Return of the Genius PD

Inside the audition room, PD Kim Jong-su and Director Ko Dong-guk were flipping through actors’ profiles without pause. As Ji-won hurried to take a seat next to PD Kim Jong-su, Director Ko casually remarked,

“I heard you played a big part in convincing Han Se-gyu?”

Ji-won quickly responded, “Not at all. I barely managed to get the script to him.”

PD Kim Jong-su chimed in with a teasing grin, “You even had a drink with Han Se-gyu under a peach tree. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“Did you two become sworn brothers?” Director Ko continued, amused. “Family connections are nice. Even the agency CEO can’t push scripts to Han Se-gyu like that.”

Caught off guard, Ji-won stood flustered as Director Ko pressed on.

“Well, let’s see if your intuition is just as sharp during the public audition. Can I expect good things?”

“I’ll do my best,” Ji-won replied, his tone determined.

Word must have spread quickly about the supposed brotherly bond between Kim Jong-su and the legendary Han Se-gyu, as the actors waiting nearby started bowing respectfully to Ji-won.

“Alright, let’s begin,” Director Ko said. “Kim Jae-ung, you’re up first. Please audition for the role of Kim Ung-se.”

With a solemn expression, actor Kim Jae-ung stepped forward and began his performance.

* * *

“Ah, aah—”

Lee Ji-yu warmed up her voice in the waiting room.

“Calm down.”

She opened her script again, the well-worn pages fluttering lifelessly under her fingers.

A moment later, the door opened, and a tall, handsome man stepped inside, looking around before calling her name.

“Actor Lee Ji-yu, sorry to keep you waiting. You can come in now.”

The name tag on his chest caught her eye: Do Ji-won. His kind eyes left a clear impression. Glancing around the empty room, Ji-yu realized she was the last in line.

“Hello, I’m Lee Ji-yu.”

She stepped into the audition room, greeting them brightly before standing in front of the judges’ table. The two men seated there scanned her with expressionless eyes.

Ji-yu recognized them immediately.

They were infamous in the industry.

Ko Dong-guk, the head of JTVN’s Drama Department.

And Kim Jong-su, the director notorious as Ko Dong-guk’s “loyal servant” and for his so-called unbreakable “ping-pong myth.” While the fact that this was Director Kim Jong-su’s tenth project—an even-numbered one—was a bit unsettling…

The script is worth it.

Its appeal outweighed her unease. Besides, she wasn’t in a position to be picky about opportunities, whether they were hot or cold.

Soon after, the puppy-eyed man who had called her from the waiting room entered and sat next to Kim Jong-su.

Huh? I thought he was just staff…

Ji-yu blinked, staring blankly at Do Ji-won.

“Actor Lee Ji-yu, it’s been a while since we last met,” PD Kim Jong-su said, glancing down at her profile.

“I saw your first lead role in a film. It was impressive.”

“Oh! Thank you so much for the compliment,” Ji-yu replied, bowing slightly.

Director Ko Dong-guk chimed in, “Your background is unique. You were in the girl group ‘SP,’ right?”

Knowing that being labeled a former idol could be a double-edged sword, Ji-yu hesitated before answering.

“Yes, I switched to acting not long after my debut.”

Back in her rookie days with ‘SP,’ the company’s CEO had encouraged her to pursue acting. She hadn’t minded. In fact, she felt more at home in front of the camera than on stage.

And she had a knack for it.

Like a sponge absorbing water, her acting skills improved dramatically with each practice. On the opening night of her first leading role in an independent film, she had poured her heart into the role without a hint of hesitation.

The dominance she showed on stage translated effortlessly to the screen.

The joy of discovering an actor you can’t stop watching.

We now look forward to the future of ‘actor’ Lee Ji-yu.

Despite the usual prejudices surrounding former idols, the critics had given her glowing reviews. That night, the agency CEO, his voice slurred from drinking, had called her, brimming with excitement.

“Ji-yu, I saw your potential. I’m going all-in on your acting career. Starting today, everything changes. It’s all going to get better from here.”

If only things had stayed like that.

