God of Ad-libs

Before realizing he was a writer, Taegyu had been too preoccupied savoring LA galbi to pay attention. After learning of it, his memory was blurred by the turmoil in his stomach that sent him running to the bathroom.

But for sure…

They had been talking about an audition.

‘Why did that come up again?’

It seemed to surface naturally during the conversation—or rather, a one-sided ramble—about ad-libs, acting, drama schools, and actors.

‘Could it really be that I looked like a genuine friend…?’

Taegyu, with a peculiar expression on his face, was deep in thought. One word stood out sharply in his mind since receiving the text message.

Actor

Why hadn’t this idea occurred to him before?

Come to think of it, actors are the perfect example of people who can naturally channel raw emotions—like those he conjured with his ability—without needing to deceive anyone.

And if he succeeded, there was plenty of money to be made.

It would mean no more waiting for something thrilling to stir his stagnant life, stuck in a goshiwon and cycling through short-term jobs.

This was it.

The enormous role-playing game, where actors exchange dialogues and actions while fully immersed in their emotions, was exactly the kind of exhilarating stimulation he’d been looking for.

‘Yeah, except for that one time, having a partner was definitely better.’

The cathartic release he’d felt during the Do Gwang-sun incident had only happened once, but none of the emotions he’d used on his own since then could match the experience of having a partner during the wedding event.

Even when he later reused those same emotions, they didn’t carry the same impact as they had in the ceremony.

Well, at the end of the day, acting is just another way to make a living, like any other job. He wasn’t the kid anymore who used to see people on TV as though they lived in some otherworldly realm. He had grown up.

‘…Let’s give it a shot.’

Once he came to that conclusion, everything else followed quickly.

Taegyu pressed the buttons on his phone and saved the number from the recent text.

「 Writer Gwak Inho 」

He stared at the name for a moment before hitting the call button.

Click.

Even if the opportunity came by chance, the rule was to strike while the iron was hot.

—Hello?

The recipient picked up right after the first ring.

A strange mix of cheers and shouts came through from Gwak Inho’s end, but Taegyu paid it no mind. He had only one focus now that his mind was made up.

“Yes, earlier. This is Lee Taegyu. Yes.”

An audition, huh…

Taegyu decided he needed to gather information about the gateway he’d need to pass to become an actor.

“About the audition you mentioned earlier, I’d like to hear more details.”

***

A Japanese restaurant operating on a membership-only basis.

In the innermost room, a man sat flipping through a stack of scripts, a cigarette dangling under his rimless glasses.

━━━━━━━━

『 Monster City 』
Director: Ji Cheolgeun
Screenplay: Gwak Inho

━━━━━━━━

This man, laughing as he repeatedly skimmed through certain parts of the script for a project that had secured a filler slot, was none other than Do Yunseop, CEO of the rising DK Entertainment.

“Man… this is good. The writing is solid.”

Across the table, PD Ji Cheolgeun observed Do Yunseop, who tapped the ash off his cigarette into an ashtray.

A tailored suit clung snugly to his solid, fit frame, showing no trace of middle-age weight gain.

Ji Cheolgeun glanced at his reflection in the distant mirror, noting his own shabby attire in contrast.

‘….’

An SBC drama division PD with eight years under his belt, nearing his forties.

His one and only hit had been a fluke.

From his AD days, he’d never been praised for his planning. If not for the unexpected success of Hell of Distrust or his old ties with that has-been, even this filler slot wouldn’t have been given to him.

‘Gwak Inho.’

Honestly, the script was pretty decent this time.

But achieving high ratings was a different matter altogether.

The competition was fierce, and while the writing seemed promising, the writer himself had been on a downhill slide ever since Hell of Distrust. Plus, Ji wasn’t even sure he could trust his own judgment anymore.

He could already see where this was going.

This was his last shot at raising his value.

“Why aren’t you eating? Not a fan of Japanese food?”

“I’m eating slowly.”

“Come on, don’t be like that before a big event. Eat up. By the way, Gwak’s really found his groove again, hasn’t he? Don’t you think?”

“It’s a good script.”

“Good doesn’t even cover it. He’s on fire. SBC hit the jackpot—this filler slot is better than the original lineup.”

“Haha.”

As Ji Cheolgeun forced an awkward laugh, Do Yunseop studied him for a moment before speaking as if something had just occurred to him.

“Oh, right.”

A cash envelope was placed beside the table.

Tapping the envelope with a ring-adorned index finger, Do Yunseop smiled. Ji Cheolgeun murmured in discomfort.

“Uh, I gave you my bank account info last time.”

“PD-nim, you need to receive valuable things in a way that makes them feel valuable.”

After saying this, Do Yunseop tilted his head as if pondering something.

“Well, it’s not exactly a huge amount. Considering how much it costs for DK to discover a single rookie actor… this is just pocket change, really. Just think of it as travel expenses. No need to feel burdened.”

Looking Ji straight in the eye, he grinned meaningfully.

“The audition is private and only the best are chosen, right? Don’t stress over it too much. Just consider Han’s potential. I’m pushing because I’d hate to waste him. If his acting doesn’t cut it, seriously, don’t cast him.”

“…Alright.”

“Remember our conversation about DK opening another label? The estimate came in yesterday. Once this project wraps up, I’d like to collaborate on something with you. I’ll make sure the numbers work.”

Ji Cheolgeun was busy rationalizing to himself.

This wasn’t a bad bribe.

