Episode 3. Writer Hyun So-jeong
When Producer Choi suddenly declared a “script revision” and canceled filming, Lee Jiwoo was left a little perplexed.
‘Did I do something wrong? But the PD didn’t seem upset earlier….’
Wondering if he had misread human emotions, Lee Jiwoo cautiously asked his mother, Han Suji. Her answer was the complete opposite of what he expected.
“Jiwoo, you were so good that he’s revising the script for you.”
“Really?”
“Yes. He said he was going to ask the writer to increase your screen time.”
His mother beamed, delighted, while Lee Jiwoo felt a lingering sense of unease.
‘Well… if memory serves, she’s a reliable parent and guardian. No need to doubt her.’
According to Lee Jiwoo’s inherited memories, his mother was a single mom who had raised him responsibly with sincerity. A good mother.
‘The next shoot is in three days, right? What should I do until then?’
Since Jiwoo had his host’s memories, he knew the basics: attend school. Acting classes wouldn’t start until next week, though. Which left his afternoons completely empty.
‘Too much free time… sigh. Guess there’s only one thing to do….’
“Mom. Please get me all the books or videos you can find about King Danjong.”
If nothing else, he’d research his role. Lee Jiwoo resolved to make the most of the next three days.
Three days later, Lee Jiwoo and Han Suji returned to Bukhansan for the historical drama shoot.
When they arrived, Producer Choi greeted them with a bright smile, looking completely different from the last time.
“Lee Jiwoo, you’re here. Hello, Lee Jiwoo’s mother.”
“Yes, hello, PD-Choi.”
“Hello.”
Lee Jiwoo bowed politely, and Choi received it with a smile before speaking.
“The writer and I worked out the script revision. But the revised script only came in today… hmm, it’s a short script.”
In the industry, it wasn’t unusual for a scene to be shot with just a couple of hastily written pages when the writer couldn’t keep up with the filming schedule. But “common” didn’t mean “good.”
Actors hated it. With no time to study their characters or immerse themselves in the scene, mistakes piled up, shooting dragged on, and the set’s mood soured.
Still, in this case, the “short script” wasn’t due to the writer’s failure. It was a request made by the PD.
Looking apologetic, Producer Choi turned to Lee Jiwoo.
“Lee Jiwoo, do you think you can handle this?”
“Hm…”
The script was only a page long. Not much at all.
The scene was the first encounter between Grand Prince Suyang and young King Danjong. Normally, the focus would be on Suyang’s charisma overwhelming the timid boy, highlighting that Danjong lacked the qualities of a king.
But the script Lee Jiwoo received was different.
It contained one line of direction:
[In this situation, based on what Danjong and Suyang feel—3 minutes of free acting.]
‘Free acting?’
Lee Jiwoo tilted his head. He wasn’t familiar with this world’s conventions, but even he knew free acting usually only happened at auditions. It was strange to see it in a scripted drama.
“Did the writer dislike expanding Danjong’s role?”
Choi’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Ah?! N-no, nothing like that.”
‘Sure it isn’t.’
Jiwoo narrowed his eyes. He might be new to this world, but as a demon who had lived for ages, he knew how to read people.
‘So the writer’s angry about being forced to change the script because of me, and decided to take it out like this, huh.’
But Lee Jiwoo wasn’t upset.
On the contrary—this was an opportunity.
“Got it. If they want me to, I’ll do it.”
His calm, matter-of-fact response left the adults around him astonished.
‘So mature….’
‘Even adult actors feel pressured by unexpected improv scenes, but this kid—’
Lee Jiwoo just smiled.
‘Free acting means no lines to memorize. Even better.’
After all, he had spent centuries stepping into others’ lives, manipulating contracts, even acting out roles for himself.
Three minutes of improvisation? He could handle that alone.
But what Lee Jiwoo didn’t realize was the mood of Kim Jehoon—the actor playing Grand Prince Suyang—who had just lost a big chunk of his spotlight to a child.
“Ha, unbelievable.”
In his van, Kim Jehoon skimmed the script over and over, chuckling bitterly.
“They’re telling me to do three minutes of improv with a kid?!”
In acting, there was such a thing as “rank.” Put two actors of unequal level in the same frame, and the weaker one would get buried alive.
In the industry, they called it “being eaten.”
Normally, the director or staff would adjust things to prevent that: separate camera angles, give one actor the better lighting, tweak the script.
But here? One camera. A long take. Three minutes. Not comedy, but a tense standoff.
It was basically an order: “Crush the kid so completely he disappears.”
Kim Jehoon wasn’t just annoyed—he was offended.
