Top Star by Luck

Chapter 29

Lee Min Ki’s official participation in his first casting audition had been decided.

[Forever Green].

At this point in time, the crime thriller project was entering production and had already become quite the buzz.

_What was the storyline again?_

‘Wasn’t it about a detective who’s also a killer?’

The plot involved a detective who used his own internal information network to commit murders.

Among the memorable scenes was the last one.

_“The intensity was no joke in that scene where he argued, ‘What’s the problem with killing someone who deserved it?’”_

The lead actor, an immensely talented performer, had left such a strong impression that, even now, Min Ki could almost see the scene vividly in his mind whenever he closed his eyes.

However, Min Ki’s role wasn’t the lead.

It was a supporting role, somewhere in the middle or even lower than that.

In other words…

“This is a perfect project for you, Actor! Playing a civilian cooperating with the investigation, it’s practically a supporting role on par with the lead!”

He would be playing an ordinary person.

A resident who lived next door to the detective, suspecting his behavior, only to end up being unjustly murdered.

The killer in the story operated with the belief that they only killed criminals, but in this case, they would kill an innocent civilian, pushing themselves into a self-contradiction.

It was a fairly significant role, despite being a victim.

The role itself was good.

_‘Though the screen time is short, if I play it right, I can leave a strong impression.’_

He felt satisfied.

He had always wanted to try acting as a victim, and while it was unfortunate that the role was brief, he was still a rookie.

_‘Yeah, it’s fine.’_

The only problem was the person in front of him, chattering away with excitement.

“I’m really excited to be working with you, Actor! Hahaha!”

“Haha…”

Lee Min Ki gave a polite laugh in response to the loud voice of the person who would be helping him as his manager from now on.

_‘His name was Park Han Mo, right?’_

It was an unusual name.

How could someone’s name be Park Han Mo?

_‘I feel like buying a fresh block of tofu on my way home, slicing it, and pairing it with aged kimchi.’_

Min Ki barely managed to swallow the random thought that had surfaced.

The person himself seemed fine, though.

Aside from the fact that he talked too much.

“I watched your latest project too, Actor! _Campus Story_, right? It was so good that I binge-watched it over the weekend from the first episode to the last. I was getting a bit bored until you appeared, and boom, the whole project lit up!”

Park Han Mo, who was driving, kept the conversation going with endless chatter.

“I love youthful dramas like that. I’ve also watched all the sitcoms like _Low Kick Through the Floor_. Haha.”

He sure talked a lot.

Min Ki found it overwhelming.

The artificial fresh scent of the car’s air freshener didn’t help either; it only added to his discomfort.

Having a talkative personality wasn’t necessarily a flaw.

In fact, a lively personality could be an advantage for a manager dealing with a tough job.

If a manager’s mood was down, it could affect the actor too.

However, there was a drawback to people who talked too much.

It made them seem less credible, even when they said the right things.

_‘I’ll have to discuss a lot of things with him regarding future projects.’_

Whether they matched well or not, they’d have to work together.

It wasn’t like a rookie could just demand a manager change.

In the first place, he was already fortunate that they had assigned him a manager, considering he was a promising rookie.

After all, it was JC E&M.

_‘Maybe things will align once we get to know each other better.’_

Determined to build a good relationship, Min Ki asked him a question.

“By the way, about this project…”

“Are you talking about _Forever Green_?”

“Yes. Have you read the casting call for the role?”

“Of course. I probably read it before you did! JC makes us memorize everything when they send us those notices.”

“…Seriously?”

“Pardon? What do you mean?”

“I mean, do you actually memorize those casting notices? Every single one?”

At Min Ki’s startled question, Park Han Mo looked slightly puzzled as he replied.

“Well, isn’t that just common sense? I think there were about twelve. _Menucha_, _Coffee and You_, _Beautiful Dental Clinic_, and so on…”

The titles and details of the notices Min Ki had received flowed smoothly from Park Han Mo’s mouth without a single mistake.

Amazed, Min Ki asked, “How did you memorize all that?”

“Oh, come on, you can’t call yourself a manager if you don’t even know what projects your actor is working on. Haha.”

He spoke as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

As though it would be odd not to know.

Min Ki couldn’t help but be impressed.

_‘As expected of a top-tier agency. JC makes their managers thoroughly study the projects too.’_

In a way, it was only natural.

It was basic common sense for a company to understand the projects its actors were involved in.

Failing to do so would be a much bigger problem.

But for Min Ki, it wasn’t always this way.

_‘Back at my old agency, the CEO didn’t even know the title of the project I was in!’_

That’s right, the agency he had experienced in the past was nothing like this.

Not only had they not provided him with a manager, but there were even bigger issues.

_‘The staff had to handle everything—sales, accounting, packing boxes, and even deliveries. They’d quit every few months because of it. When you’d try to contact them, they’d either ignore you or tell you they had switched jobs.’_

Just thinking about it made his teeth clench.

While Min Ki shuddered at the thought, Park Han Mo laughed heartily and glanced at him through the rearview mirror.

“This might be a bit late to ask on our way to the audition, but what do you think about this role, Actor?”

“Hmm, well…”

Min Ki gazed out the window for a moment before replying.

“It’s a challenging role but worth trying. There’s a chance I might not get it.”

“Oh, come on, you’re not going to fail.”

“The director is really well-known, and the project is solid. I think a lot of talented people will be applying. It’s a bit daunting.”

“Haha, no need to be so modest. You’ll handle it just fine, Actor.”

“What do you mean? I’m just a rookie who’s finished one project.”

Min Ki laughed softly.

“All I can do is try my best.”

