Chapter 106: The Space the Actor Occupies

Even among the towering forest of buildings in Yeouido, the Prime Office Tower boasted pristine glass walls and an expansive site.

Last month, CL Media had gone so far as to lease this Prime Office in Yeouido—where the monthly rent alone was over a hundred million won—solely for the purpose of providing Director Bong Chan-ho with studio space, and only on a short-term basis.

And today, under the name of Director Bong Chan-ho, the casting of actors and preparations by the filming team were complete.

The first script reading for  was scheduled to take place in the large conference room of this very office.

Director of Wonstar Dragon, Seok Jin-man, and rookie writer Park Rael had arrived at the Prime Office, the reading venue, an hour early.

“What’s this? Why is it so empty? The reading is supposed to start at one, right?”

“Haha, hey, nothing wrong with being early.”

The reason they arrived so early was because Seok Jin-man, wanting to present a diligent image for the rookie writer Park Rael, had told her the reading was an hour earlier than scheduled.

“We’ve still got about an hour before it starts. Should we go say hello to the staff in the office over there?”

But Park Rael didn’t even seem to register Seok Jin-man’s suggestion, flopping into a chair and pulling out her phone.

“It’s fine, we’ll meet them all later anyway. I’d rather write.”

“You’re going to write? Here? Did you even bring your laptop?”

Having seen Park Rael writing at the studio last time, Seok Jin-man found it odd that she claimed she could write without a laptop.

At Seok Jin-man’s question, Park Rael lazily waved her phone.

“I’ve got my phone. That’s all I need to write.”

“You can write on your phone?”

“Usually I use a laptop, but when I can’t be bothered, I just use my phone.”

Unlike typical novels or essays, drama scripts require all sorts of notation and stage directions for scene composition.

To master the format, you usually had to attend drama academies or study from instructional books—it was that complex.

Not only that, but you had to separately and meticulously insert scene direction, emotions, and dialogue, making it practically impossible to just write as the ideas came to you.

“You’re not saying you’re writing the script, are you?”

“What else would a drama writer write, if not the script?”

“Still, how do you write a script on your phone?”

“I just do it.”

But Seok Jin-man couldn’t take Park Rael’s words at face value.

‘Even if she says she’s writing, she’s probably just jotting down some ideas.’

Curious, he leaned back a little to sneak a glance at her phone screen.

But Park Rael was actually noting scene compositions, separating emotion cues and dialogue—everything—systematically, using her phone’s word app.

She tapped out black text onto the white screen, filling it without hesitation, as if chatting with a close friend over KakaoTalk. Watching this, Seok Jin-man nearly clapped a hand over his mouth in shock.

‘She’s really writing the script? And at this pace, without a single hitch?’

Seok Jin-man already knew that Park Rael was exceptionally fast at writing scripts, a rare case who didn’t even need an assistant writer. But even for him, this method was close to bizarre.

Now, seeing her churning out the script at breakneck speed on nothing but a phone word app right before his eyes, he could only believe that she might really be able to finish a script every few days.

‘She’s writing as if some AI program is autocompleting the text!’

After watching for what felt like only thirty minutes, he saw she’d already gone past five script pages.

“Um, excuse me, Writer Rael. Sorry to bother you while you’re writing, but I’m so curious—can I ask you something?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

“No, really, how are you able to jot down scenes, emotions, dialogue, even character actions—all at once, so quickly?”

“What do you mean? Isn’t it normal to write everything at once?”

“No, I mean, usually people sketch out the situation roughly through dialogue first, then add the scene and emotion details afterward, right?”

“Hmm, do you have to write that way?”

“Then, Writer Rael, what’s your process that lets you write so fast?”

To Seok Jin-man’s question about her method, Park Rael answered as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Well… I’ve never really thought about it. I usually just picture a scene playing out in my mind like a video, and then I just write down what I see, straight through.”

“You see the video in your head?”

“Yes, don’t most people who write movies or dramas do it that way?”

No, they didn’t.

Could anyone, in a state where the actors, set, props—nothing—were decided, really visualize and play out the entire thing in their head, as if it were a video?

Seok Jin-man had never even heard of such a writer.

“If a clear scene plays out in my head, then I can write with confidence. For me, trying to perfect the scene as I write is actually harder.”

“Ha… I see.”

Park Rael rubbed the back of her neck, stiff from staring at her phone screen.

“These days, even phone word apps and memos work as well as computer ones, so it’s convenient to write on the go.”

“Do you usually write like this?”

“Yes. On the subway or bus, or when I’m at a café for coffee—I write whenever I get the chance.”

Now that he thought about it, despite being a rookie writer, Park Rael had never asked for a separate workroom.

Every time Seok Jin-man called for work, she’d always say she was out getting some air rather than at a studio, which had left him wondering when she actually found time to write.

‘A genius is a genius for a reason, after all.’

Now that he’d witnessed this near-miraculous writing method firsthand, he felt like many things were falling into place.

“If you’re done with questions, can I get back to writing?”

“Of course, you must have been focused—I must’ve interrupted you.”

He had a mountain of things he wanted to ask, but now that he’d seen she could churn out scripts even in her spare moments, he couldn’t keep firing questions at her.

About forty minutes passed.

“Hmm, all done. I think I’ve finished Episode 10. Should I send it to your email right now, Director?”

“What? Al, already? You finished all of Episode 10, the one you started yesterday, just now, in this short time?”

