God of Ad-libs

From his spot across from Sabuk Station, overlooking a neighborhood lined with motels, Taegyu flagged down a taxi heading up the hill.

Vroom━

A short while later, after passing through a tunnel and winding up a mountain road, a massive resort attached to a ski slope came into view.

Screech.

He stepped out of the taxi and entered the basement level of the resort. Inside, a spacious marble-floored lobby stretched out before him, with a long desk prominently placed.

This was where tickets were purchased.

“Thank you, and enjoy your time here.”

Past the ticket desk and the luggage storage area, Taegyu arrived at the center of the resort. Before him stood the much-anticipated entrance gate to the Kangwon Land casino.

After showing his admission ticket and ID, he stepped through the gate and was greeted by men in suits—security guards—and a metal detector straight out of an airport.

Beep—!

Clearing the security check, he finally entered the one and only legal casino in Korea, open exclusively to its citizens.

Step.

The sight that greeted him was one of countless slot machines and gaming tables spread out over a vast area covered in plush carpeting.

The casino was spacious, and the crowd was sizable.

Except for the escalators connecting the first and second floors, the area was open and airy, with high ceilings adorned with chandeliers that cast a soft golden glow over the eager gamblers below.

Rustle.

The moment Taegyu donned his trademark silly expression, the one that allowed him to see people’s emotions—

“….!”

He was hit with the overwhelming sight of a sea of Dokkaebi Flames swirling in every direction.

Step, step.

The more he walked, the more he saw. Wisps of varying intensities and sizes flickered and danced.

They flared up by the rows of slot machines, around the roulette tables, at the blackjack tables further inside, around the baccarat tables, at the chip exchange counters on the second floor, by the ATM machines, and even outside the crowded indoor smoking room filled with tense faces.

Fwoosh! Fwoosh! Fwoosh!

The Dokkaebi Flames competed to display their brilliance, their fiery energy captivating.

Watching the bizarre yet mesmerizing sight, Taegyu unconsciously swallowed.

Gulp.

It seemed like he was going to have a pretty good time until the day of the audition.

***

The day of the audition arrived━

Even though it was a closed audition, the hallway was packed with people.

Holding sheets of paper filled with notes, they mumbled lines under their breath. Suddenly, an unpleasant stench assaulted their nostrils.

A thick, stale reek of cigarettes.

The more sensitive among them turned sharply, their gazes darting toward the source. But upon realizing it was none other than Gwak Inho, they quickly bowed their heads.

Though he was being called washed-up these days, Gwak Inho was still the writer of this drama. Despite his bulging belly, unkempt beard, and chain-smoking habits, he was someone who could get them on the screen, even if just once.

However.

Even as he acknowledged their greetings and pushed open the door to the audition room, Gwak Inho’s face remained as grim as ever.

Click.

The moment he stepped inside, he could feel the icy atmosphere.

The aftermath of the fight from a few days ago still lingered.

Even as the cameras rolled for the making-of film near the row of desks, PD Ji Cheolgeun made no effort to feign friendliness.

“….”

“….”

The panel of judges, seated on either side of Ji, looked up from their scripts.

They were made up of key figures like the production and planning PD for the drama and a senior staff of a mid-to-large-scale studio. Unlike the casting manager sitting right beside Ji, who didn’t even bother to look up, these judges at least extended some level of courtesy.

“Writer.”

“You’re here.”

Gwak Inho exchanged greetings and took his seat, pulling out his script.

He wasn’t the kind of person to walk around shouting, “I’m still in the game!”

But… this time, he couldn’t help feeling wronged.

The words from his fight with Ji PD a few days ago lingered in his mind, stubbornly refusing to leave.

“It’s never your fault, is it?!”

Sure, he knew people were calling him a washed-up hack.

But from Gwak Inho’s perspective, how could he nod along to something like that?

Was it his fault that an actor had to be replaced midway through filming because of a scandal? Was it his fault that another got drunk right before the highlight scenes, requiring everything to be reshot? Or that yet another actor disappeared from the set, throwing a tantrum over losing money in crypto?

