Shooting scenes in chronological order would have been ideal, but with so many schedules to consider, that ideal quickly slipped out of reach.
The actors’ availabilities didn’t always align, and there was never any guarantee that the locations would be available when needed.
As a result, even scenes set in the same location were often shot out of sequence, with the ending filmed before the beginning—or the other way around.
“So, Lee Changho, in the next scene…”
Changho’s character, Lee Songhun, also made his entrance this way.
He was the entertainment CEO whom Jiseok met while busking on the streets after running away from the orphanage.
Although the contract signing scene at the orphanage was meant to occur midway through the movie, due to the need to adjust schedules, shooting was set for today.
“Let’s go for rehearsal! Actors, please come towards the camera! Lighting check!”
As soon as the AD, using a rolled-up piece of paper like a megaphone, called out to the actors, Changho stepped onto the set, which was designed to resemble the director’s office, accompanied by veteran actor Choi Chunsik and Suhyeon.
“Lower the angle of the reflector, it’s covering his features!”
“Adjust the brightness of the lights a bit…”
As the actors took their seats, the staff bustled around, adjusting the lighting according to the movement paths.
The actors didn’t sit quietly either.
They practiced their lines and rehearsed their reactions in advance to ensure the scene wouldn’t feel awkward.
It’s a pretty important scene, but it feels rather dull.
In the movie, the protagonist, Jiseok, becomes famous through busking after running away, driven by a single-minded determination to find his parents.
He then goes to a famous busking street and plays the violin alone.
In a future where smartphones were widespread and online videos were active, his performance would have undoubtedly gone viral.
Unfortunately, the setting is in the era of flip phones, where personal video recordings were typically for personal use only.
Instead of fame, Jiseok’s performance catches the attention of a passing police officer, putting him at risk of being sent back to the orphanage after just one day on the run.
That’s when Songhun, the president of an entertainment company, steps in.
Recognizing Jiseok’s extraordinary talent, Songhun convinces the police to release the boy into his custody, claiming he will return him safely.
And he does—though not as expected.
Songhun takes Jiseok straight back to the orphanage, setting the stage for an unexpected turn in the story.
Already trying to win him over, huh?
Songhun’s aim was to nurture a talented and profitable child, while Jiseok’s was to become famous so that he could find his parents.
Their goals were somewhat aligned.
The result of this arrangement wasn’t unfavorable for either of them.
…Thinking about it this way, it really does feel dull.
The next scene to be shot featured both characters arriving at the orphanage, sitting side by side in front of the director to seek his approval.
It was the scene where the director, who had been worried about the suddenly missing child, listens to that child’s dream and ultimately grants permission after much contemplation as his legal guardian.
Although this scene marked the end of the orphanage setting, much like the final act in a play, it was often handled somewhat lightly.
“If we think about how the protagonist seriously delves into music afterward, it’s a bit disappointing. In a way, it’s a turning point for the main character.”
“That’s true.”
While Suhyeon was lost in thought, the other two actors shared similar sentiments.
Both Choi Chunsik and Changho had been in the acting field for over ten years, so they were adept at reading the overall flow and identifying parts that would appeal to the audience.
In their eyes, the current scene wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t the best either.
Amidst the busy staff, the two exchanged glances.
Then they drew Suhyeon into their conversation.
“Maknae.”
“Yes, hyung.”
“I’ll give you a minute. Think about what you would say to persuade someone in a single sentence.”
“Yes…”
“Sir.”
“It seems like you’re stirring things up… but it sounds fun.”
At Changho’s call, Chunshik’s eyes sparkled like a child’s.
Having blushed during script practice, he was eager to do something that would upset the director just as much.
It was a small act of rebellion, knowing their rigid director wouldn’t approve such changes unless she saw them for herself
…Is this really okay?
Suhyeon rolled his eyes at the rapidly changing situation.
Actors not listening to the director was a significant issue.
Especially if those actors were the most influential on set, it could turn the shoot into a mess.
If things get bad, this might lead to someone being kicked out…
While it was merely actors coordinating among themselves, this wasn’t like ad-libbing—it was outright defiance of the director’s authority.
Even as Seohyun understood this in his mind, he found himself mulling over a single line of dialogue.
Humans were foolish creatures, often driven by curiosity even when they knew something was reckless madness.
* * *
“Let’s start the shoot!”
“Scene 48, take three, action!”
As the slate clapped, Suhyeon avoided Chunsik’s gaze and lowered his head.
“Haa, Jiseok.”
“Yes, Director.”
“Do you know how worried we were about you? Donggil said you went out to look for your dad, but all that was missing was your instrument and a few coins…”
“I’m sorry…”
As he apologized, sensing the scolding atmosphere, Suhyeon felt a heavier sigh weigh on his shoulders.
It was a mixed reprimand filled with concern that the young protagonist didn’t yet understand.
“Thank you for bringing Jiseok back.”
“No problem. I actually saw something good… Ah, I haven’t introduced myself yet. Here.”
Changho pulled out a business card and handed it to Chunsik.
The words “CEO of Changseong Entertainment, Lee Songhun” stood out.
“Entertainment… you run an entertainment company?”
