As the lively announcement came to an end, reality gradually started to sink in.
This house… felt like a pigsty.
A sigh escaped naturally upon seeing the shabby house, so unlike the luxurious walls and marble floors of a penthouse.
‘Feels like when I used to live alone.’
And instead of expensive wine, there were countless bottles of soju.
“Ugh!”
Just as I stepped into the bathroom, my stomach churned from a soju hangover—despite never having drunk soju before.
And then, I saw him.
A beautiful young man in the mirror.
I almost slipped.
He looked quite tired, but his flawless skin and sharp features made up for it.
“What the hell is this?”
A relatively deep, resonant voice.
Heavier and lower than usual.
I hurriedly touched my body.
Whatever dream this was, it felt far too real.
Lean muscles. A rather slim frame.
[Alright, now that we’re acquainted—I’ll begin transferring some of this body’s former owner, Ki Taehoon’s, memories.]
A splitting headache followed, making me instinctively furrow my brows.
A flood of information rushed into my mind.
Ki Taehoon.
Debuted as part of the boy group Tiamax under Gamga Entertainment.
But after five years, the group disbanded.
Not an exceptional singer, not particularly entertaining on variety shows, and certainly not a good actor.
The only thing he had going for him was his striking looks.
He attempted to transition into acting but was blacklisted after a single mistake. No one called him for roles anymore.
“Damn, he really is handsome.”
Even among actors, looks like his were rare.
“But he’s in terrible shape.”
Gone was the silky hair once maintained at high-end salons. Now, it was dry and brittle.
If the group disbanded, did that mean he didn’t even have an agency anymore?
Just then—
BANG! BANG! BANG!
A loud pounding rattled the door.
When I opened it, a man—presumably someone Taehoon knew—stood there.
A massive frame. Unkempt stubble. Forearms as thick as calves. Hands the size of a pot lid.
A loan shark? A gangster?
“Hey, Ki Taehoon! What the hell are you doing in there? You still haven’t gotten your act together?”
Clicking his tongue, he glanced at the soju bottles littered across the floor.
His expression screamed pathetic drunk.
“You’re still hungover, huh? Hurry up, get dressed, and come out.”
“…Where are we going?”
I asked, my tone filled with suspicion.
“Huh? What’s with your way of speaking? You’ve got a shoot today, dumbass!”
Overwhelmed by his pressure, I followed him outside.
The rooftop view spread before my eyes. It was open and wide, but it felt different from the penthouse I had once enjoyed.
“What kind of shoot?”
No one was supposed to be calling me for work.
“Wait… You seriously didn’t read the script? Do you know how hard we fought to land this role? You—no, we’re screwed. You begged the CEO to find you any acting gig, even a minor role!”
His voice carried frustration.
The moment he said “minor role,” a breeze swept past me.
‘Is this my last chance?’
“So, just to clarify, I’m an actor?”
“Oh, are you looking for motivation now? Fine, sure, you’re an actor. Do whatever the hell you want—whether it’s acting or being an idol. Just quit drinking already.”
As I stood there, dazed, the manager grabbed the railing and slowly descended the stairs.
“This is my last day as your manager, by the way. Do whatever you want. Ugh, this rooftop gives me the creeps every time I come up here.”
“…You were my manager?”
Yoon Sungwoo—Tiamax’s dedicated manager from Gamga Entertainment.
For five years, he ran himself ragged for their success, only for them to become a “failed group.”
Among them, Ki Taehoon had been the most helpless case.
He should’ve found a way to survive like the other members did.
Pity filled Sungwoo’s expression.
“…You said this was your last day?”
The manager glanced at Taehoon through the rearview mirror.
Still not fully sober.
“Yeah. You threw away every opportunity the company gave you. The CEO practically got on his knees to get you this one-liner role.”
“So… I get to act again?”
“Yeah. Not that you’ll get a second chance after this.”
“The script?”
“You seriously didn’t read it? Not that there’s much to read.”
With a sigh, the manager handed me a flimsy, single-page script from the front seat.
A short, insignificant role.
He shook his head.
He wanted me to succeed, but realistically, there was no hope. Even if I did well, this role was too small to matter.
And who the hell reads their script on the day of filming? It’s not like I was some acting prodigy.
Especially not after last year, when I attempted acting in a short drama called Drama Express—and got utterly obliterated.
I spent the entire time looking anxious, delivering the most confusing, emotionless performance ever.
My terrible acting was even more noticeable because of my good looks.
I became the internet’s biggest meme—an idol synonymous with horrendous acting.
‘Practically the pioneer of bad acting.’
Even when the CEO pleaded, casting directors outright rejected me.
They didn’t want to ruin their productions by adding Ki Taehoon.
There was no way I’d change that perception overnight.
And on top of that, I was a lunatic who had been drinking until dawn.
“You, man… What’s your plan? As your manager—no, as your hyung—let me give you some advice. If you keep drinking and living recklessly like this, you’re gonna end up dead.”
Sungwoo sighed deeply before continuing.
“You know my friend, Hyuntae? Pyo Hyuntae. You don’t know him, huh? He and I were in our high school wrestling club together. That guy was nuts—ah, but that’s not the point.
He went pro, but he loved alcohol too much. His liver gave out. They had to cut it out, and now he’s got barely a bean-sized chunk left.
He used to be known for his swollen liver, but now…”
The manager rambled for about five minutes.
Then, realizing he was talking to himself, he turned his head sharply.
“Hey, are you even listening?”
