Chapter 20
Da-eun sat down in front of the small table.
The way she mimed picking up and peeling an apple looked so real that it was hard to believe there wasn’t actually one there.
The angle of her hand gripping the knife, her gaze, and the movement of her muscles as if she were applying pressure to cut the apple—all of it was remarkably convincing.
“No, I mean…”
She started to speak but trailed off. Her face stiffened awkwardly; her “family” was all talking at once, leaving her no chance to speak.
Even though she wasn’t forcing her voice to sound like an older woman’s, the character’s typical tone of frustration and clumsy diction came through naturally.
And somehow, the way her hair was pinned up even looked like an old-fashioned perm!
Throughout the audition, other rookies tried hard to imitate an older person’s voice, roughening their throats or doing exaggerated impressions.
But Kang Da-eun didn’t do that—she simply acted.
“I’m telling you, the grandma next door said so! Nobody’s listening, huh?”
Her tone carried the quiet sorrow of a woman ignored by her own family, her voice drowned in their noisy chatter.
With a lonely expression, she just kept peeling her imaginary fruit.
The director liked that she didn’t even tremble before her senior judges. It was as if the other characters’ lines from the script echoed faintly around her.
When he glanced sideways, he caught the faintest smile tugging at veteran actress Moon Sook-hee’s lips.
Director Ji fixed his gaze on Da-eun, clearly anticipating what would come next.
Da-eun, watching her “family,” sighed softly, kept peeling and peeling, then finally broke in:
“I’m saying, I told you earlier—the grandma next door—”
But again, she was cut off, and her lips pressed into a pout of frustration.
As if she’d actually just heard the line “Mom, when did you say that?” Da-eun’s face stiffened and flushed bright red.
“I said it earlier! Earlier! EARLIER!”
She slammed the knife down in anger. Her flustered “family” hurriedly stuffed a slice of apple into her mouth to shut her up, muttering that she must be going through menopause.
That scene—where “Sook-ja” mumbled awkwardly through a mouth full of fruit—became a viral meme.
People laughed at first, but those who noticed Moon Sook-hee’s expression acting said they couldn’t really laugh anymore.
Sook-ja was a mother who lovingly cared for her family, yet at the heart of it all, she was a lonely woman—unseen and unloved.
Strangely enough, Da-eun’s performance made it feel like they weren’t in an audition hall, but watching a real drama unfold in their living room.
The lively family chatter, the mother being treated like a housemaid while everyone spoke over her—it all came alive before their eyes.
The only difference was that Da-eun’s “Sook-ja” was sitting there instead of Moon Sook-hee’s. Despite the age gap, there was no sense of mismatch.
Da-eun’s “Sook-ja” finally spoke again:
“It’s just so sad. I try to talk and they ignore me, shove food in my mouth to shut me up. What, am I only good for peeling fruit?”
As she chewed the imaginary fruit, grumbling to herself while no one listened, she seemed both pitiful and endearing—a middle-aged woman who wanted love as much as she gave it.
Her sighs, her drawn-out words, the flicker of relief in her eyes when her daughter offered her a piece of fruit—all of it was perfectly natural, masterfully done.
“Goodness…”
Her face, red and tight with anger, relaxed the moment she “swallowed” the apple and returned to its normal color.
Then Sook-ja picked up the knife again and continued peeling.
⁂
A strange sense of exhilaration filled the audition room.
Director Ji finally spoke, his voice low.
“Yes. Thank you. That was excellent.”
His heart was pounding, his body warm. He bit his lip, itching to say more.
The usually talkative judges, who had been giving long, passionate critiques to every nervous newcomer, were all silent now. They were likely feeling the same.
Da-eun stood, bowed deeply, and quietly looked around at the judging panel.
Her composure was impressive. Most actors trembled before veterans with 20 or 30 years in the industry, unable even to make eye contact. But Da-eun met every gaze and smiled.
