By Zephyria 
“Excuse me.”
The man turned to Park Hae-jun with a start.
“What you’re holding there, what is it?”
“…”
“Those are profiles, aren’t they?”
“…”
“Can I see them, please?”
Park Hae-jun reached for the stack of files tucked under the man’s arm. The man shook Park Hae-jun off and backed away.
He had suspected it, but it was true. The man was gathering other people’s profiles and running away with them.
“You thief!”
Park Hae-jun chased after the fleeing man. When Park Hae-jun started running, Lee A-gon ran too. The three men clattered down the stairs. Park Hae-jun leaped down five steps at once. He barely grazed the thief’s collar. Then the man scattered the stack of profiles into the air and fled.
Park Hae-jun quickly hit the brakes. He couldn’t chase any further. To follow the man, he would have to step on the profiles that had fallen to the floor.
“That bastard.”
After glaring at the man’s rapidly disappearing figure, Park Hae-jun bent down. He carefully gathered up people’s profiles.
They were all profiles of actors applying for the tall male role. Among them were photos of people who didn’t appear to be over 185 cm no matter how you looked at them. Some were handsome, and some were less attractive than Lee A-gon. The common thread was that they all seemed desperate.
The last one he picked up was Lee A-gon’s profile. Unfortunately, it had a footprint on it. A trace of the thief stepping on it.
Park Hae-jun frowned as he shook the profile vigorously. But no matter how well he shook it, the faint footprint wouldn’t disappear.
“That bastard.” Cursing again, he went back up the way they had come, and found a single profile lying neatly in the box. It belonged to the thief.
Park Hae-jun debated whether to remove the man’s profile but ultimately decided not to. Instead, he firmly stepped on that profile, creating a footprint larger than the one on Lee A-gon’s.
Is this common?
On the way back, Park Hae-jun wondered. Could someone who steals others’ profiles to eliminate competition and leave only their own actually succeed in the end?
He recalled a desperate post from an aspiring actor who had never made it to an audition. Perhaps that person’s profile had also been stolen by someone.
Lee A-gon received his third audition offer. It wasn’t for the project looking for a tall man. It was a movie seeking a supporting male actor in his twenties or thirties.
While Lee A-gon was auditioning, Park Hae-jun leaned against the production company building’s exterior wall, his legs trembling uncontrollably. He understood why people smoke. He felt like a parent who had sent their struggling child to take the college entrance exam for the third time. Honestly, if it would help, he’d have been willing to paste toffee on the production company’s gate for good luck.
“Did it go well?”
Finally, Lee A-gon appeared. Park Hae-jun quickly approached his actor.
My actor. Please, this time you must get it.
“I think I did well.”
“Did the director or anyone say anything?”
“Well, they did say something.”
“What?”
“They said my acting was excellent.”
“But?”
“They said my look doesn’t fit at all.”
The strength drained from Park Hae-jun’s shoulders as he listened attentively.
Ah, as expected.
By now, he was certain. In three auditions, they had mentioned his appearance all three times. So that really meant…
“Because you’re not handsome enough?”
“No, they said I’m too handsome for the role.”
Lee A-gon was lying in response to Park Hae-jun’s careful question. Park Hae-jun bit his lip. If he pointed out the lie, the kid would be hurt.
“Was the role you auditioned for like the Hunchback of Notre Dame or something?”
So Park Hae-jun made an indirect comment. Lee A-gon looked confused.
“Who’s that?”
“…Never mind. Anyway, good job. Should we have meat today?”
“Really? We don’t have much money, can we afford meat?”
“Yeah, I’ll make bulgogi for you. Let’s stop by the supermarket.”
“Yes, hyung.”
Park Hae-jun patted the back of the smiling Lee A-gon. He wanted to at least feed his actor well, who would likely be rejected from countless future auditions for the same reason.
A few days later, Lee A-gon got his fourth audition. It was the posting for a tall male actor where the thief had stolen the profiles. The production company was OnFilm, and the audition theme was ‘love’—the assignment was to act out a scene from a movie or drama released within the last three years.
OnFilm was a new production company formed by several filmmakers from different backgrounds, and they were preparing their third commercial film. Having barely avoided losses with their first two works, they were somewhat discouraged.
