Chapter : 13
No matter the audition, scripts are given as a basic rule. And it’s standard industry practice not to film anything outside the scope of the given script.
Actors willingly put on their masks, operating under the assumption that filming will proceed within the boundaries of a pre-set script.
Soon, the stage lighting dimmed, and red letters began to appear on the screen to the right.
[Game Changer]
Ha. Truly, this is so childish it feels like it’s eating away at my soul.
Hae-in’s gaze shifted beyond the stage to Do-jun. He too wore a somewhat puzzled expression, as if he hadn’t been informed either. Simultaneously, the host’s lively voice rang out.
“Game Changer! Just hearing the name sparks curiosity, doesn’t it? It means, quite literally, that there’s one choice left that can completely flip the current situation. You see the scripts in your hands, right?”
Hae-in looked at the script in her hands with a displeased expression. Her heart began to pound again at the oddly unsettling tone.
“Just once! We’ll give you the chance to swap scripts. If any actor wants to play a character from someone else’s script rather than their own, raise your hand and call out the corresponding number. But first, please quietly open your scripts. Do not share them with anyone—just check your own.”
Hae-in’s hands trembled as she tore open the sealed envelope. The seconds stretched on like eternity. Inside the envelope, on top of the script, the title was printed in black Gothic font:
<Senator Sang-won>
Phew.
Her racing heart slowed as if it had been lying. She knew this work well. It was a drama about a second-generation Korean immigrant in the United States, with an Asian woman challenging for the Senate for the first time.
No matter which part came up, she could handle it. It wasn’t a messy romance or a work that required deep emotional processing.
“Looks like Hae-in got a good one.”
Perhaps noticing Hae-in’s expression, Ga-young smiled brightly backstage at Do-jun, who nodded in relief.
Now she just had to stick to this script.
“Not everyone can be a Game Changer! Only the first three to raise their hands will get a chance to swap scripts!”
Unlike Hae-in, some of the other actors looked dismayed, but no one raised their hand hastily.
No one seemed willing to take the greater risk of performing a role without knowing what script the other person held.
“Ah, this is a bit different from what we expected. We’ll count to ten. If no one chooses to swap, we’ll proceed as is. Ten, nine, eight, seven…”
Just hold on for seven seconds.
Hae-in bowed her head, holding the script close to her chest. And then—
“I’ll do it.”
A voice broke the silence.
It came from the back, making it hard to identify who it was. Still, out of seventy people, they were choosing mine.
Perhaps in excitement that the moment they wanted had come, a couple of cameramen immediately zoomed in on the speaker.
“I want to swap my script.”
“Actor #52! What a brave choice! Do you have someone in mind?”
#52 was Han So-i. Hae-in felt a wave of relief—if it was the girl she had greeted earlier, there was no way she would embarrassedly take someone else’s script.
“Actor #52! Please call out the person you wish to swap with.”
“…Before that, there’s no penalty for swapping scripts, right?”
“Haha. None at all. We proposed this—what penalty could there be? Who would you like to exchange with?”
So-i’s hesitant gaze was caught perfectly on camera. Then her mouth opened.
“I’d like to swap with actor #27, please.”
“…!”
The camera in front of So-i now seemed poised to devour Hae-in’s face.
The moment her number was called, Hae-in’s mind went blank. The camera, seemingly satisfied with that expression, zoomed cruelly on her face.
The host took So-i’s script and handed it to Hae-in, while So-i received Hae-in’s. A foreboding chill ran down Hae-in’s spine, and she closed her eyes for a moment.
“Actor #52, what script do you have now?”
“Senator Sang-won.”
“And the one you originally had?”
The host persistently asked, clearly enjoying the theatricality of the moment.
The camera crew began filming Hae-in from multiple angles, seemingly determined to capture her trembling heart on film.
“…<Temptation>.”
“…!”
“May you shine at the highest peak.”
“The winner of this year’s Best Actress award! …Ah, I had already guessed it would be this person. Congratulations, Yoon Hae-in of <Temptation>!”
“…Hae-jin, Hae-jin-ah! Hae-jin, why is Hae-jin lying here!”
“Someone catch Hae-in!”
It was as if the cruel echoes of that day were repeating. Hae-in slowly looked down at the script in her hands.
<Temptation>
The script that had been at the scene of her sister’s death was now in her hands. The tears that had pooled in her large eyes fell with a soft plop.
“Ugh.”
“Hae-in!”
Unable to hold back her rising nausea, Hae-in bolted backstage, followed immediately by Ga-young and Do-jun.
She couldn’t even remember which way the bathroom was. The seventy pairs of eyes on her felt as if they were crawling all over her body.
Once Hae-in disappeared from view, a cameraman hit the slate.
“We’ll take a short break! Fifteen minutes! Jae-young, did you get all the footage?”
“Yes. From looking at the script to running off, I got it all.”
“Got it perfectly. Yoon Hae-in and <Temptation>.”
The director smiled as he checked the footage while sitting on a folding chair, legs crossed. And then—
“…What is this? Who dared add such a scene without permission?”
Do-jun’s long shadow fell across the director’s face.
The director slowly looked up, startled by the commanding voice.
Seo Do-jun. He was the third-generation heir of the AJ Group, overseeing this audition, newly appointed CEO of AJ Entertainment, and Head of Strategic Planning at AJ Media. His presence alone unsettled the director.
The director hadn’t expected Do-jun today and gave him a reluctant look.
“Ah… Head of Strategic Planning.”
“Not Head of Strategic Planning. CEO.”
Do-jun corrected the title, and the director averted his gaze.
Hae-in knew of Do-jun’s reputation.
A Midas touch producer who had nurtured countless famous Hollywood actors. A perfectionist at work.
He never overlooked acts beyond his control and always achieved what he set his mind to. And he had taken a keen interest in this audition.
The director, reviewing all this information, slowly spoke.
“Isn’t your goal to make the OTT covering this audition a huge hit, maximizing profits? Adding unexpected hurdles and capturing the flustered participants has long been industry practice—”
Ironically, even in front of Do-jun, the director spoke with a curious confidence. This was his stage. He had no intention of letting an investor’s heir interfere.
“Even the predictable hurdles should fall within the limits of the given script—that’s also long-standing industry practice.”
Do-jun replied flatly, the act showing little consideration for the participants.
Hae-in could not perform Temptation. Forcing her to start in front of the camera with that script was too cruel.
Thinking this, Do-jun’s brows furrowed further. He didn’t want Hae-in exploited in such a provocative way. Every uncontrolled situation felt like his fault.