This time, he didn’t just check the rearview mirror—he whipped his head around.
For a moment, he couldn’t even breathe.
‘What the heck, why is he so serious?’
There was a glint in Ki Tae-hoon’s eyes, as if he was completely immersed in the script.
The manager unconsciously swallowed hard, feeling a sudden chill run through his body.
It was the first time in a while that he’d seen this level of seriousness.
Usually, Tae-hoon was the guy chugging soju straight from the bottle and drunkenly begging for an acting gig.
‘Has he finally come to his senses?’
But that thought only lasted a moment. The manager sniffed and pressed the gas pedal.
There was no way a single day of effort would flip someone’s life upside down.
What the manager didn’t know, however, was that the soul of genius actor Lee Jae-joon had taken over the body of the “bad-acting idol” Ki Tae-hoon.
Tae-hoon’s eyes remained glued to the script.
The drama was called Doctor’s Tower—a medical drama. The script itself wasn’t particularly difficult.
His role was minor: a patient.
Tae-hoon stared at the parts marked in red pencil.
A scene where he was carried into an ambulance.
Scene 29 – Inside the Ambulance
Paramedic: Sir, can you hear me?
Patient: Yes, sir. (sneezes) But my right side hurts a lot.
Paramedic: Which area hurts the most? Can you describe the pain in detail?
Patient: My ribs hurt. It’s hard to breathe.
Paramedic: (to the driver) Shin Yang Hospital. Get us there as fast as possible. (holding the patient’s hand) Sir, we’re right here with you, so don’t worry. You’ll receive proper treatment soon.
Patient: (nods weakly)
Paramedic: (making a call) Yes, this is Shin Yang Hospital, correct? We have a patient with a Costal Fracture due to a fall. Estimated arrival in five minutes. The patient is conscious.
Tae-hoon grinned widely as he read.
This is fun.
So, scripts can be this short, too.
It might seem like a careless remark to actors who struggle with bit parts, but at this moment, Tae-hoon was genuinely amazed.
Even for a small role, the emotional depth required wasn’t simple.
The situation was an emergency—though the patient had regained consciousness, he was in pain.
He had to appear both hurt and anxious about the circumstances, portraying the mindset of someone who had just woken up to a crisis.
He was about to act again.
And as a minor character, no less.
His whole body felt like it was waking up on a cellular level.
“Hey, Tae-hoon. We’re here. Time to get out.”
“Oh, right. Um… Can I wait in the car?”
“Tae-hoon… I’m starting to think you might have alcohol-induced memory loss. Your contract with Gamga Entertainment ended yesterday. I didn’t bring you here as your manager—I just gave you a ride as a friend.”
Yoon Sung-woo rummaged through his wallet for a while.
“Ugh, I only have a fifty-thousand-won bill left. Here, take it. Use it for cab fare when you go home later. I need to start prepping for my retirement in the countryside.”
“Oh. So you’re really leaving?”
“Yeah, man. I hope things work out for you. And listen, if it ever gets too hard, like to the point where you really can’t take it, call me. We can farm together. You still have my number, right? Alright, I’m out.”
Yoon Sung-woo absentmindedly rubbed his nose and got back into his car.
“Call me. Even if you’re just a little tired, you can come down anytime. Tae-hoon… I really hope you make it.”
‘Yoon Sung-woo… He’s got as much heart as he does muscle.’
Tae-hoon watched as Yoon Sung-woo’s car drove away, then turned toward the filming set.
There was already a group of extras waiting under a tent.
[Now we get to see some acting. How exciting! Observation mode activated!]
“So… I just wait here?”
Tae-hoon plopped down on a seat.
All around him, extras were warming up their voices.
He repeated his lines calmly amidst the noise.
Three hours later.
[I’m getting bored. Restless mode activated!]
‘What the hell is restless mode? It should be starting soon.’
Tae-hoon checked his wristwatch.
Filming always revolved around the lead actors’ schedules.
Extras were low priority.
He knew the working conditions for extras weren’t great, but—‘Not this bad.’
It was late winter, almost March, but the weather was still cold.
And the wind…
A sharp gust blew through his clothes, making him involuntarily shiver.
There was a large heater nearby, but too many people were huddled around it.
Before he realized it, someone was standing next to him.
Judging by their clothes, they were playing a paramedic in the same scene.
‘Just looking at his stance and relaxed gaze… He’s experienced.’
“Hey there. Nice to meet you. I’m playing the patient in Scene 29.”
“Oh! Hello. I’m in Scene 29, too—I’m playing the paramedic.”
“It’s pretty chilly today. Do you know when we’ll start filming?”
“It’s unpredictable. They’ll fit us in whenever there’s a gap in the schedule.”
“But we’ll definitely get to it today, right?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Wait… what?”
“Since it’s an inside-the-car shot, it doesn’t matter if it’s sunny, cloudy, bright, or dark. They can film it anytime. If they don’t get to us today, they’ll call us back tomorrow. And that means we get paid again.”
“So… that’s a good thing?”
“Of course! Getting called back means another paycheck.”
‘But… that just means waiting without getting to act.’
As Tae-hoon pondered this, the paramedic actor reached into his pocket and pulled out two triangle kimbaps.
“Have you eaten yet?”
He handed one over.
“On set, you never know when you’ll get called, so you always carry these. Want Jeonju Bibimbap or Tuna Mayo?”
“Oh… I’m fine, thanks.”
With the hangover still lingering and the kimbap looking a bit squashed from being in a pocket, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep it down.
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