The third film was a fantasy work with a love story, featuring a female actor in the sole lead role. There were already rumors that it would be difficult to succeed, but Planning Team Leader Kim believed in the strength of the screenplay he had been developing for two years.
“The actor playing the female lead’s first love must be handsome. Height 185 cm or taller. This is non-negotiable.”
The protagonist was played by Ji Eun-young, a lead actress recognized for her acting skills. Fortunately, Ji Eun-young, who was passionate about acting, decided to appear in the film, valuing the opportunity to be the sole female lead more than the guarantee.
In exchange for supporting the lead, they decided to use a newcomer for the male counterpart to lower the cost. Team Leader Kim insisted that for this film to succeed, the male actor must be tall and handsome, even if he was unknown.
“You may begin.”
“Begin filming.”
When the record button on the camcorder was pressed, the actors began performing. Since the announced theme was love, the actors had all prepared passionate love scenes. They confessed, begged, raged, and clung to an imaginary female lead.
Team Leader Kim sighed. This was now the seventh actor to burst into tears. He couldn’t understand why they kept crying at auditions.
Did they think they’d get sympathy votes by shedding tears, like on TV audition programs?
The auditioning actors were all desperate. The problem was that they were so desperate that they tried to show everything they could do during the audition.
Auditions lasted at most about 3 minutes. In that time, the actors tried to unleash all the skills they had accumulated. In other words, they tried to show everything they could do.
This often led to unnecessary emotions erupting as well, ultimately making them fall into self-pity and burst into tears.
Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.
Team Leader Kim anxiously watched actor number 33, whose shoulders were already beginning to heave. After bending his waist 90 degrees and saying he was confident he could do well if given just one chance, he soon began sniffling, wallowing in his own misery.
“Just give me a chance. I really can do well. Sob. I want to be an actor who gives his all. Please just trust me. Sob.”
Oh my, I can’t watch this.
Team Leader Kim turned his head away. After displaying excessive enthusiasm and going overboard on his own, the man started sobbing. It was incredibly uncomfortable.
“Please calm down first. Yes, we saw your acting. You can go now. Thank you for your time.”
The junior staff member led the man out. His sobs continued to echo.
“Haah.”
Team Leader Kim, the director, and the casting director all sighed simultaneously.
The more you want it, the more desperate you become. Desperate people lack charm. Sad but true. Acting done under pressure made viewers uncomfortable too.
Actor number 34, who came in next, was the complete opposite of the previous man. He was so modest and humble that he didn’t convey any charm at all.
“We’re not hiring an office worker; we’re looking for a man women will fall in love with, and this is just…”
The director muttered after actor 34’s audition ended. He seemed to have adopted the strategy of being modest and nice—a Korean sentiment that if you stay still, you’ll at least be average, and that standing out gets you hammered down—but that’s exactly why he lacked charm.
Charm. This was always the issue.
The man appeared when everyone was getting tired. The man who ducked his head slightly as he entered, clearly over 190 cm tall, was undoubtedly eye-catching.
His overall impression was like white, transparent frost. He was on the thin side, giving an unhealthy impression, which was partly due to his extremely pale skin. He was so pale that he seemed even whiter than Ji Eun-young, who was cast as the female lead.
His large, black eyes within oily eyelids looked languid. A prominent cupid’s bow above full lips, and a philtrum that looked as if it had been carved with a chisel. He wasn’t an extraordinary beauty, but he gave the impression that he would become one.
Like a flower just before it fully blooms, still in bud. Moreover, he exuded a confidence unusual for an unknown actor. In a word, he had charm.
“Number 58, Lee A-gon.”
The man introduced himself with a smile. His face, which had given off a somewhat bleak impression, changed completely. His deep mouth cave was as refreshing as bursting carbonation. It was open and charming.
That’s it.
Certainty struck Team Leader Kim’s heart. This was the man. This man would become much more beautiful and mature in the future. Now was the time to invest. That’s the feeling he got.
Please be good at acting too.
Team Leader Kim clasped his hands as if in prayer.
No, you don’t have to be too good. Just be decent. Please just be decent.
With everyone’s eyes focused, the camcorder’s record button was pressed. The actor with the frosty impression bowed and said, “I’ll begin my performance now.”