. This is Do Zion.”
Chief Moon Woo-jin winked. It was a silent plea for me, the senior, to be understanding of the younger junior’s personality.
I absolutely loathed this kind of ungentlemanly behavior—engaging in a pointless power struggle during a first meeting.
“Zion, you already know who this is.”
“I know. The nation’s little brother, Joo Yeon.”
His voice was a clear, youthful tenor, so pure it sounded like he hadn’t even hit puberty yet. The refreshing tone was easy on the ears.
The nation’s little brother. He’d earned that title thanks to his lucky break in the early part of Sageukhan Romance, where he played the young crown prince.
Zion clearly knew exactly where Joo Yeon stood in the industry.
It’s not like I’m asking to be treated like royalty. Is it really that hard to just make eye contact and say hello?
With an attitude like that, his personality was pretty much a given.
“Alright, Zion is the youngest, so call Yeon sunbae. Starting today, he’s also your acting mentor.”
Mentor was a generous term. A brand-new entertainment agency—still shaking off its “rookie” label—was getting its very first acting trainer today.
Choi Gu-cheol, the CEO of BAY Entertainment, had recklessly started the company while his capital was in the red. He claimed he just had a “feeling” it would succeed, or something like that.
That “sure-fire item” turned out to be Yeon, who was attending the middle school right next door. He’d literally been stumbled upon.
At the time, Yeon found studying so dreadfully boring that he signed with the agency and started his acting career without even needing to persuade his parents. He’d been lucky enough to make it this far. He was, quite literally, a miracle from a small-to-medium agency.
“I’m heading out to scout other child actors, so you two practice until the teacher arrives. Got it?”
Chief Moon Woo-jin checked his watch, his gaze shifting between the two. The awkwardness between them still flowed like a burst dam.
“Yes,” Zion answered.
His pleasant, melodious voice broke the silence, though his posture and expression remained utterly indifferent.
Joo Yeon was the only one bothered by the stifling tension. He had always avoided people like Zion—the unpredictable types. They were a constant source of stress.
“Alright, keep up the good work, kids.”
Chief Moon Woo-jin gave Joo Yeon’s shoulder an encouraging pat before quickly closing the practice room door and leaving.
As soon as the adult left, Do Zion tossed his script onto the desk and slumped forward, burying his face in his arms.
His half-assed attitude—showing absolutely no intention of practicing—was grating, but Joo Yeon tried to ignore it.
Whatever. It’s his life.
Seated at the farthest desk, Yeon began reading his script thoroughly.
The massive success of Sageukhan Romance had left him feeling a crushing weight of expectation for his next project. The unexpected fame and overwhelming public love had only heightened his anxiety. For someone like Joo Yeon, whose self-worth was measured by others’ perceptions, this pressure was suffocating.
I have to do well. I have to do well. I have to be perfect, so everyone will acknowledge it.
He remembered the advice from a veteran actor he’d worked with: Your looks and talent will only get you through a few years. In the end, consistency and diligence are what no one can beat.
It was genuine support—a wish for his young junior to succeed. But the truth was, Yeon was a ticking time bomb. For the first time in his life, he was pouring his entire being into this, driven by a desperate, affectionate effort.
“Sunbae.”
A melodious voice echoed through the practice room.
Yeon, who had been reciting his script with such intensity he’d practically memorized it, turned his head with a look of disbelief.
Did you actually just call me? And you called me ‘Sunbae’?
Though he was reeling inside, he kept his face a mask of indifference—his usual, impassive expression.
This was Joo Yeon’s specialty. He stared directly into those arrogant, insufferably smug hazel eyes, as if to say, If you called me, then get to the point.
For a fleeting moment, they seemed to shimmer with a hint of green.
If I look away, I lose, he told himself. I won’t lose to this fearless mutt who doesn’t know any better than to mess with a tiger.
“So, what’s your goal, sunbae?”
My first instinct was sheer bewilderment. Why the hell is he asking me that? But I wanted to play the part of the experienced senior actor, the kind who offers sage advice on set. Besides, the way he used the formal title sunbae and humbled himself felt like he was treating me as an adult.
