Chapter 28 : Echoes of a Star

“Did you just call me?”

I asked, my voice tinged with uncertainty.

“Of course, our esteemed Hyunjae!”

Junhyung replied with a grin, his tone teasing but warm, as if to cement his words with another call of my name.

Why is he acting like this?

I thought, a flush of embarrassment creeping up my neck.

“Why are you suddenly using such formalities with me?”

Junhyung leaned in, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“The director told me to take extra good care of you. Said if it weren’t for you, we’d all be dead in some accident, and he’d be in handcuffs.”

I ducked my head, uncomfortable with the praise.

“I didn’t do it for this kind of attention.”

But Junhyung, undeterred by my modesty, barreled on, his voice brimming with admiration.

“Oh, come on! You don’t need to be so humble about saving lives. You’re a hero!”

Fearing his praise might never end, I steered the conversation elsewhere.

“By the way, where did that gas tank even come from?”

Junhyung’s expression shifted to one of casual explanation.

“Apparently, the neighbor’s grandson bought it for their countryside retreat. Came down a few times, then stopped, so it was just left there, forgotten.”

An abandoned house, neglected and ignored.

It made sense instantly—no one would’ve paid attention to a rusty old tank.

“They didn’t lock it properly after using it, so it must’ve been leaking bit by bit,” Junhyung added.

Leaking just enough that only I seemed to notice, while others remained blissfully unaware.

“Didn’t the director get mad, though?”

I asked, recalling Yongseok’s fiery outburst the day before.

Junhyung’s face didn’t darken, nor did Yongseok’s when I glanced at him.

“Oh, he was furious,” Junhyung admitted with a chuckle.

“But you know the director—he doesn’t hold grudges. Besides, I messed up, so I deserved the scolding.”

His easy acceptance of his mistake was almost refreshing, a rare kind of self-awareness.

“He’ll probably make it up to you later,” Junhyung continued.

“When he does, just take it with a smile.”

“Take what?”

I asked, puzzled.

Junhyung waved a hand dismissively.

“You’ll see. Catch you later, Hyunjae!”

What’s that supposed to mean?

His cryptic words left me baffled, but clarity came soon enough when filming began.

“Set up a reflector in front of Donghyeok,” Yongseok called out.

“Got it!” came the swift reply.

It was just a single line, a fleeting moment in the scene, yet Yongseok fussed over the lighting, adjusting it meticulously and laying out reflectors with care.

This kind of attention… I wasn’t used to it.

Normally, reflectors didn’t budge, and lighting stayed static for someone like me.

From the corner of my eye, I caught Hyungyu sneaking a glance at the monitor, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

The shot must’ve looked good.

“Alright, let’s do this. Action!”

Yongseok’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding.

I threw myself into the role.

“Hyung! Over here! This way!”

My line was short, blunt, and over in a heartbeat—less time to deliver than it took to prepare.

Yet Yongseok treated every frame with unwavering dedication, as if each second was a masterpiece.

“Okay,” he finally called.

“All good! Let’s take a quick break before the next scene,” someone echoed.

The moment we paused, I sidled up to Hyungyu.

“Is this… okay?”

I asked, grateful for the attention but uneasy under its weight.

Hyungyu’s eyes sparkled with amusement.

“Okay? You just hit the jackpot, kid.”

“What?”

“After yesterday, you’ve got a whole army of supporters behind you now. Haha!”

His booming laugh filled the air as he pulled me into a bear hug, his enthusiasm overwhelming.

“You little… you did good. Real good,” he said, squeezing me tight.

The embrace was suffocating, but his excitement was contagious, and I let myself be swept up in it.

“In this industry, connections are everything,” Hyungyu went on, his voice dropping conspiratorially.

“And you, you clever thing, just hooked a big fish.”

Seeing Hyungyu, who’d been so apologetic yesterday, now beaming with pride, lifted my spirits.

So, it’s all good, right?

I decided then and there to savor the moment.

“Back to shooting!”

Yongseok’s voice cut through the air.

There was one affliction I’d picked up while working alongside a top star: the so-called “main character syndrome.”

I thought it had faded when I became human, but this sudden spotlight was stirring it back to life, like a dormant ember flickering awake.

They’re filming me to look cool, so I’d better live up to it.

The scene was simple: Donghyeok, waking up first, realizes Beomwoo is in danger.

The villain who harmed Beomjun’s parents had lured Beomwoo to the same spot, setting it ablaze as a threat.

Donghyeok, caught in the chaos, scrambles to find Beomwoo, searching desperately for a way out.

“Got it,” I said, nodding.

No need to overthink.

If it was too much, Yongseok would call cut.

Even if I was their “savior,” the work came first.

“Let’s do a quick rehearsal and go for it,” Yongseok instructed.

Thanks to his fervor, the shoot took longer than expected, but I’d never enjoyed filming more.

Every moment felt alive, electric.

“Great work, everyone!”

Yongseok called as we wrapped.

“You too,” I replied, bowing before heading out.

My part was small, so I was done for the day, while the crew prepped to move locations.

“Director,” Jaehoon approached Yongseok, his voice low.

“What’s up?”

“I think I get it now,” Jaehoon said, his words cryptic but heavy with meaning.

Yongseok grinned, catching on instantly.

“Wild, right? How a rookie like him can remind you of him.”

Through the shoot, Jaehoon had seen it too—the uncanny echo of Jaehyun in my performance.

“How is that even possible?” he asked, disbelief lacing his voice.

Jaehyun’s acting was unparalleled, a singular force no one had replicated, and likely never would.

