God of Ad-libs

Chronic gambling addict, Kim So-and-So.

We’ll skip the lengthy backstory of how he fell into gambling. Instead, let’s talk about his frustration and anger.

He was always just one step short.

From the moment he started playing Seotda at underground gambling dens.

If he had two cards worth Two, his opponent would have Three. If he had Three, his opponent would have Eight. When he had 3 Pairs, his opponent would have 4 Pairs. When he had 4 Pairs, his opponent would have 5 Pairs. And when he finally hit 9 Pairs, his opponent would pull out a Stopper.

Damn it.

It wasn’t until he’d lost around 200 million won that he realized he’d been duped by a pro. And then he smashed a soju bottle over someone’s head, landing him in prison.

After his release, he switched to card games.

But.

When he landed a Four Aces hand—a 0.16% probability—and went all-in with the rest of his money, his opponent countered with a Royal Flush. Two Aces? Really? If you’re going to cheat, at least put some effort into it. Cue another whiskey bottle smashed over someone’s head and a return to prison.

Upon his second release, he tried his luck at Kangwon Land.

Armed with his life savings, painstakingly earned through years of hard labor, he sought the legitimacy of government-sanctioned gambling.

He lost again.

If he bet on the Player and drew a 4, the Banker would pull a 5. If he bet on the Banker and got a 6, the Player would always have a 7.

Sure, at a crowded Baccarat table, the dealer wouldn’t single him out to rig the game. But to his gambling-corroded brain?

‘Ha. It’s a scam.’

This time, there was no bottle nearby to smash. So instead, he grabbed the head of a fellow gambler celebrating his win and charged at the dealer. Security quickly subdued him, and he was banned from the premises for three years.

[Baccarat Research Society]

And so, naturally, Kim So-and-So found himself among the lifestyle Baccarat crowd in Kangwon Land’s nearby motel cluster. While waiting out his ban, he began studying the supposed secrets of gambling victories. Months passed.

Until one day—

“Ah.”

Reflecting on his bizarre gambling life, Kim So-and-So stumbled upon the ultimate truth.

Was it because of bad luck?

No.

Having no money left and relegated to occasional bets over drinks, which he’d mostly lost anyway, one day he experienced a Copernican revolution of sorts.

“All I have to do is avoid number-based gambling…!”

Armed with this revelation, he devised a new game to reclaim his losses. With money saved over several weeks, he challenged another gambler.

“Let’s play.”

“Oh, look who’s back. What’s the game? Seotda? Poker?”

“Coin toss.”

“What—”

“Simple, right?”

“You didn’t rig the coin or anything, did you?”

“If you’re worried, go find one yourself.”

“Fine. Hey, someone lend us a coin.”

And so began a 2 million won coin toss. Kim bet on heads, the other guy on tails. The coin, unmarked and neutral, was flipped by a third-party gambler known for his shaky hands due to alcoholism.

Toss—

The coin spiraled into the air and bounced off the pavement, tumbling onto the concrete road.

Clink, clink, clatter, clatter.

Both men stared at the coin, their brains utterly drowned in gambling fever, oblivious to the fact that it had bounced due to the shaky flipper’s unsteady hand.

As the coin rolled further, Kim So-and-So’s eyes lit up with a flash of divine clarity, as if the heavens themselves were parting.

“I’ve won…”

And then a taxi ran it over.

“See that? I won!”

“What are you talking about? It was too far to see!”

“Shut up! Everyone saw it was Yi Sun-shin!”

“How could anyone see? No one saw anything. Toss again.”

Naturally, Kim So-and-So lost the rematch in the most anticlimactic way.

Though Lee Taegyu wasn’t privy to all this backstory…

‘…You’re all dead.’

The burning anger of Kim So-and-So, who habitually reached for a soju bottle only to be restrained, was fierce enough to rival the moon over Kangwon that night.

Fwoooosh!

In short, the message was clear.

Like cola bursting with Mentos, the resentment and fury bubbling in Kim So-and-So’s veins needed just a single spark to erupt.

To sum it up:

Life? Complete and utter bullshit.

***

By his eighth year as a PD, Ji Cheolgeun thought he’d seen it all. He’d witnessed countless performances by countless actors. But this? This was the first time he’d seen anything like this in person.

“My money.”

The ghostly intensity in Lee Taegyu’s eyes sent chills down the back of Ji’s neck.

“Put it down.”

The way Taegyu licked his lips, his face tinged with a strange excitement, was unnerving.

But it wasn’t affection. No, the expression on his face was closer to a grotesque obsession.

Obsession with what?

“Why—why is this your money? Can you even open the combination lock?”

“Then break it open!”

Swish.

As Taegyu’s greedy gaze swept downward toward the imaginary money bag beneath the table, everyone in the room—Ji included—was momentarily lost in the illusion that the bag was real.

The bizarre hallucination deepened.

“I said I’d give it back!”

When Taegyu suddenly lunged forward, hand plunging into his coat, every judge behind the table fell backward in panic, chairs clattering loudly.

They’d all assumed he was pulling out a knife.

What they saw instead was…

Madness.

The human element had drained entirely from his eyes. All that remained was an unhinged, single-minded obsession with obtaining that bag of money, by any means necessary.

“Mine!”

As Taegyu bent low beneath the table, muttering ecstatic lines like a child talking to their favorite toy, his eerie sincerity raised goosebumps on everyone’s skin.

And then—

“Hahaha… Hrk?!”

Bang!

The tension broke as the audience turned their attention to the script. It was the scene where Oh Daebak gets hit by a car while trying to snatch the money bag from another criminal.

Though the car’s impact was marked only by sound effects, and Taegyu’s exaggerated tumble to the floor was a little awkward, the way he staggered to his feet, screaming, left everyone stunned.