“Me?” Yeon’s voice trailed off, low and hesitant. “A Special Award? I wanted to win Best Child Actor, but I’m way past that age now.”
“And after that?”
Is there any goal that sounds halfway plausible to a junior? I racked my brain.
“Sweeping the Three Major Film Festivals?”
A wave of embarrassment washed over me. That wasn’t a dream or a goal—it was pure, unadulterated bluffing.
“Oh, really?”
The reply he got back didn’t contain a shred of sincerity. The moment he realized he’d been the only one taking the conversation seriously—
“It’ll take… maybe ten years?”
Those arrogant, hazel eyes now seemed to gleam with a different kind of pride.
“I guess I just need to be as good as you are at swimming…”
Hearing that innocent murmur, Joo Yeon finally understood. Do Zion was a purebred athlete, someone who had never even dipped a toe into this industry.
“You swam?”
“Wait, what?”
No wonder, Joo Yeon thought. His height, the length of his shoulders and arms—they’re all so distinct. And no wonder he slipped into calling me ‘Sunbae’ so naturally. He’s an athlete.
Joo Yeon, who preferred using his brain over his body, had never been able to enjoy sports. To him, exercise was simply a mandatory chore—maintaining his physique and stamina was a non-negotiable requirement of his acting career.
Still, she vaguely understood how demanding the sports world was—how much self-discipline it required.
He must have worked so hard. It must have been heartbreaking to quit.
“That must have been so disappointing,” Yeon-eun said, her habitual empathy kicking in.
But he replied as if he had no interest in her sympathy or consolation.
“I’m not really disappointed. I can just become an actor.”
The way he spoke about acting—as if it were some casual, low-effort backup plan—sent a jolt of irritation through her.
“You’re relying way too much on your face,” she snapped.
He was only eighteen, turning nineteen after the new year. Yet here she was, letting her pride get the better of her and snapping at a kid two years younger than herself.
“Don’t you rely on your face to act, too, sunbae?”
His light brown eyes met mine with unnerving calm. His tone was impossible to read—was he complimenting me, or was he just belittling my acting skills?
“I don’t think so,” he replied.
Yeon had never considered himself handsome. After all, since his debut, he’d realized the world was overflowing with beautiful and handsome people.
And when those people had pheromones to boot, it was game over.
He’d never been the confident type when it came to his looks, so the more people he compared himself to, the smaller he felt.
That was why he’d developed a sense of style, learned to be as polite as possible to avoid coming off as abrasive, and carefully managed his professional network. He’d even sought out a vocal coach famous among idols, practicing relentlessly to master his breath control and vocal range.
He never missed a single acting practice unless he was truly exhausted.
He was striving endlessly, desperate to master everything that could possibly aid his acting. After all, he wasn’t a natural-born genius. In this industry, if you didn’t put in constant effort, you were bound to fall behind.
The younger man stared at him for a long moment, his gaze as intense as a child licking the last sweet scrap from the inside of a yogurt lid.
“You’re staring a hole right through me, junior.”
For the first time, a smile—or rather, a self-deprecating twitch of the lips—flickered across Do Zion’s face.
“In Sageukhan Romance…”
Joo Yeon blinked, waiting for him to finish.
“…all I could see was your face, Senior.”
This…
Couldn’t possibly be a confession.
“Are you saying my acting is that bad?”
Just then, the door swung open.
The sound of unfamiliar footsteps made them both turn their heads.
“Hey everyone, nice to meet you. Have you been waiting long?”
The acting coach, who would be guiding them starting today, walked in with a smile.
Zion didn’t answer—whether he’d missed his chance or was just ignoring her. Yeon simply turned away.
The tension that had been so thick just moments ago shattered.
What does this arrogant little junior think he’s doing, judging my acting?
The new teacher quickly introduced herself before diving straight into the lesson.
“Let’s start by acting out the most memorable scene from the script.”
Watch me. You arrogant little shit.
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