“Seriously, what do they think I am? What did that kid do to deserve this? Is he some producer’s nephew? Did he commit some crime against the writer?”
His manager intervened, “Apparently there was some argument between the PD and the writer.”
“Ugh, more of that stupid writer-PD power struggle?”
“Calm down. Remember, you’re only here because of Writer Kim Ari’s request. Think of it as repaying a favor.”
Kim Jehoon groaned, but finally tossed the script aside.
“They said this is his first time acting? He’s just a kid. What the hell are they doing, dragging him into this mess?”
“Just try. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work.”
“Damn it.”
He sighed and stepped out of the van. Staff members greeted him warmly, and he returned their greetings before heading toward PD Choi.
From afar, he spotted the PD talking with a child.
‘That must be Danjong.’
This was Kim Jehoon’s first time meeting him in person; he’d missed the script reading due to a busy schedule.
“PD-Choi, hello.”
“Oh, Kim Jehoon, you’re here. Perfect timing. This is the boy you’ll be acting with.”
“Hello, I’m Lee Jiwoo, playing Danjong. It’s an honor to meet you, senior Kim Jehoon.”
Lee Jiwoo bowed deeply. Kim Jehoon’s stern face melted into a smile.
“Wow. They said you were a former child model, but you’re even better-looking than I expected. Nice to meet you. Call me hyung, no need to be so formal. I’m twenty years older than you.”
“Of course, senior. Please speak comfortably.”
“…What’s with your way of speaking? You sound funny.”
Lee Jiwoo’s mature tone made KIM Jehoon laugh awkwardly. Still, he found himself oddly charmed.
Then PD Choi explained.
“You’ve read the script, right? Well… that’s how it turned out.”
“PD-Choi , with all respect, three minutes of improv against a ten-year-old? What if the kid gets traumatized and quits acting?”
“Well… the thing is….”
The PD hesitated, then showed Kim Jehoon a recording from Lee Jiwoo’s solo shoot three days earlier.
[“Father…!!”]
Lee Jiwoo’s suppressed emotions burst forth on screen. Kim Jehoon’s eyes widened.
“…What?”
He replayed it. Again. Again. His expression turned stunned.
“Didn’t you say this kid was just a model, acting for the first time?”
“That’s right.”
“But at his age… to show this kind of emotion…?”
“This kid is a genius.”
Kim Jehoon admitted it outright.
Still, he frowned.
“Even so, there’s no way a child can hold their own against me in a three-minute face-off. That’s just reality.”
Kim Jehoon wasn’t bragging. He was a veteran—a “king without a crown,” known for his acting despite lacking blockbuster hits.
The PD sighed.
“You’re right, but Writer Hyun refuses to compromise. She insists on seeing it for herself.”
“…Writer Hyun, huh.”
At that moment, a sharp voice cut in.
“Did someone call me?”
Lee Jiwoo turned, and the moment he laid eyes on Writer Hyun So-jung, he nearly drooled.
‘Wow… what an overwhelming negative aura… a perfect target for a contract.’
Jealousy, self-loathing, arrogance, inferiority, laziness—all swirling like storm clouds.
As Lee Jiwoo, or rather the demon Lucerne, sized her up, Hyun So-jung strode over with a biting tone.
“If we’re rewriting the script, of course we need to see the leads’ acting ability. By the way, Mr. Kim, are you okay with losing some screen time?”
Her words were sharp, abrasive. Kim Jehoon answered curtly.
“Doesn’t matter. I didn’t join this project for fame or money anyway.”
The message was clear: I don’t need you. Hyun’s eyebrow twitched.
“…Well, for someone like you, this little game probably means nothing. In any case, three minutes. I’ll be counting on you.”
“Hey, Writer Hyun—”
But she ignored the PD’s protest and walked away. Kim Jehoon could only laugh bitterly.
“What a brat. She won’t last long in this field.”
The PD paled. If Kim Jehoon walked out now, the whole production would collapse.
But Kim Jehoon just shook his head.
“Not your fault, PD-Choi . That writer just doesn’t know humility yet. Honestly, I don’t know how someone like her studied under Writer Kim Ari. If not for Ms. Kim….”
“Yes, Ms. Kim Ari is both talented and kind.”
“…Anyway, no need to play into her hand. Let’s just handle it in a way that won’t crush the kid.”
The tension seemed to settle—until Lee Jiwoo suddenly spoke.
“Senior. Actually, I’d like to show that writer something properly.”
“…What?”
Lee Jiwoo beckoned him closer, whispering his plan.
“…Huh?!”
What Lee Ji-woo’s suggested was bold—maybe even reckless.
