Seoul, Gangnam – A towering building amidst a forest of skyscrapers: the JJ Entertainment headquarters.
A man stepped out of a black sedan accompanied by reporters and trudged inside. Those waiting in the lobby greeted him warmly upon seeing him.
It was Lee Jae-jun—CEO of JJ Entertainment and one of South Korea’s top actors.
“Good morning, CEO!”
“Sir, you look especially sharp today.”
Jae-jun smiled in response.
Dressed in a crisp suit, his well-built frame defied his late-thirties age—thanks to his disciplined workout routine. Though not conventionally handsome by actor standards, his sheer acting prowess captivated audiences.
As he entered the building, an LED sign came into view:
JJ Entertainment
South Korea’s top actor agency, founded by Lee Jae-jun and fellow actor Jung Sung-ha. Getting in was tough, but once you did, the company dominated awards season—like an internal year-end party where JJ actors competed against each other.
Their roster was packed with A-listers; the entertainment industry practically couldn’t function without JJ’s actors.
In other words, JJ was every actor’s dream. Everyone, at some point, knocked on its doors.
After a long elevator ride, Jae-jun stepped out and pushed open the CEO’s office door.
Sung-ha was leisurely sipping coffee, as if he’d been expecting him.
“Oh, you’re here. Good morning.”
“Good morning my ass. What’s this about suddenly starting a production company?”
“At least greet me properly first. And this is something the company needs to do.”
“The company? You always frame your opinions as company policy. What exactly is our business again?”
Sung-ha handed him a glass of cold water, trying to calm him down.
“Just relax first.”
“Do I look relaxed? You want to use the money our juniors busted their asses earning to start a production company?”
“Hear me out. First, production is profitable. If it goes well, we won’t need to overwork our actors. Second, we can cast our own talent in our projects—cutting costs, stabilizing jobs. Two birds with one stone.”
“Ha. With the money we’ve made, we could support our actors to focus on acting instead. Do you know how much we could help dedicated juniors with the funds you’re wasting on this ‘brilliant’ production venture?”
“I’ve said it before—this is a business. Money is the core. And at the end of the day, even our ‘noble’ work runs on it.”
“Money? Then why not just trade goods? Oh wait—you already do. Trading people, right?”
Jae-jun scoffed, then irritably grabbed a water bottle from the table and gulped it down. But the small sip did nothing to quell his anger.
The kind of entertainment company he wanted was one that supported juniors, providing them a stable environment to hone their craft.
Even before founding JJ, his passion for acting had been exceptional. He’d funded theater projects and living expenses for up-and-coming actors.
A portion of the company’s profits even went to scholarships for aspiring actors.
Jae-jun himself had survived in the industry purely on skill, not looks. He believed in creating a world where talent alone could succeed—a duty he owed as a senior actor.
Sung-ha adjusted his posture, ready to persuade him.
“Your heart’s in the right place. But do you remember you’re a co-CEO?”
“What?”
“How many times must I say it? The company needs influence.”
“To me, it sounds like ‘the company’ is just you, and ‘influence’ is just money.”
“Damn it, this is why people say you’re clueless about anything but acting. The employees greeting you, our first investors—do you ever wonder how their dividends work? Shareholders are already pissed about shrinking profits thanks to your welfare spending.”
Jae-jun knew. But he believed JJ had grown into a publicly traded giant precisely because it prioritized its actors’ creative freedom—to showcase their talent to audiences.
They always clashed over the same issue.
Sung-ha gazed out the window at the dense skyline. Like those parallel skyscrapers, their stances showed no sign of narrowing.
“Ugh, this is giving me a headache. Let’s talk later, Jae-jun. Cool off first.”
“Fine, Sung-ha—no, CEO Jung. Do me a favor and drop this production company nonsense. That money could support thirty minor actors.”
Sung-ha didn’t respond.
“Remember why we started this company.”
“……”
“It was supposed to be for everyone—the company, the industry, the audience. I’m leaving.”
Jae-jun walked out, the door slamming behind him, leaving Sung-ha alone.
“As I thought… everything about this is grating. Everything but acting.”
Sung-ha muttered, gripping the half-empty water bottle.
In the elevator descending to the underground lot, Jae-jun replayed the argument.
When did we start drifting apart?
They’d been friends and colleagues for years, both rising to the top as actors. But the instability of an actor’s life had always weighed on Jae-jun. He’d vowed that once he made it, he’d help others like him.
At the parking lot, he took the keys from his driver.
“Mr. Jung, go home early today.”