“Yeah, well, I just had a few more scenes left to write. Look, I’ve sent it.”

Park Rael showed him her phone screen, where the portal’s email confirmation displayed, “Your mail has been sent successfully,” to Seok Jin-man’s address.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been sending them out like this without any revision?”

“Yes, there’s not much to revise.”

“Hah… Alright. I’ll go through it for typos at the office, then.”

Usually, with scripts that went through revisions, the writers themselves would catch most typos and awkward wording, so there weren’t many errors.

Strangely, though, despite being a high-quality writer, Park Rael’s scripts had more typos than most. It was all due to her “live broadcast” style of writing.

Click—the conference room door opened, and people began to stream in.

With the script reading time approaching, the actors scheduled for today’s session started to gather.

“Hello, I’m Park Sung-min.”

“Nice to meet you, I’m Seok Jin-man from Wonstar Dragon.”

“Oh, Director, it’s been a while.”

“Good to see you again, Hee-joo. You’re joining us this time, right?”

“Yes, I’m so glad. Please take care of me, Director.”

Actress Yang Hee-joo, who exchanged particularly warm greetings, sat beside Seok Jin-man, her posture upright. She glanced at the blond Park Rael, who didn’t spare them a glance, and whispered in a low voice to Seok Jin-man.

“Who’s that?”

“Oh, that’s Writer Park Rael, who wrote this work. She’s a rookie, still quite young.”

“Oh my, such a young writer wrote this?”

Even though Park Rael was clearly aware they were talking about her, she just stared impassively at her phone screen.

Seeing that, Seok Jin-man shook his head slightly and whispered,

“She’s a bit unusual. I hope you understand, Hee-joo. Haha.”

“It’s fine. In this industry, there’s no shortage of unique people.”

Soon after.

As the time for reading arrived, not only the leads for Episode 1 but even the minor supporting actors were all present without a single absence.

In the spacious reading room, over 50 pyeong, the desks were arranged in three rows left and right, with the main actors and production team in front.

The farther back you went, the smaller the roles.

But fitting for a reading session directed by Bong Chan-ho—who was said to be the best in Korea, regardless of genre—even the back rows for supporting roles glittered with star power.

Many of these “supporting” actors were accomplished enough that no one would bat an eye if they were leads in weekend dramas.

Park Sung-min, an acting powerhouse from the Korea National University of Arts, known for his realistic performances and many directors’ love calls.

Yang Hee-joo, who, though originally a top model, debuted in acting three years ago and made her name as the charismatic female detective in the blockbuster movie , which drew ten million viewers.

Add to that Kang Dae-myung and Kim Won-il, both seasoned veterans with over 15 years in theater.

“By the way, is our lead actor late today?”

Kang Dae-myung and Kim Won-il, close friends from their theater days, looked around and chatted.

“I don’t think so? I ran into him at the first-floor smoking area earlier—he said he’d been here since morning.”

“Ha, he still likes to wander around early, I see.”

“He’s probably off somewhere chatting with the staff again.”

A moment later, a man entered the conference room with Director Bong Chan-ho.

“No, I’m telling you, the yellowtail was unreal. It was thiiis big! I really wish you could’ve come—I’m so disappointed.”

“Hahaha, let’s go next winter, for sure.”

“Really? Promise? Yellowtail and soju together—there’s nothing better.”

Unlike Bong Chan-ho, who wore a navy dress shirt and black jacket, the man sticking closely by his side looked for all the world like a fruit vendor off a truck, with his easygoing attire.

The man, looking every bit the fruit seller, entered the room and his face brightened at the sight of all the assembled actors.

“Ah, so many familiar faces here! Hello, everyone. Yes, yes.”

He bowed repeatedly to the supporting actors by the door, a broad, mask-like smile on his face.

“Where’s my seat? Here?”

“Sir, your seat is over there.”

“Oh, here it is. Thank you. Hey, Hee-joo! You’ve lost so much weight.”

After warmly shaking hands with every supporting actor in the back rows, he wandered about in a bouncy gait, then, at Yang Hee-joo’s gesture, headed to the central spot in the front row.

That was the seat directly opposite Director Bong Chan-ho.

On the desk was a neatly handwritten temporary nameplate.

“What’s this, they even wrote my name. Haha.”

[Lead: Song Jang-ho]

The actor of actors, the one who led all these stellar cast members as the lead, regarded as the top actor in Korea, and Bong Chan-ho’s so-called “persona.”

“Let me introduce myself formally. I’m Song Jang-ho.”

Song Jang-ho stood, bowing in all directions, and everyone responded with applause.

With both director and lead actor present and seated on time, the script reading began in earnest.

“Now, let’s start the reading for . Everyone, take it easy from the first scene.”

The first scene opened from the main character’s perspective, having been kidnapped and dragged here under the pretext of joining a death game.

“Hoo…”

Song Jang-ho took a deep breath and exhaled.

Then, immediately, he began acting out the first line.

“Where is this? Who the hell are you people?”

Song Jang-ho’s eyes suddenly sharpened as he looked around warily, his demeanor shifting in an instant.

He pressed his hands into the air, as if he could feel invisible walls, flinching and gasping in fear.

For a moment, the brightly lit conference room felt stifling, as if it had turned into a pitch-black shipping container.

The supporting actors in the back rows, holding their breath unconsciously, watched Song Jang-ho’s performance, as if something were stuck in their throats.

The great actor Song Jang-ho’s acting began to dominate the space.