If coincidence was an art, this was damn near a masterpiece.

Of course, if his scripts were good enough to overshadow all those issues, it might be a different story. But to blame all these bizarre incidents solely on him seemed excessively harsh.

‘Still… I can’t ignore casting recommendations, can I?’

Many dismissed his work as mindless, violence-filled genre dramas, but that wasn’t the truth.

『Monster City』

This latest project was a noir drama featuring ex-cops, gangsters, and criminals. And noir wasn’t about gratuitous swearing or flashy knife fights, as many assumed.

It was about emotional depth.

While emotions were important in any story, in noir, they were the driving force. The genre revolved around characters whose lives were indifferent and stagnant before the story began, only for their worlds to spiral out of control under the weight of their desires.

The core of noir lay in its exploration of desire and emotion.

Even the violence and action that the genre allowed weren’t meaningful in and of themselves but as tools to reveal the diverse desires and emotions of the characters.

Thus, for the cast, maintaining intense emotional exchanges all the way to the finale was vital. This required actors capable of conveying emotions with even the smallest gestures.

Flip.

As Gwak Inho turned the pages of the script, recalling these thoughts, a faint smile appeared on his face.

Finally.

Looking at the lines for the characters the applicants would soon perform, he felt a surge of anticipation that swept away his earlier unease and the criticisms surrounding him.

‘…Lee Taegyu.’

Truthfully, there was someone he was looking forward to seeing.

Today wasn’t an audition for leading or major supporting roles. That meant the character Oh Daebak, whom Lee Taegyu would be auditioning for, was one of the more challenging roles in today’s auditions.

‘How will he approach it?’

Gwak Inho couldn’t help but wonder how Taegyu would handle the lines he’d carefully crafted for the gambling addict. What kind of emotions would he bring to the performance? Having once witnessed Taegyu’s spine-chilling acting at the wedding, he was eager to see how it would shine this time.

Just as Gwak Inho began imagining the various acting styles Taegyu might display—

“Writer. You remember, don’t you?”

Ji Cheolgeun’s cold voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

“The bet we made last time. If you want to back out, do it now.”

“Back out? Don’t make me laugh.”

“You’ll regret it.”

“Save it. Just don’t backpedal later.”

Letting out a sigh, Gwak Inho raised his head and spoke.

Yes.

This wasn’t just any audition.

“In front of everyone here, the applicants we’ve each backed will compete fairly.”

It was a high-stakes acting duel.

In other words, this was about more than just casting decisions.

Gwak Inho, who had impulsively thrown years of pent-up frustration into this bet, and Ji Cheolgeun, who believed there was no way he could lose.

“…The loser leaves the industry after this production.”

As the tension thickened between the two of them, it began to spread to everyone else in the room.

***

The tension outside the audition room was no different.

「Monster City – Audition」

Lining the chairs along both sides of the waiting room hallway, the applicants gathered. Smiles were rare on their faces.

“Alright, we’ll start in 15 minutes! Please sit in the order of the numbers you received in the lobby!”

There wasn’t much time left.

The hallway buzzed with the fervent energy of even more applicants than before. Yet amidst the hum of activity, one emotion stood out clearly.

Desperation.

Given the structure of this closed audition, with time slots allocated for each role, none of the gathered applicants were actors with enough clout to audition for lead or significant supporting roles.

The most notable among them were a male actor known for frequently playing burly gangsters in crime films and a female actor often cast as a strict shop owner.

Even they looked nervous.

Despite their status as senior debutants, they clutched their well-worn scripts—creased from repeated handling—and muttered their lines under their breath, relentless in their preparation. Their visible anxiety only intensified the pressure for the rest of the applicants.

Bang!

From the far end of the hallway, a figure approached with crisp, confident steps.

“Whoa, Manager! Look at this! The atmosphere here is intense!”

“Kim Hwan.”

“Oh, right.”

Despite being told to quiet down, the rookie actor, formerly an idol, sprinted toward several seated actors and bowed deeply at a perfect 90 degrees.

