Chapter 1. Assistant Writer for a Morning Drama
“Younghee gets pregnant with Cheolsu’s child. But Cheolsu is infertile. Isn’t that way too outdated a trope?”
“That’s where the twist comes in—what if Cheolsu, who’s lived his whole life thinking he was the king of virility, turns out to be completely… empty?”
“What twist? And is it even fun if the male lead is nothing but a shell? Also, instead of a kimchi slap, you’re suggesting a gamtae slap? Have you ever been hit with gamtae? Does it even hurt?”
“Well… I haven’t tried it, but maybe if you soak the gamtae in water first—”
“Wouldn’t a gamtae oranda be better? If you’re going to use food, at least make it believable.”
Gamtae or gamtae oranda—it all sounded equally ridiculous to me. What “believability” was there to begin with?
Still, I happened to have an unusually keen sense of smell.
Judging by the fact that the coffee in Writer Oh Jung-sook’s hand was Kenyan rather than Colombian, her mood must have been absolutely foul.
The air grew heavy, and my shoulders hunched on their own. No wonder my forward-head posture never improved.
“As expected of a writer with 25% ratings…!”
“It’s a morning drama—we have to consider the budget. And it’s 25.7%.”
With an air of superiority, Writer Oh Jung-sook lowered her gaze and savored the aroma of her coffee.
Right. 25.7%. To be honest, that was an extraordinary number for a morning drama.
Every day online, people raved about her work as if it were some famous restaurant—“So good! So good!”—repeating the same exclamations in unison.
But perhaps she had poured everything into the beginning. Now that we were past the midpoint, the story simply wouldn’t move forward.
She’d already told everything she had to tell. Then again, had she ever really had anything to say in the first place?
There was a particular reason why I found myself doubting her with such cynicism.
Was it because she was a sensitive boss? Because she constantly criticized others? No.
It was because Writer Oh Jung-sook was a copy writer.
Ideas that had been criticized to death for being cliché somehow wormed their way in and took over the story.
The female lead, Kim Younghee, being the daughter of a shaman.
At the moment she begins to suffer from a spiritual affliction inherited from her mother—
She happens to meet Park Cheolsu, the only son of Saseong, the number one conglomerate in Korea.
Despite warnings from the spirits that her fate will be anything but smooth, she falls in love with him.
As a result, she is parachuted into Cheolsu’s secret club, “Orange.”
There, she meets Yoo Gong, another male lead and a problematic top star actor.
She even steals the heart of Shin Gaeul, the hidden youngest son of the giant pharmaceutical company Hanje.
Of course, there was a meticulous mastermind behind it all.
The chairman of Unicorn, Saseong’s rival company, was in a secret relationship with Younghee’s mother.
They deliberately pushed Younghee toward Cheolsu in order to expose Saseong’s corruption.
‘Betraying the man she loves, Cheolsu. Defying fate itself. In the end, will Younghee overcome the dilemma between love and prejudice and live freely as an independent shaman?’
Even the dramatic premise—framed as a tale of romance but ultimately chronicling one woman’s life—was entirely my plot.
The problem?
This absurd story had gone viral among online mom cafés and become a massive hit.
So whether it was gamtae or gamtae oranda, was I really in the mood to listen?
“Dallae, huh? Got anything?”
As expected, Writer Oh Jung-sook looked at me with impatience, and the words slipped out before I could stop them.
“How about introducing another villain…?”
“A villain? We already have more than enough.”
“What if… a femme fatale who studied abroad returns to Korea for certain reasons—and turns out to be the final boss?”
“Dallae, you should really cut back on webtoons.”
“Well… those otherworld stories are fun because of the villains…”
“You’ve got some experience under your belt now, and you still won’t back down, huh?”
Of course not. I hate losing.
At this rate, there was a high chance that a villainess even I didn’t know about would appear in the next episode.
“Having trouble coming up with ideas? Still hate actors, I see.”
That hit a nerve, but I quickly fixed my gaze somewhere beyond the wall and answered.
“Yes… well.”
“You need to fall in love with an actor. That’s when the writing starts to flow. Got it?”
“Yes… well.”
Fall in love? With an actor?
If a married writer fell in love with a rising actor, wouldn’t that just turn into a full-blown makjang affair?
I swallowed my complaints and furiously typed away at my laptop.
Six months earlier—it was the day of the script reading for When the Night Bloom Falls.
To be precise, it started at the after-party.
‘Dallae, brace yourself. Don’t go exchanging anything that feels like sincerity.’
It was my first time at such a gathering, and I repeated a senior’s warning as I headed to the dinner.
Actors were people who wore different masks depending on ratings and buzz. I even hypnotized myself into believing it.
Don’t give them anything to latch onto. I had resolved that. I definitely had.
At first, my plan was simply to enjoy some beef on my own and leave.
That was, until someone asked me for a light.
“…Excuse me?”
“Got a lighter?”
The male lead, Park Cheolsu. The actor’s real name was Lee Seongtan.
‘How is his name even Seongtan? Not just Seongtan, but Lee Seongtan?’
A legendary three syllables that made you react on instinct.
A tall frame that couldn’t be taken in at a glance, perfectly sculpted features—and those sharp, narrow eyes that completed the picture.
Twenty-two. The moment he debuted, his visuals shocked the industry, and he landed a leading role immediately.
They called him the Christmas Miracle—like a gift from Santa, descending upon this world on Christmas. He never even had to endure the obscurity most actors go through.
Was that why? Did staying at the top for eight straight years turn someone like that?
Or was it because the public applauded his “new challenge” of appearing in a morning drama?
At this point, I could define Lee Seongtan in four words:
Arrogant. Hopeless. Utter trash.
“I don’t smoke.”
“Whether you smoke or not, I want one right now. Do you see a cigarette in my mouth?”