With each new script, the roles grew smaller. The CEO’s once frequent calls became rare. Four years had passed since then, and now here she was.

“Ms. Lee Ji-yu.”

Ji-yu snapped out of her thoughts at PD Kim Jong-su’s voice.

“Yes,” she answered.

He asked again, his tone indifferent.

“Ever think about returning to SP?”

For a moment, a series of emotions flickered across her face.

“No.”

Her voice was firm.

“Absolutely not.”

As if to smooth the abruptness, she added, “I want to focus on being a good actor, not a singer.”

PD Kim Jong-su nodded and asked in a typical, matter-of-fact tone, “You applied for the role of Kim Da-yeon, right?”

“That’s correct.”

“Please begin whenever you’re ready.”

Ji-yu closed her eyes briefly.

She remembered the day she’d received the rejection text from an audition she had prepared for tirelessly. As if by fate, the script for Eccentric Doctor Ham In-ju had landed in her hands.

She couldn’t shake the feeling that the character Kim Da-yeon mirrored her own struggles—a woman determined to forge her own path. Ji-yu felt the same. She no longer wanted to be seen as a “promising talent.” She was ready to break through.

Ji-yu closed her eyes and summoned her emotions. Meanwhile, Ji-won tilted his head, puzzled by the scene Ji-yu had chosen.

Why this one?

The free acting scene she selected wasn’t one where her character could stand out. In fact, it was a scene clearly written to highlight Ham In-ju.

Why would she pick this?

As Ji-won’s doubts deepened, PD Kim Jong-su began reading the stage directions from the script.

“Kim Da-yeon hands a can of coffee to Ham In-ju on a hospital bench.”

Ji-yu, now fully focused, softly delivered her first line.

“Doctor, may I give you a piece of advice?”
“I’ll roughly refuse.”
“Then, I’ll politely refuse that refusal.”

Ji-yu pressed on with her performance.

“With that kind of effort, you’ll never change the world.”

Without thinking, Ji-won murmured, “Ah,” recognizing something in Ji-yu’s delivery.

Kim Da-yeon had lived a sheltered life under the protection of her father, the hospital director. But after his death, her world was shattered overnight. Ji-yu, through that one line, captured the essence of Kim Da-yeon—a woman frantically trying to find her footing when her world turned upside down.

“I know. Me too,” PD Kim Jong-su responded, reading Ham In-ju’s line.

“But why are you so stubborn about this?” he continued after a brief pause, carefully maintaining the rhythm of the scene.

“Even if the world doesn’t change, that patient’s life will,” Ji-yu concluded, the last line for her character delivered flawlessly.

Only a brief stage direction remained: Looks at Ham In-ju.

“Oh ho?”

A sound of admiration escaped from PD Kim Jong-su beside him.

Ji-won, too, couldn’t help but be amazed at how thoroughly Ji-yu executed that one-line direction.

Regret, determination, admiration, awe—so many indescribable emotions flickered across her face.

It was a stage direction that even he, as the writer, had overlooked without much thought. Since the scene was written to highlight Ham In-ju, there had been no need to worry about extraneous details. But Ji-yu had uncovered the answer to questions he hadn’t even thought to ask.

How does an actor bring to life a character created by the writer but existing outside the world of the script? That must be the potential and responsibility that an actor should shoulder.

Could it be…?

A question coiled up in his mind.

“Thank you for your hard work.”

As Ji-yu’s free acting came to an end, Ji-won asked.

“Why did you choose this scene?”
“Pardon?”
“It’s a scene where you can’t really stand out.”

Ji-yu, who had been moving her lips as if searching for the right words, finally answered.

“It was the scene I liked best among those where Kim Da-yeon makes Ham In-ju shine.”

Ji-won’s tone grew more animated.

“But this is a casting audition. Shouldn’t you choose a scene where you can shine?”
“I thought about that a lot, but I felt that Kim Da-yeon’s role…”

Ji-yu brushed her hair behind her ear and spoke softly.

“I thought she might have been created to make Ham In-ju stand out. Even though Kim Da-yeon’s presence grows as the story progresses.”
“Even though?”