“Thank you.”
Just that one word carried confidence and pride.
When Director Ji motioned for her to leave, Kang Da-eun bowed once more and exited the room.
“Number 33, please come in.”
The auditions continued, but to be honest, none of the remaining performances left any impression.
After the auditions—
“So, what did everyone think? I found number 32 the most impressive.”
Actor Park Byung-geun opened the discussion. Director Ji Seung-kyun nodded in agreement.
“Yes, very natural and memorable. A performer with strong understanding.”
“I agree. Funny, but not over-the-top. Her tone control was excellent—you could almost hear the other characters’ lines through her acting,” said Moon Sook-hee, smiling with satisfaction.
Actor Choi Hee-sung, who had been quiet, cautiously spoke up.
“Didn’t the first actress do well too?”
“She did,” replied Gil Jae-man with a chuckle. “But after that, the bar was set high, and everything before number 32 just felt dull.”
The judges laughed.
“She must’ve been nervous going first, but she pushed through it and showed good skill,” Park Byung-geun said thoughtfully. “Still, her emotional expression was a bit lacking.”
“In a comic scene, you need to show the hidden emotion underneath,” he added. “That’s where number 32 really stood out.”
Even though she had been alone in the audition room, Da-eun’s performance made everyone see a bustling family around her.
The energy radiating from her acting was powerful—turning what was a sitcom script into something closer to a moving drama.
“Her miming was incredible, too,” one of the judges said.
Of course, once filming began, they’d use real props, so mime wouldn’t matter much—but in an audition, it was a powerful weapon. She made invisible things visible.
If not for number 32, they might have gone with number 1 after much debate—she had potential that could be drawn out through direction.
But after seeing number 32? There was no room for doubt.
“So, the role of Shi-ho is decided, then.”
The judges nodded unanimously. Director Ji smiled, more satisfied than he’d been all day.
“Good work, everyone. Let’s set a rough schedule for the first script reading.”
At last, Jackpot’s cast was complete. Filming could finally begin. The actors and director, brimming with excitement, started coordinating their schedules.
The premiere of We Must Be Together was fast approaching.
Soon, the production press conference would begin. The first broadcast was scheduled for next Monday. Despite the nonstop filming, they had only finished four episodes so far.
The hall buzzed with reporters.
At one end of the long table, journalist Lee Cheol-su sighed deeply.
“So tired. So damn tired.”
The reporter next to him glanced over, then returned to his own notes. Lee peeked over and noticed he was writing an article featuring Kang Da-eun as the headline star.
That was odd—everyone else was promoting No Hye-young.
“Hey,” Lee tapped the table. “Didn’t you get the memo? They told us to headline No Hye-young.”
Kang Da-eun had been getting a lot of attention lately because of Secret Letter, and using her name in the headline would definitely drive more clicks and help the drama’s publicity. But suddenly, upper management had sent word: headline No Hye-young.
“Well, hard to do that if there’s nothing to write about,” the reporter muttered.
“How am I supposed to make her the lead of an article when there’s no material?”
Lee clicked his tongue in irritation. The other reporter handed him a business card.
“I’m Joo Han-seop. Yeah, I got the same order—but I’m ignoring it. I write what I see and feel.”
Lee raised an eyebrow. Rare to meet someone that stubborn. They exchanged cards.
“Man, I wish I could do that too.”
He wanted to rebel, but the thought of dealing with the fallout made him sigh and open his laptop.
“How the hell am I supposed to get clicks with No Hye-young as the headline…”
He kept tapping the keys, frustrated, until movement caught his eye—the director and cast were entering the hall.
“Alright, photos first.”
He zoomed in, snapping shots of the director and actors as they took their seats. The angles were terrible, everyone looked distorted—except for Kang Da-eun. Her proportions were flawless.
Staring at the photos, he lowered the camera and placed his fingers on the keyboard.
He had just thought of a perfect headline.