“Don’t you have a lighter?”
“No.”
For a brief moment, I considered grabbing the cigarette from his lips and shoving it up his nose.
But I held back.
Because I was just staff. You don’t cross the male lead. That was practically an unspoken rule in this industry.
“Please wait a moment. I’ll go borrow one.”
Stepping outside to get some fresh air had been my mistake.
Just as I was about to turn back, Cheolsu—no, Seongtan—called out to me.
“Hey.”
“Yes…?”
“Where have I seen you? Lighting? Script supervisor?”
“Oh. I’m assistant writer Song Dallae.”
“I didn’t ask your name.”
Wasn’t introducing yourself basic etiquette?
Had the rules changed without me noticing?
As confusion set in, Seongtan removed the cigarette from his mouth and continued.
“If you’re an assistant, act like one.”
“…Excuse me?”
“Go get a lighter. That’s what I mean.”
Act like an assistant?
How did that translate into “go get me a lighter”?
I stood there, stunned, as if I’d been struck in the head. Seongtan clicked his tongue and gestured impatiently.
When I went back inside to borrow a lighter.
When I carefully lit the cigarette in his mouth.
Act like an assistant. Act like an assistant.
That one sentence echoed endlessly in my ears.
He even made me stand guard for about three minutes.
In case someone recognized him.
Words really were powerful.
I had once loved writing because of that power.
But this filthy world—when you looked closely, it was nothing but a rigid hierarchy.
I had always known that.
But that day, for some reason, tears welled up.
Only after watching Seongtan stroll back inside did I mutter quietly,
“Actors… I wish they’d all just go to hell.”
A single tear fell, like a leaking faucet.
Was it because I was writing a candy-type heroine?
Why had I become so weak?
Just as I tried to shake it off—
“Does that include me too, Writer?”
Ah. Someone had heard me.
And out of the darkness of the alley stepped none other than Baek Junho.
He played Yoo Gong, the second male lead in When the Night Bloom Falls.
“Actor, I didn’t mean—”
Flustered, my face turned pale, and I couldn’t finish my sentence.
He smiled gently.
“Not everyone is like that.”
“…What?”
“Not everyone is like Seongtan sunbae.”
“No—how much did you hear?”
Instead of answering, Junho took out a peppermint candy and handed it to me.
I stood there, confused, until he awkwardly scratched the back of his head.
“Ah… don’t feel pressured or anything.”
“It’s not really… something to feel pressured about.”
As I finally accepted the candy, he laughed softly, covering his mouth.
Then he stepped closer, his eyes still curved beautifully—
And suddenly leaned down, bringing his high nose close to the nape of my neck.
I froze.
“W-What are you doing…?”
“You don’t smoke.”
“…What?”
Then it clicked.
Ah. He’d seen everything from the beginning.
“You don’t smell like it.”
“Oh… I see.”
As I struggled to place my gaze, Junho stepped back, keeping a polite distance again.
“If you eat that, you won’t smell at all.”
He pointed at the peppermint candy in my hand.
This time, I burst out laughing.
As if one piece of candy could erase the smell of cigarettes clinging to my entire body.
“…Thank you.”
When my laughter faded, a quiet warmth spread through me.
Maybe not everyone was the same.
In that moment, Junho’s words felt true.
Just moments ago, I had thought all actors were alike.
But through a tiny opening—no bigger than a peppermint candy—Junho reached out his hand, and my emotions began to waver.
“Writer Song Dallae, I know.”
“…Yes?”
“That you’re more dedicated to this project than anyone. Even if it’s just enduring… that still means you’re strong. So whether you’re an assistant or not—does that really matter?”
“Actor…?”
“Well, it might matter, but… I just think you’re a cool person. From what I’ve seen.”
A… cool person?
Had anyone ever described me that kindly before?
Something soft and unfamiliar began to swell inside me.
As I stood there, feeling as if my feet weren’t touching the ground, Junho gave me a gentle goodbye and walked back inside.
His quiet comfort carried a refreshing scent.
As if I had bitten into not just one, but a hundred peppermint candies at once.
From that moment on, I secretly started thinking about how Yoo Gong could win Kim Younghee’s love.
As Yoo Gong’s character grew stronger, people occasionally complained about imbalance—but who cared?
“I just think you’re a cool person.”
He said I was cool.
A single careless pebble could stir the heart of a small frog into chaos.
Yoo Gong—or perhaps Junho himself—filled my thoughts, and even my daily commute began to feel different.
Being shoved around on a crowded bus. Transferring in a packed subway. Climbing stairs step by step. Turning into the alley near home.
Everything felt new.
I was walking through a world filled entirely with Junho—
When suddenly, a strange scent snapped me back to my senses.
Had this place always been here?
At the corner of the alley stood a shabby sign for a peculiar antique shop.
As I said before, I had an unusually keen sense of smell.
There was no way I could just pass by.
“You’re selling this tablet for 10,000 won…?”
Ten thousand won.
Some days, the smell of money overpowered everything else.
“I told you! You think I’ve been scammed my whole life? It’s an old model, but it still works.”
“It looks brand new…”
I had been needing one—for jotting down ideas, or looking up Baek Junho’s filmography.
If it worked at all, wasn’t it a bargain?
Sometimes, it was worth taking a gamble.
I gladly pulled out 10,000 won and handed it to the old shopkeeper.
“Thank you, sir.”
He quickly wrapped the tablet in a black plastic bag—oddly out of place for a shop like this—and handed it to me.
Then, suddenly, his hand stopped.
When I looked up, puzzled, his eyes had turned serious.
“You’ve paid the price, so use it well. Your life might turn upside down.”
“…Excuse me?”
What did that quiet smile mean?
Was it really from this moment…?
Very slowly, my world began to turn upside down.