“Yes. It’s small but firmly managed. We work with kids who want to become singers, and we also participate in classical music and movie OST productions. It’s all out of love for nurturing young and talented individuals.”
“That’s admirable work.”
As the introduction dragged on, Chunsik responded with a subtle smile and a social reply.
And at that moment—
“Director!”
“Gasp!”
“Please entrust Jiseok to me! I will take full responsibility and raise him well!”
Changho slammed the table with both hands and bowed his head in a deep bow.
My heart is racing…!
Suhyeon managed his expression as he observed the scene before him.
The camera capturing the entire scene turned what would have been a plain scene into a thrilling one.
“Please, don’t do this…”
“I beg you! Please allow me to help this child’s talent bloom!”
Changho pleaded with such determination, like a loyal subject risking his life to offer advice.
“Well… this is quite something.”
Watching Changho with a troubled expression, Chunsik soon averted his gaze and looked at Suhyeon.
Though it was just acting, the complexity of someone unable to choose was evident.
“Jiseok, what do you want to do?”
Finally, when it was his turn, Suhyeon looked at Chunsik with unwavering eyes.
There was no smile on his face.
The sparkle like the sun was gone, and the cute, fluffy affection had vanished.
What remained was someone who had no choice but to face reality and suppress their loneliness.
However, in truth, he was someone who longed for his parents.
And he was foolish enough to search for and not give up on that path.
“I want to find them.”
“Jiseok.”
“I want to know who my mom and dad are, whether they really abandoned me. Why this song just makes me feel nostalgic and happy…”
“…”
“…I want to know, sir.”
He spoke Jiseok’s thoughts clearly, looking straight into Chunsik’s eyes.
Every word carried the lingering questions Suhyeon wanted to ask his now-gone parents.
Did they really have to divorce, and was he just a byproduct they could forget and ignore after the divorce?
Though these were questions he could no longer ask, a bit of the lingering bitterness in his heart was lifted.
“Please allow it.”
Whether Suhyeon’s emotions were conveyed or it was just perfect timing, Chunsik nodded after a moment of silence.
“Alright. If that’s what you want, go ahead.”
“Sir…!”
“Sir! Thank you! We did it, Jiseok!”
“Ajeossi!”
“Jiseok!”
Suhyeon, as if nothing had happened, cheered and hugged Changho beside him.
Changho also removed his hands from the table and embraced Suhyeon.
Chunsik watched the two with a warm gaze.
Oh, it hit perfectly.
While acting out the joy, Suhyeon admired the seasoned actors.
The acting, which had veered off course after Changho slammed the table, perfectly returned to its original track by the end.
“Cut. Ha…”
Of course, this was only Suhyeon’s opinion and didn’t include Director Eulhong’s feelings.
“Ah, really. Wow, fuck…”
Unable to speak properly after calling “cut,” the director moved her lips.
Suhyeon sensed that the words were at least some kind of curse.
Honestly, even without noticing, it was hard to miss.
“You’re really good at fucking with me…”
As Eulhong let out a hollow laugh, the set fell silent.
Even though it was the beginning of summer, it felt like winter, and goosebumps rose on people’s arms.
“Who started this? No, I know who, but let’s hear it.”
Although clearly angry, she continued to laugh.
The bizarrely raised corners of her mouth made her look like a mad person.
…Am I screwed? Is my second life going downhill like this?
Suhyeon shrank at the director’s ominous aura.
He had acted impulsively on a whim, but now reality was sinking in.
I should have just gone with the long and safe route! It wasn’t a bad option!
Suhyeon suddenly faced a moment of self-reflection.
It felt like calling out “high card” in poker while following the lead of strangers, only to realize it was the lowest hand.
And though that card somehow won, it felt like being caught on casino cameras.
“It’s me.”
At that moment, as Suhyeon was at a loss before the director’s anger, Changho stood up and confessed.
The staff didn’t know what to do in the face of this rebellion led by a major actor.
Some exchanged anxious glances, wondering if the movie would fail, while others were keenly watching the unexpected power struggle.
“I apologize. I had no intention of disrespecting the director’s authority.”
Contrary to expectations, Changho bowed politely.
As someone who was expected to openly defy, his apology took the wind out of Eulhong’s sails, making her raise an eyebrow instead of exploding.
“…Alright, let’s hear your side. Why did you do it?”
“I felt it was a waste for such a potentially impactful scene to just pass as a bridge.”
He spoke in a rough but powerful voice, explaining his thoughts at that moment.
He said only what was necessary, without any excuses.
“…So I thought it should be shown first. I apologize.”
Eulhong was almost obsessive in her approach to her works.
She was a tyrant in handling her projects, and all experimental performances had to be under her direction.
While she could tolerate some ad-libs, she wouldn’t allow changes that altered the scene itself.
It was a difficult issue, but I wonder how she’ll take it…
Suhyeon nervously watched the director.
An experienced rookie, a warm iced americano—both were contradictions.
A director who wouldn’t give opportunities without trust and one who dismissed trust as an opportunity was a contradiction too.
Now that the scene was over, the only thing left was the director’s mood.
“Ha. Wow. Shit, this guy. It’s been a while since someone really pissed me off.”
Having heard Changho’s explanation, Eulhong bared her teeth in a fierce smile.