“That’s true. Giving your best is always the right way.”

At that moment, the overly enthusiastic atmosphere that had filled the car began to settle slightly.

Sensing a small shift, Park Han Mo spoke up again.

“Actor, this is just my opinion, and I mean no offense, but I don’t think this character suits you perfectly.”

“What?”

It was an unexpected statement.

In a way, it felt like criticism.

_‘He’s criticizing me when we’ve barely gotten to know each other?’_

Criticism was fine, but considering they were still practically strangers, it was awkward to have this conversation.

While Min Ki tensed up slightly, Park Han Mo continued.

“It’s not that the role you’ve taken is bad. But there’s something like compatibility between actors and their roles, right? The character you’re playing is a bit dry.”

“That’s true.”

“But the characters that suit you, Actor, should have a bit more spice. Something intense! A salty flavor that slowly seeps in!”

“Hmmm…”

Min Ki couldn’t quite find the right response and let his words trail off.

_‘Is that really the kind of character I fit?’_

He wasn’t sure.

But whether it was true or not, it was always good to listen to others’ perspectives.

Feeling slightly thankful, Min Ki responded sincerely.

“Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind for my performance.”

“Haha, don’t take it too seriously. You know your own acting better than anyone.”

Park Han Mo chuckled as he went on.

“And you know, after meeting you, I can tell—you could play any role. You’re a chameleon! A versatile actor! A hexagonal status! A thousand faces! And I heard you practice a lot too, right?”

“…”

This guy really did talk a lot.

If Min Ki tried to respond to everything, he’d be exhausted before they even arrived at the audition.

“I also heard Trainer Kim Ah Sung constantly bragging about you to everyone at the company.”

“He bragged about me?”

“Yeah! He kept saying, ‘We’re bringing in a super rookie soon, so roll out the red carpet!’ He wouldn’t stop talking about it.”

Ah.

Trainer Kim Ah Sung was also quite the talker.

“He even said that since you’re his prized student, if anyone treats you poorly or pushes you too hard, he’d quit right away.”

“…”

_He really does talk a lot._

* * *

Crime thriller.

As the name suggests, a thriller based on crime.

In South Korea, this genre had a distinct characteristic.

[Even the slightest slip in acting, and you’re out.]

More than the story, the performances of the actors were crucial.

[Thrillers, you see. The plot is usually somewhat predetermined, so the direction and acting are key.]

[Even the greatest director can’t make a masterpiece with bad actors, especially in a thriller.]

Because of this, many newcomers used this genre to prove their acting skills, and there were plenty of people who had delivered career-defining performances in the Korean film industry through crime thrillers.

It was also typical for actors who had done well in this genre to keep coming back to it.

At any rate, there was one director who was particularly renowned for his dedication to this genre.

“Ahem.”

“Are you alright, sir?”

“It seems I haven’t been getting enough sleep. My eyes feel strained.”

“That’s because Director Yeom works nonstop, even after going home. Haha.”

Yeom Gwang Ho, the director in question.

He was one of the most notorious workaholics in the Korean film industry.

The art director working alongside him asked, “Director Yeom, aren’t you overworking yourself lately?”

“How can I work any less? There’s more I want to do but can’t.”

“You’ll wear yourself out. You need to keep making films for years to come.”

“I won’t worry about that until I’ve made a true masterpiece.”

“Come on, Director Yeom. You’re already someone audiences trust. Didn’t your last film bring in four million viewers despite being rated R?”

“Sure, it was successful. But that’s not what I’m aiming for. We need to make something like _The Silence of the Lambs_ here in Korea. Then I’ll be able to rest easy, even if I’m buried tomorrow.”

Director Yeom Gwang Ho.

He didn’t just make crime films; he put his soul into them.

_‘I want to leave a mark in film history.’_

His goal was to get one of his films ranked in the top 250 on IMDb.

He set the bar high.

Because of this, he obsessed over the smallest details, to the point of personally handling even minor props in his films.

It was almost a compulsive way of working.

But it often left him exhausted, practically a walking corpse during production.

Perhaps understanding this, the art director, though respectful of his dedication, asked, “Haha, but do you really need to personally attend this minor supporting role’s audition, Director?”

The topic shifted to the current casting audition.

Yeom Gwang Ho waved his hand in dismissal.

“The director should always be the one casting the actors.”

“That’s true for important roles. But isn’t this role kind of minor?”

When casting calls were sent out, they didn’t include the full script.

Just the general synopsis of the project and the role description, along with a few cut scenes.

_‘No one else would know, but I’m well aware this role barely gets five minutes of screen time.’_

Knowing the internal details, the art director made his comment, but Director Yeom responded as if it were obvious.

“Well, I might only have to glance at them and make a decision, but for the actors, this is their life on the line. How could I just dismiss that?”

“Most directors don’t think like that.”

“If you approach it with an average mindset, you’ll only make average films.”

“Haha, I can’t match your passion, Director Yeom.”

Their casual banter ended there.

“Shh, it’s about to start.”

The audition was about to begin.

They quieted down and waited for the participants to enter the audition room.

After a moment of silence, the art director, curious about a previous casting decision, asked, “What about that role from last time?”

“Which role?”

“The one you left unfilled on purpose. The one you said you were being extra cautious about.”

“Ah, that role.”

Director Yeom hesitated for a moment before replying.

“I’m not sure yet.”

“Still?”

The art director sounded incredulous.

“Filming is just around the corner.”

“That’s how important it is.”

“But…”

“Shh.”

Cutting him off, Director Yeom said, “Maybe we’ll find the right person today. If they’re out there.”