Director Ko Dong-guk, now absorbed in the conversation, joined in.

“I interpreted it as another aspect of Ham In-ju’s influence. The character’s impact is so strong that it conceals the subtlety, but somehow, I sensed it.”

Good heavens, Ji-won thought.

He had found her.

It was clear now—Ji-yu was the actor most suited for the role of Kim Da-yeon.

“…Thank you for your hard work.”
“Yes, thank you!”

With a polite bow, Ji-yu finished her greetings and left the audition room.

Director Ko Dong-guk, still glancing at Ji-yu’s profile, was the first to speak.

“…An eternal rising star?” He tilted his head slightly.
“Why is she still carrying the label of ‘rising star?'”

PD Kim Jong-su picked up on the thought.
“I was surprised too. Her character analysis was incredibly detailed.”

Director Ko Dong-guk clicked his tongue lightly.
“Unfortunately…” He trailed off, staring toward the door where Ji-yu had exited. Then, he added, “From today on, anyone playing Kim Da-yeon will have to compete with Ji-yu’s interpretation.”

PD Kim Jong-su turned to Ji-won with a grin.
“What about you, Do Ji-won? The way you bombarded her with questions, I thought I was watching the original writer in action.”

Ji-won let out an awkward laugh before pausing. He spoke slowly.
“I think Lee Ji-yu is the best fit for Kim Da-yeon.”

Not just because of the nuanced character analysis she had demonstrated earlier, but also…

In his past life, Ji-yu’s rediscovery was still four years away.

That’s why when he first saw her name on the audition list, he hadn’t thought he absolutely needed to cast her.

But now, in just a few hours, that thought had been completely overturned. Ji-won had just seen Ji-yu’s potential with his own eyes.

Which led to one conclusion…

It wasn’t that Ji-yu’s acting skills improved dramatically over the next few years; it was just that a good opportunity came her way later.

So why wait? Why miss out on that now?

The desire to create the breakthrough role for Lee Ji-yu—one that people would talk about for years—surged within him.

However…

Despite the three of them agreeing on her recent performance, Director Ko Dong-guk and PD Kim Jong-su wore dark expressions.

“Still, she lacks the bearing of a lead actress,” Ko Dong-guk remarked.
“Her presence is underwhelming,” Kim Jong-su added. “And she doesn’t have much buzz.”

An actor’s success isn’t built on talent alone. Acting ability is crucial, but it doesn’t guarantee box office success. There’s the filmography they’ve built, the public image shaped by that, and a host of external factors.

Because of this, Director Ko Dong-guk and PD Kim Jong-su hesitated to make a final decision.

PD Kim Jong-su spoke first.  

“Well… since Han Se-rin expressed interest in auditioning, she might be the safer choice.”  

“If it’s Han Se-rin, her acting is solid, and she’s well-known. We’d at least secure some buzz,” Director Ko added.

Eccentric Doctor Ham In-ju already had many risk factors, and Han Se-gyu’s casting remained uncertain.

There’s a saying that drama is all about the actors, and it wasn’t without merit. If Han Se-gyu fell through, choosing a more marketable actress like Han Se-rin could act as a safety net. 

Ji-won hurriedly interjected.  

“Wait, hold on a minute. Didn’t we just agree that Lee Ji-yu’s performance matched Kim Da-yeon perfectly?”

PD Kim Jong-su sighed heavily, rubbing his face with both hands.  

“I know. I’m disappointed too.” He lowered his hands and continued.  

“But as the person in charge of Ham In-ju… we can’t afford to take risks.”

Director Ko Dong-guk delivered the final blow.  

“Lee Ji-yu’s ticket power is just too weak.”

Seeing their skeptical expressions, Ji-won’s mind raced.  

At this rate, we’ll lose Lee Ji-yu.

Just as he was scrambling for a way to persuade them, an idea struck him.

Wait  

Do I really need to persuade them myself?

An assistant director’s words lacked weight. No matter how sound the reasoning, it might not carry enough impact.

But would the same apply to the words of the original writer?

Sometimes, it’s not the message but the messenger that holds the real power.

This is that moment.