EverDream’s first day of CF shooting.

The school auditorium buzzed with people.

The filming crew hurriedly carried equipment, and the production staff checked props to make sure everything was ready.

In a corner, a group of extras waited.

“Atmosphere’s pretty tense, huh?”

One male extra spoke up.

“Everyone’s faces are so stiff. I can’t even crack a smile comfortably.”

“Right? What’s up with that?”

“Why, you ask?”

A middle-aged extra cut in.

“A few days ago during another shoot they got stood up. I heard those idol kids didn’t bring any prep—so the director threw the script down and the whole set went haywire.”

“Oh man, that’s rough.”

“But it wasn’t them—it was another group.”

“Really?”

“I checked with the assistant director earlier. Today’s shoot is with a different group—girl group yesterday, male idols today. NewBlack.”

“NewBlack?”

“They’re rookies.”

A younger extra answered.

“Out of this year’s debut boy groups, they’re probably the hottest. Pretty well known among idol fans.”

“Well, whatever. Doesn’t concern us.”

For these extras with only a single line to deliver, who was starring today didn’t matter much.

“I just hope they do it right.”

“Exactly. The mood on set is already shot.”

“Don’t expect too much. Idol rookies you’ve never heard of—if they don’t mangle their lines, consider yourself lucky. I once did a bit part in a drama and they made everyone’s lives hell.”

“Hey, they could do fine.”

“No way. I’d bet my farm on it they’d flop.”

“Don’t bet your farm lightly—that could backfire.”

They all laughed at the older man’s hearty joke. Then someone spoke up as if remembering something important.

“By the way, I heard a variety show crew’s coming from the network today.”

“I hadn’t heard that. Which one?”

“TBC. Even when I asked, they wouldn’t say much—only that it’s a big show.”

“They’re rookies, right? A big-variety show?”

“Maybe the agency pulled some strings.”

“What big TBC shows are there these days? I barely watch TV.”

“Apart from ‘Jusehan’?”

“Yeah—for me too, nothing else comes to mind.”

Just then, someone piped up:

“’Jusehan,’ you know?”

Laughter broke out.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“No way.”

“If it was ‘Jusehan,’ I’d stand on my head when I bet my farm.”

“There they go again. You’ll literally stand on your head.”

“Doesn’t make sense—just days ago they were screaming over Lee Gun-woo appearing. What rookie idols?”

“But if it’s a familiar show, at least we might get an autograph.”

While they chattered, the auditorium doors opened and all eyes turned.

A stagehand nodded and said, “Here they come—NewBlack.”

The five idols entered, waving energetically.

The mood on set was not good.

If last time it was the demanding advertiser, now everyone just seemed on edge.

Every time we passed, worried gazes followed us.

Ri-hyuk clicked his tongue and whispered, “What did Blink do to get this reaction?”

“Well, can’t blame them,” I said.

“With delays and reshoots, the production budget must’ve taken a huge hit—wouldn’t you be tense?”

“But it’s not our fault,” Jiho said.

“Neither is it our success—yet.”

I reassured them, “Don’t worry about every reaction. Just do what you practiced, and it’ll be fine.”

As we walked, two AEs from the ad agency greeted us.

Their eyes were bloodshot and their lips chapped, so Seok-hwan hyung asked, “You’ve had a rough time?”

“Can’t even describe it,” one AE said with a weak smile.

“It was a disaster. We have to do reshoots, ad costs keep rising, the client’s unhappy, the production’s in chaos. We probably racked up tens of thousands in call charges just coordinating.”

Manager Kim leaned in, voice pleading: “I heard you prepared well, but today—you really, really have to do well. The Senior Executive Director in charge of apparel at KG International is coming. Six executives in total.”

“A school-uniform ad set?”

“Yes. They’re reviewing brand profitability company-wide—they’ll be sharp.”

He added gently, “But if you impress them, it’ll go a long way. KG International has many brands and is a big spender.”

Perfect scenario.

The crew sighed deeply; the agency staff looked wilted; the client growled under their breath.

The extras eyed us curiously but not warmly.

Sensing their gaze, Manager Kim explained, “It’s because of ‘Jusehan.’ There was a rumor a variety show crew would film here.”

“I hope we don’t ruin the vibe.”

“Not at all. The client is relieved. Honestly, who wouldn’t welcome ‘Jusehan’?”

He looked hopeful: “Who knows—maybe you NewBlack friends will get famous on the show.”

“That would be great.”

“Oh right—about the variety show. The production director filming today is...”

He trailed off as the CF director approached.

A slim young man with a sharp look, wiping sweat from his brow—Director Yoo-Geon, in charge of today’s ad.

“Director, this is NewBlack, our ad models.”

“Hello, NewBlack.”

“Hey.”

The man holding the rolled script looked us over.

“Ready?”

“Yes, we’ve prepared hard.”

“You all look too relaxed.”

His expression was displeased.

“Any other ad shoots experience?”

“No, first time.”

He exhaled, as if holding back what he really thought.

“Well, let’s do our best. No mistakes.”

He turned and strode away. We exchanged puzzled looks.

Unfair. We’d been nervous and prepared—we’d even taped ripped pages of the storyboard back together.

Not that we needed recognition—but his frank displeasure was surprising.

Manager Kim said, “He came from indie films into advertising. His visuals and storytelling are top-notch, but he’s conservative on set. He’s unhappy about the variety show filming—thinks it’ll disrupt the shoot.”

And, “The client feels the same—impressing him will help. He has huge connections in film and TV.”