“Hello, seniors! Pleasure to meet you!”

DK Entertainment’s Manager Jang clicked his tongue in exasperation.

Just yesterday, both the rookie’s road manager and stylist had expressed their intent to resign.

Jang had managed to smooth things over by convincing them to temporarily take a leave of absence until they were reassigned to other clients. Still, to be honest, Jang wasn’t exactly a fan of Kim Hwan either.

“I’ve seen you on TV! I’m a huge fan!”

But damn, the kid could act.

From his facial expressions to his gestures and even his voice projection—everything was so flawless that even Manager Jang, fully aware it was all a performance, couldn’t help but feel momentarily convinced.

If only he wasn’t here to subtly pressure PD Ji Cheolgeun. Jang would’ve preferred to sit back and enjoy the show.

Bowing, bowing.

Still, Kim Hwan’s performance lifted the oppressive atmosphere in the waiting area, even if just a little.

Kim Hwan.

A rookie actor just barely starting to rise above obscurity, yet still unfamiliar to most of the public. His sudden approach to the regular supporting actors—those often appearing in countless films but never quite making a name for themselves—momentarily drew everyone’s attention.

“Ah, nice to meet you.”

“Well… um…”

“I’m rookie actor Kim Hwan, auditioning for the role of Oh Daebak! I hope we can work together on set! Let’s do our best!”

As he responded to the awkward greetings of his ‘seniors,’ a few people let out quiet sighs.

Earlier this year, Kim Hwan had debuted in a web drama as a supporting actor, earning reviews that went beyond “pretty decent for a first-timer” to praise like “a natural talent.”

「[Photo] Rising actor Kim Hwan: Ready to soar on national TV?」

Honestly, he was a formidable competitor. His fanbase and current momentum alone made him a shoo-in for prominent supporting roles. So why had he chosen this audition?

Expressions of bewilderment and frustration began to spread across the room.

“Wait, are you… last year’s Miss Korea? Wow, you’re even prettier in person. What role are you auditioning for?”

“Hold on, didn’t we meet at the airport last year?”

“Wow, your script is packed with notes! Such dedication—amazing! Good luck!”

“And this outfit is so cool—where did you get it?”

He was relaxed.

As if embodying the famous movie line “The world is a playground for the skilled but hell for the unskilled,” Kim Hwan radiated effortless confidence.

“Excuse me, could you tone it down? You might be distracting others…”

“Oh, sorry! I’ll keep quiet now, promise!”

Even the youngest member of the production team, who’d tried to call him out, couldn’t help but crack a faint smile at his cheerful demeanor.

One word floated through the minds of many in the room.

Gungyeilhak (A crane among chickens).

His outfit alone fit the description.

Dressed in a snow-white hoodie and reflective blue mirrored sunglasses perched atop his head, Kim Hwan’s appearance shone brightly compared to the somewhat scruffy attire of the other applicants. It was as if his very presence declared that talent would overshadow any concern about appearances.

The dazzling spark of youthful confidence—

The vitality of someone who had never faced failure—

It was a confidence so brilliant that nearly everyone in the room, regardless of age or gender, couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy.

And deep down, everyone knew.

If someone were to say, “From this moment, we’re racing to become box-office stars,” Kim Hwan would be the first to reach the finish line.

Even the seasoned actors who received his polite bow couldn’t claim to have made a name for themselves, despite appearing in countless films.

“But Manager, I’m seriously craving something sweet right now. Can I run out for some shaved ice real quick? I’ll finish it fast, I swear.”

“Be quiet.”

“Why not? Manager, you’re great at everything, but you’re way too inflexible.”

Whether he was clueless or doing it on purpose, his behavior created a subtle yet undeniable dynamic.

A sense that everyone else’s serious preparations were reduced to mere background noise.

Just then—

As Kim Hwan basked in the attention, exuding his positive energy, it happened.

Bang!

From the far end of the hallway, the doors swung open with a heavy thud.

Step…

Step…

A man, steeped in grime and exuding the stench of death dragged from some desolate wilderness, began to make his way forward━