After all, the role in question was practically a minor one, and to be honest, this actor, Kim Han, wasn’t half bad.

And there was no doubting Do’s keen eye for “profitable roles.” If he had to give the part to someone, why not give it to someone who’d make the most of it?

Here’s the gist:

『 Monster City 』, a crime drama about criminals and other shady figures vying for massive sums of money, was to hold a private, invite-only audition.

Among the roles was a bit-part supporting character who had very few scenes but required solid acting skills.

[ Oh Daebak ]

A gambler so consumed by addiction that he changed his own name.

Though his setup was absurd, his presence was magnetic, and his role injected tension into the early episodes.

Through his pitiful exit in front of the protagonist, Oh Daebak served to highlight the ruthless nature of money.

True professionals with an eye for detail understood the value of this gambling addict role.

Scene Stealer

An actor who nailed the role of Oh Daebak could leave an indelible impression on the audience even after the drama ended.

‘Do Yunseop.’

PD Ji Cheolgeun knew exactly what that man planned to gain by securing this role for someone from his agency.

Commercials, variety shows—he’d milk the actor dry, spinning him through domestic and international events, followed by developing and selling related merchandise. Compared to the astronomical profit this would generate, the cash envelope just handed over really was pocket change.

‘No wonder there are rumors that he gives rookie actors luxury cars.’

Whether rookies or veterans, any actor caught in DK Entertainment’s sights would yield a return worth several times the initial investment. Such was the reputation of CEO Do Yunseop.

“By the way, there aren’t any script changes, right? No talk of increasing Oh Daebak’s screen time?”

“Not at all.”

“Perfect. I was worried Han might start acting cocky if he got too full of himself. Still a rookie, after all.”

Fewer scenes meant better cost efficiency.

CEOs of agencies like his weren’t fond of directors who stretched production timelines for “artistic integrity” or overseas shoots, which could take years. That downtime meant no profit.

“What do you think about adding a tattoo? These days, even kids from nice families have at least one. Feels odd for a gambler to have such clean skin. It’d suit Han too, don’t you think?”

“CEO, that’s—”

“Kidding, kidding. Anyway, got any promising new actors?”

Do Yunseop shifted topics smoothly, as if testing the waters before retreating once he sensed a boundary.

“If you find anyone decent, introduce them to me. The kids these days are all about style but lack skill. And the ones with skill? Already taken.”

“I’ll look into it.”

Even this exchange served his interests.

Do Yunseop approached everything from a profit-and-loss perspective. If he gave money, it meant he stood to gain far more in return.

So, what was wrong with accepting a small token of appreciation, really?

The fact that the idol-turned-rookie actor Kim Han could actually deliver a passable performance helped ease PD Ji Cheolgeun’s guilt.

“By the way, CEO. About Kim Han’s ad-libs—”

“Don’t worry.”

Do Yunseop downed a glass of sake and grinned confidently.

“Han’s a natural. Even if Han Joohyuk throws all sorts of ad-libs at him, he’ll knock them out of the park.”

His assurance visibly relaxed Ji Cheolgeun.

Funny thing was, Do Yunseop did have an eye for talent.

The problem was that he reduced those he chose to mere business assets.

‘…But is that really a problem?’

As long as the results were good, what did it matter?

On the surface, it made sense.

The role required solid acting and ad-libbing to balance out the main lead’s eccentric personality. If Han could deliver on both counts and help promote the project, wasn’t he the ideal candidate?

Even if Ji Cheolgeun hadn’t taken that substantial amount of cash, Han would’ve likely gotten the role anyway.

Such thoughts fortified Ji Cheolgeun’s resolve.

“Well, let’s stop talking shop and have a drink—wait, isn’t that your phone vibrating?”

“Hm?”

“It’s been buzzing for a while now.”

As Do Yunseop raised his glass for a toast, Ji Cheolgeun glanced down at the phone vibrating on the table.

Bzzz.

He picked up the phone he’d placed face-down and frowned deeply. Do Yunseop, curious, asked,

“Who is it?”

“Oh, nothing important.”

Forcing a smile, Ji Cheolgeun moved to silence the phone completely. But then his eyes caught the incoming text message.

[ Why aren’t you answering my calls? ]

The sender’s name made him groan internally.

[ I found the name. Add it to the list. ]

This clueless has-been…

[ Lee Taegyu ]

Ji Cheolgeun sighed, feeling utterly drained.

[ Just add it already. No excuses. ]

***

A Sunset Evening.

Lee Taegyu, who had been packing his belongings in the cramped goshiwon, paused to glance out the window. It was already quite dark, but now that he’d resolved to leave, the time didn’t matter.

Click.

He swiftly finished packing and stepped out of the goshiwon, his expression light and unburdened. Was it because his stomach had been empty since earlier, when he’d thrown out everything he’d eaten? Or was it the thrill of finally finding the path his life would take?

“Gotta nail this.”

One thing was clear—his window of opportunity was wide open.

He had even dipped into his emergency savings.

Taking half of the money he’d meticulously saved for unforeseen circumstances, he mentally ticked off everything he needed to prepare for the audition.

“Oh Daebak…”

The one-page designated script barely gave him much to work with, but it was accompanied by the detailed character breakdown sent by Writer Gwak, outlining the tangled emotions of [Oh Daebak].

“One week.”

That would be enough.

Not just for his acting debut, but also to gather material to explore those elusive emotions that had been haunting his curiosity.