My presence had shaken Jaehoon, a quiet shock rippling through him.

Yongseok laughed, a deep, knowing sound.

“Who knows? That’s what makes him special. Did you see how he didn’t flinch? Even after yesterday.”

I hadn’t missed my chance, seizing the moment with a confidence that, for a fleeting second, made Yongseok wonder if I was a rookie or a seasoned star.

“He’s different from Jaehyun in some ways,” Yongseok mused, “but mark my words—that kid’s going to skyrocket soon.”

As Yongseok moved on to the next location, Jaehoon lingered, my image flickering in his mind.

It’s strange, he thought.

The name was the same as the dog Jaehyun used to keep, and now the acting felt eerily similar.

***

From the first day of script reading, Jaehoon hadn’t been able to shake his fascination with me.

“Hyung, we need to move to the next set,” a crew member called.

“Right, got it,” Jaehoon replied, pushing me from his mind to focus on Beomjun, the character at the heart of Blue Sky Spring.

With only a few shooting days left for the drama, Hyungyu summoned me to the office.

“What’s all this?”

I gasped, staring at the mountain of scripts stacked on the table.

Hyungyu chuckled at my wide-eyed shock.

“You think this is a lot? At an audition, you’d see dozens of people for every one of these scripts.”

He pulled out another stack, even thicker.

“These are the scripts floating around, and this batch is for auditions this month.”

“Wow,” I breathed.

The script Yongmin had given me before was a fraction of this.

“Are there really this many projects being made in Korea?”

I asked, incredulous.

Hyungyu snorted.

“Hardly. Half of these won’t get funding. Even if they do, most will fall apart—scheduling conflicts, production disputes, you name it.”

The dramas I saw on TV or streaming platforms were the survivors of a brutal battlefield.

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Hyungyu said, his tone firm.

“Just focus on nailing your auditions. For a rookie, auditions are everything.”

He was reminding me that landing Blue Sky Spring was pure luck.

“Oh, and none of these have lead roles. You know that, right?”

“I know,” I nodded.

One project under my belt, a supporting role yet to air—my filmography was still a blank slate.

“But… reading all this is going to take forever,” I said, eyeing the pile warily.

“I’m not asking you to read them all,” Hyungyu replied, sliding five scripts toward me.

“These are for next month’s auditions. The roles you’re trying for are marked.”

I dove into the first script, each one spanning just one or two episodes.

They didn’t take long to read.

“This one,” I said finally, holding up a script titled Another Day at the Fruit Shop.

“I think this is the one.”

Hyungyu’s face lit up.

“How’d you pick that one?”

“Why?” I asked, curious.

He grinned, clearly pleased.

“That’s the one Taehwan’s signed on for.”

“Who immortality Taehwan?”

I asked, tilting my head.

Hyungyu’s jaw dropped, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“You don’t know Taehwan?”

“Is he famous?”

“Are you telling me you’ve been living under a rock? BIP! You don’t know them?”

The group name meant nothing to me, no matter how hard I racked my brain.

“They’re idols! You know, ‘Bebe—Bebe’?”

He even sang a snippet, but I shook my head, still clueless.

With a sigh, Hyungyu gave up.

“He’s the most popular member of the group. They’re branching out into acting now that they’ve been around a while.”

Idols acting wasn’t new, so Hyungyu’s reaction felt a bit overblown.

“Idols do a lot of acting these days, don’t they?” I said.

“Sure, and sometimes they’re better than the rest,” Hyungyu admitted.

“But what I’m saying is, this drama’s a sure thing. It won’t get shelved.”

His excitement clicked into place.

“Taehwan’s first drama, fresh off a Billboard number-one. The buzz alone will keep it alive.”

Not knowing Taehwan, I didn’t know how to react.

“Okay, but why did I pick it?”

Hyungyu prompted.

Another Day at the Fruit Shop was a web drama about childhood friends facing their struggles, reuniting as adults to run a fruit shop and navigate the quirky episodes that followed.

The role I was auditioning for was one of those friends.

“The character has a real story,” I explained.

“The others in the scripts… they just exist to prop up the lead, to show off their skills or charm. But this one—each friend has their own arc, their own depth.”

Hyungyu nodded, impressed.

“Good. But you know this isn’t a choice, right?”

“Huh?” I blinked.

Hadn’t he given me these five to pick from?

“You’re auditioning for all of them,” he said, smirking.

“You do what lands. A rookie doesn’t get to be picky.”

Oh.

That’s how it works.

***

Hyungyu’s words hit me like a slap to the back of the head.

“You can be picky once you’ve landed a role. For now, there’s a truckload of people gunning for that part.”

He wasn’t exaggerating.

The audition for Another Day at the Fruit Shop was packed with people my age, each clutching a script, their nerves palpable.

So that’s what he meant.

The sheer number of hopefuls vying for one role was staggering.

“Hey, isn’t that him?” someone whispered nearby.

“Yeah, their whole group showed up.”

“They’re probably throwing everyone at it to see who sticks.”

I glanced over and saw five guys who looked oddly similar, huddled together.

An idol group, I guess.

Scattered around were others with managers in tow, their polished presence screaming “industry insider.”

This is intense, I thought.

The world of auditions was bigger, fiercer than I’d imagined.

“Next, Jung Hyunjae!” a voice called.

After what felt like an eternity, I stood up.

“Hello, I’m Jung Hyunjae,” I said, bowing.

“Let’s see what you’ve prepared,” the casting team replied, their voices flat, mechanical, like they’d already sat through dozens of performances.

“Yes, I’ll begin,” I said, steadying myself.