He handed him an envelope of cash.
The driver waved his hands in protest.
“CEO-nim, you don’t have to—you just gave me some last time!”
“Take your family out for a nice meal today.”
“Thank you for always caring so much.”
“No, thank you. And please—call me ‘Actor Lee,’ not CEO.”
Jae-jun smiled faintly and started the car. Truthfully, having a driver embarrassed him—it was Sung-ha who’d insisted, citing “maintaining dignity as co-CEO.”
“How long are you going to keep tagging along with managers? I got you a driver and a nice car—just use them.”
“Since when does dignity come from a car? That money could’ve supported—”
“Supporting actors again?! Support what, instant noodles? Just get in the damn car!”
Back then, Jae-jun had thought Sung-ha had changed.
Jae-jun and Sung-ha had cheered each other’s dreams since they were twenty. They’d stayed up all night rehearsing lines over drinks, debating acting with youthful fervor.
“Those were the days.”
Over time, Jae-jun soared in dramas while Sung-ha dominated films—building careers as if competing. Now, they were co-CEOs of JJ Entertainment, nearing an IPO.
“I’m sick of seeing actors starve for their craft.”
“Me too. What if we made it big and supported the next generation?”
“Perfect. Let’s earn enough to start our own company.”
From their debut youth film to petty fights over girls (Sung-ha had looked ridiculous back then), founding JJ hadn’t been smooth. So much had happened.
Had the rift started when company profits eclipsed their acting income?
I want to stop this before it shatters completely.
“……”
At a red light, memories flooded him.
Why now? Like my life flashing before my eyes—
The moment the thought crossed his mind, a violent impact sent his body and car flying.
Yes—it was his life flashing before him.
By any measure, he’d lived well: a top actor, CEO of Korea’s biggest agency.
Maybe it’s time to rest.
But this thirst—what was it?
Facing death, he realized something was still unfulfilled.
Acting!
If only he had more time, he could’ve reached even greater heights. Despite working nonstop, he now regretted the roles he’d never played.
Ah… If he could be young again, if he had more time—he’d cherish even the smallest roles.
If reincarnation existed, he wanted to see the pinnacle of acting in his next life.
[If given youth and another chance at life, would you still want to act?]
‘Of course.’
[Perfect. This’ll suit you just fine.]
Thud—
At 38, the great actor Lee Jae-jun met his end.
Even a powerhouse like him was powerless before death.
★★★
‘Am I really… dead?’
When I opened my eyes, a shabby room came into view. It was so barren you could take it all in at a single glance.
“I was sure I had died…”
Yet here I was, in what seemed like a completely different environment.
Cautiously, I tested my footing. The sensation of the floor beneath my feet—solid, real, undeniably present.
As I turned my gaze, I spotted soju bottles neatly lined up in the corner of the cramped, dingy room, half-hidden beneath piles of clothes.
While surveying the space, something suddenly flickered into existence before me.
[Lee Jae-jun, you have been granted the youth you so desperately wished for at the moment of your death.]
“What the hell is this screen? Wait… it feels familiar.”
Right before dying. Even so, Jae-jun was bewildered.
[Ahem. Allow me to briefly explain this body’s circumstances.]
The text shifted naturally.
[Name: Ki Tae-hoon]
[Age: 26]
[Details: A former long-time trainee. Debuted as an idol but remained nothing more than a shallow pebble in the industry—no hit songs to his name. Attempted to transition into acting, only to fail spectacularly!]
“Fail spectacularly…?”
What kind of description is that?
No—more importantly, what is this?
The system window hovering before him blurred the line between reality and illusion.
Above all, he was certain he had died.
According to this screen, he was now alive in the body of someone named Ki Tae-hoon.
[Begin your life as Ki Tae-hoon! A washed-up idol-turned-actor, infamous online for his cringe-worthy acting. This is your final chance—starting with a minor role.]
“Final chance? And acting?”
[Correct. Your final chance. If you fail as an actor, you will lose access to this body.]
“Lose access? Then what happens?”
[You will return to your original body. Current location: Guangcheon Public Cemetery, Plot C, Left Side, Second Row.]
‘So, back to being buried six feet under.’
“Where is Ki Tae-hoon right now? Did he die like me?”
[That information cannot be disclosed at this time. You have been given the young body and second life you desired.]
“…..Tch. Like I had any other choice.”
It needled at him. Presenting him with an ultimatum—live or be buried.
But more than that—
‘Honestly, there’s no way I’d fail as an actor.’
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