Setup complete.

Leaving the makeup room, I saw the auditorium transformed into a set.

I couldn’t help but gape.

High-end cameras and lighting rigs—far more people than a photo shoot.

From afar, the assistant director signaled to Jiho and me. He pointed to two X’s taped on the floor.

“For your two-shot: Jiho, you half-sit on this X, and Woo-joo, you come over, take his hand, and help him up. Not a tough scene—let’s check the blocking.”

After marking positions, we began rehearsal.

I felt like an actor for a moment—then gulped at the number of people present: lighting, audio, props crew, extras, agency and production staff, and the client.

Next to Manager Woo was a distinguished middle-aged man—must be the Executive Director.

I nodded at the juniors waving encouragement, then asked the youngest, “Nervous?”

“Yeah. How about you, hyung?”

“I’m freaking out too—my heart’s about to burst.”

“Mine’s racing too.”

We patted each other’s backs, then nodded.

“Let’s do well.”

“Fighting.”

With everyone’s eyes on us, the shoot finally began.

Director Yoo-Geon narrowed his eyes.

‘Not quite right.’

In the gym’s center, two members laughed together. He shook his head—just like on Blink’s shoot, when they smiled confidently and seemed to nail it.

So he expected the same here.

The first line was a disaster from the start.

‘Their faces look fine, though.’

As NewBlack’s visuals, both shot well on camera—hard to guess which one had wanted to act.

“Action!”

The scene unfolded simply: Magic School. The transfer student casts a wrong spell on the class president’s uniform jacket, which flies off. The student chases it into the auditorium and finally catches it, sitting in exhaustion. The president approaches.

“Fancy meeting you again.”

When Sun Woo-joo spoke his first line, he blinked.

It was pretty good.

...Only, as Yoo-Geon kept watching, he revised that judgment.

No—given his expectations, it wasn’t bad.

The visuals were strong. The exhausted Jiho, half-sitting on the floor with a scowl, looked like someone who’d just collapsed from running. From that, Yoo-Geon was certain Jiho was the actor-hopeful.

You could feel his training.

“Uh—President...?”

Jiho’s flustered expression was flawless. Not mind-blowing, but more than sufficient—you could shoot quick takes.

With those two alone, half a day’s work would finish comfortably.

Then—

‘...Huh?’

Yoo-Geon frowned again at Woo-joo on the monitor.

‘Wait—actor-hopeful?’

On screen, Woo-joo bowed slightly, smiled at Jiho. His expression was friendly but not overly sweet; his eyes scanned the transfer student with a hint of suspicion.

The details showed through—every fingertip conveying intent.

‘What’s he doing?’

Though he’d nodded for Jiho, Yoo-Geon was perplexed. Because what Woo-joo was doing wasn’t in the script: it only said [bend forward and extend your hand].

Here was an idol spontaneously adding movements that a meddling director would normally need to instruct in detail.

He wondered how this could be—because any actor would take years to internalize such nuanced body language. Acting isn’t just face and voice; it uses the whole body to portray character.

Yet here was half-baked acting with pro-level physicality.

It was a mystery.

“Cut!”

At the shout, the transfer student and class president reverted to Idol mode.

Removing his headset, Yoo-Geon whispered to the assistant director, “These kids are good, huh?”

“Not bad,” the assistant said.

“Not ‘not bad’—this is amazing. Think of Blink.”

Snapped out of his thoughts, Yoo-Geon said, “Se-joon.”

“Yes?”

“Doesn’t ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) Woo-joo’s acting strike you as odd?”

“How so?”

“Well, the movements matching the acting is one thing, but the acting itself is unusual.”

“I’m not sure about that.”

The assistant continued, “Honestly, don’t you both seem strange?”

“Both?”

“Yeah—I was watching Jiho, but something felt off. He’s doing it properly, but not really? I can’t pinpoint why...”

They spoke to each other while Yoo-Geon made a quick decision.

“Let’s run it again.”

Though he couldn’t yet identify the cause, he sensed something: if he uncovered it, the ad’s quality could skyrocket.

“Ready—action!”

Back in play, Yoo-Geon focused on both idols’ performances.

‘Now I see what Se-joon meant.’

They showed obvious rehearsal, delivering solid, mistake-free acting suited to a light SNS campaign. Perfectly adequate.

But to a seasoned director, it fell short.

‘I know they can give more...’

Each was underperforming in their own way.

Jiho, as the transfer student, had slightly awkward expressions and gestures—but not from lack of skill. He seemed to be holding back out of consideration, like a tall person matching stride with a child.

And Woo-joo—it was odd there too. Technically excellent, yet you could sense inexperience in emotional nuance and line delivery. He seemed unaware of his own strengths—like a driver who can accelerate but doesn’t know how to start the engine.

That’s why it felt disappointing; with better direction, they could produce something far more striking than a standard ad.

‘What can I do?’

Yoo-Geon tapped the storyboard. First in mind was an early concept the agency’s production team had pitched and shelved for being too ambitious—better in content and predicted response.

He glanced at the client’s Executive Director standing impassively. The rest of the team looked relieved—a better result than expected. Plus, unlike Blink, this was a two-day shoot from the start.

‘Then...’

He shook his head—he couldn’t risk it without certainty. He needed proof they could handle more.

“Cut!”

With that, he strode purposefully toward the two.

His expression was different now—pleased but hiding it.

When he suddenly approached after the cut, we worried we’d done something wrong. Thankfully not.

He addressed us:

“Can you try acting with emotion this time?”