“Why?! Why can’t I ever win?!”

Every ragged breath carried the weight of despair and fury. His hollow eyes, brimming with terrifying intensity, made it feel as though he’d truly lost everything he had.

With each inhale, the air in the room seemed to ripple, as if the very atmosphere had been warped by his presence. Every judge and crew member found themselves utterly consumed by his performance.

‘This… this guy’s insane.’

Writer Gwak Inho felt cold sweat bead on his forehead.

Just moments earlier—

“Hurry up and show me. Prove I’m not a washed-up has-been. Show that stupid PD I still know talent when I see it!”

—that’s what he’d been thinking. But now that he was seeing it? He was speechless.

Gulp.

The precision was terrifying.

If Taegyu’s performance were a gun, it would’ve been perfectly zeroed in. If it were a bow, the string would’ve been taut, aimed with unerring accuracy at the bullseye.

No.

This wasn’t acting.

This was Oh Daebak.

Right here, in the flesh.

Gwak felt the electric thrill unique to a writer when they saw one of their characters brought to life before their eyes.

This monstrous Lee Taegyu had perfectly captured the essence of a desperate gambling addict. Every moment of his existence boiled down to this one all-consuming obsession.

No, it wasn’t just that.

Gwak felt a pang of humility as he recognized what he was witnessing was even better than what he’d written.

‘This… this is the real Oh Daebak.’

The greed, the rage that paralyzed fear itself, the bitter satisfaction scraped together like the last scorched rice stuck to the bottom of the pot—it was all there.

This was Oh Daebak.

This was a gambling addict pushed to the very edge.

It was so perfect that Gwak couldn’t imagine anyone else portraying such a character.

Hack.

Gwak let out a cough, barely realizing he’d been holding his breath. Though he covered his mouth, a faint smile lingered on his lips, betraying his satisfaction.

But then—

“Huh?”

Taegyu’s next words caused his brow to furrow slightly. He wasn’t the only one. Every judge, who had been savoring the performance just moments before, now wore puzzled expressions.

And then, it hit them.

Lee Taegyu hadn’t even started ad-libbing yet.

“Just one more round! Juuust… one more round, I’ll win, I swear!”

“Oh… Ohh…”

“Why! Why is it always me?! Why am I the only one who— Ugh!”

He broke off mid-line, gasping for air as if the weight of his despair were crushing him.

Before PD Ji Cheolgeun could intervene, Lee Taegyu’s body was already reacting violently.

Thump!

Extreme emotions often bring about physical changes.

“Haa… Jo… Hah… I’ll give it… back—!”

First came the erratic breathing.

His lungs, struggling to get enough oxygen, heaved, and strange, breathless sounds slipped out through his clenched teeth.

Then, his face began to turn red.

Overwhelming anger and frustration caused his adrenal glands to flood his system with stress hormones, spiking his blood pressure and sending his heart racing.

Stagger.

Suddenly, Taegyu stumbled.

The tension gripping his body, driven by anger and frustration, triggered brief spasms in the dozen or so lower-body muscles—especially the hamstrings—required to keep him upright.

At the same time—

His breathing grew heavier, his mouth slack and open, catching the glare of the audition room lights that shimmered off the unswallowed saliva inside.

With his entire body trembling, as if his insides were twisting into knots, he let out a piercing scream:

“JUSST… ONE… MOAR… ROUNDD!”

Eyes rolling back, Taegyu collapsed to the floor.

Thud!

It was as though he had gambled away not just his fortune but his very being.

“….”

“….”

“….”

A heavy silence filled the audition room.

Judges with varied levels of experience, along with the staff assisting with the audition, all stared at Taegyu’s limp body. Not a single person dared to speak.

How long had passed in that eerie quiet?

“Uh… is he okay?”

“He… he passed out!”

“What the hell! Should we call an ambulance?”

Belatedly, the frozen onlookers sprang into action, crowding around Taegyu in a commotion of worried voices.

As the noise grew louder, PD Ji Cheolgeun suddenly shot to his feet, knocking over his chair in the process.

His voice, though quiet, cut through the din with undeniable force as he addressed writer Gwak Inho.

“Hyung… what the hell are you doing?”

***

PD Ji’s clenched fist trembled with suppressed rage.

Gwak Inho.

He’d always known the guy was unhinged, the type to lose sight of everything when fixated on something. But this? This was a step too far.

‘You’re really trying to ruin everything I’ve built?’

The veins on Ji’s forehead bulged as his anger boiled over.

‘Now I get it.’

At last, he understood.

From the moment Lee Taegyu delivered his first line, Ji had been unable to disrupt the script with his usual improvisation. Not because he didn’t want to, but because of one simple reason.

Fear.

A primal, uncontrollable fear that warned him not to deviate from the script.

Because if he did—if he strayed even slightly from the written dialogue—there was no telling how this unstable man, Lee Taegyu, would react.

That’s right.

The man who now lay unconscious on the floor was someone you couldn’t handle without strict guidelines. Ji finally understood why Taegyu had no prior acting experience. He also realized why Gwak Inho had been so brimming with confidence.

But even so…

“You’ve hit rock bottom, haven’t you? Clawing and scraping like this?”

This was too much.

“What?”

“You think this is okay?”

“Hey, what are you—”

“Shut it.”

Now grasping the full picture, Ji Cheolgeun glared at Gwak Inho with unfiltered disdain. The word “hyung” no longer felt appropriate. No matter how desperate Gwak had been to win, he’d crossed a line that couldn’t be ignored.

“To think you’d stoop this low…”

He spat out his words, trembling with fury.

“Bringing an actual gambler into an audition—?!”