It was simple enough what the director wanted.

“Let’s make the acting more concrete. Don’t just think of yourselves as playing the roles in the ad script—imagine you’re really in that situation. How would you feel? Put that into your performance.”

“...Emotional acting?”

“It might sound like a stretch, but if you nail this, I think we can make the quality absolutely spectacular.”

I almost blurted out that it sounded impossible—but then I remembered his last line.

He was offering us a chance like this, even though I’d never taken an acting lesson. I couldn’t let it slip away.

Even if I failed, I had to give it my all. No—I had to succeed.

“...Hyung, do you think we can do this?”

Jiho asked, worry in his voice.

“We haven’t practiced emotional acting. Maybe if we had more time—”

“I know it’s tough,” I said, nodding.

“But let’s try. The director’s giving us this chance, so we can’t waste it. We’ll either sink or swim—let’s see if we can swim.”

“Okay...”

Jiho glanced at the clock on the auditorium wall, then watched the other members filming.

“We’ve got about thirty minutes. I’ll teach you emotional acting in a crash course.”

And so the lesson began.

“First, stand for me.”

“How?”

“Comfortably.”

“Is standing comfortable for anyone?”

“Don’t argue. We don’t have time.”

I assumed the stance I found most comfortable.

“Now make eye contact with me.”

“Like this?”

“Yes. In that stance, look at the person in front of you and think of the one person you love and cherish most in the world.”

There aren’t many people I cherish: my grandmother, Kim Deok-soon, Seok-hwan hyung... and then...

“Hey.”

Jiho narrowed his eyes.

“You sure you thought of that? You look exactly the same.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just as I thought.”

He looked smug.

“Obviously, I’m the cutest, most lovable one, right?”

“You are pretty cute.”

“Just cute?”

“When you cried while eating tteokbokki, you were cute.”

Jiho glared at me, then snapped back into teacher mode.

“When actors try to find emotion, they tense up. Their movements become stiff. So whether you’re playing a hero or a villain, when you’re delivering an emotional line, it’s important to loosen your body first.”

“Okay, I think I got it. What’s next?”

“There are lots of techniques, but let’s skip the theory. For beginners, there are two handy tricks...”

Jiho paused, thinking, then snapped his fingers as if remembering something.

“Number one: recall a situation from your own life that’s most similar to what’s in the script.”

“Similar situation...”

Well, someone chasing a missing uniform jacket into the auditorium? That’s not exactly common. I racked my brain—nothing matched.

“What’s the second trick?”

“This one’s harder: imagine you’re in that situation.”

“Isn’t that just acting?”

“No—when I say ‘imagine,’ I mean imagine you, not the character.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. Normally actors think, ‘If I were that character, how would I feel?’ But I mean, imagine you, Sun Woo-joo, in that scenario.”

“Oh, I get it.”

So instead of imagining what the class president feels, I put myself in his place.

“I’ll try the second trick.”

“Okay—let’s practice.”

I nodded at him, impressed by his enthusiasm. Has he grown a bit taller lately? The kid who usually seems so little now felt like someone I could truly rely on.

We began again. This time, instead of focusing on matching the movements, I focused on how I would feel. What thoughts would cross my mind? I colored each line with that emotion. Meanwhile, Jiho stood in front of me, guiding my emotional acting, and I was amazed.

Could our maknae be a genius? Even someone who knows nothing about acting could see how well he performed. This wasn’t surface-level acting—he was really putting feeling behind every word. It felt like I was talking to the actual “transfer student.” His naturalness was breathtaking.

I also felt a twinge of betrayal: he’d thought he couldn’t act, even cried over it, yet here he was, brilliant. How could he be so unaware of his own talent? In a situation where practice time was scarce, pulling this off without innate ability would be impossible.

When the reading ended, I said in awe, “Our maknae’s incredible.”

“I’ve studied for three years,” Jiho said. “Of course I should be good.”

“No—it’s not something you just learn.”

I praised him more earnestly.

“You really have a gift.”

“...Thanks.”

But Jiho still looked uneasy. He’s quick to jump at praise—why would he feel that way? Then he asked out of the blue,

“Hyung, are you really new to acting?”

“Why?”

“I thought you might have something up your sleeve...”

“I’m not.”

I had a hunch: if you can mimic movements, your facial expressions follow. That made your emotional delivery even stronger. I smiled at his misunderstanding, then...

“Quiet on set!”

We headed back to the center of the auditorium. The extras scattered, looking drained—emotional acting is pressure. We high-fived each other as we rotated back into position.

The assistant director checked our blocking again. As Jiho and I stood ready, he whispered,

“Hyung.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think I can do this?”

“Why are you worried? I should be the one worried.”

I patted him on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry—you’re doing great. I’ve never seen anyone pick up acting this fast.”

“No way.”

“I’d bet Ri-hyuk on it.”

“That’s not convincing—bet Bijoo too.”

“I’d even bet Seok-hwan hyung.”

We laughed, spotting our manager nodding encouragement from afar.

“You’ll do fine. And if not?”

“I’ll die of shame.”

“Come on—who will remember us? They’ll forget how we look as soon as we leave set.”

“Really?”

“Sure. We just need our fans not to see the embarrassment.”

Jiho laughed. He thought for a moment, then steadied himself and said,

“Let’s do this right, hyung.”

“Action!”

The three members who’d just filmed edged closer to the monitor. The director and assistant director watched through headphones. The agency staff, the client reps in a row behind them—all leaned forward, whispering.

“Can you see?”

“Not really.”

Bijoo stood on tiptoe, shaking her head.

“It’s too far.”

“Jun-hyun—can you see?”

“Can’t see you.”

“...Maybe because you’re too small. Should I carry you?”

The two shot us a laser stare—then Manager Woo cleared the way, and we finally saw the monitor.

Jiho’s face filled the close-up—and I couldn’t help but marvel.

‘He’s good, our maknae.’

Against the probing class president, the transfer student looked flustered but not helpless. He hesitated, then artfully dodged the question—he spoke with the slickness of someone older than a high schooler. It fit the character—after all, the ad’s storyline was that a college student gets trapped in the transfer-student’s body.

[The protagonist reading a webtoon on the subway finds himself inside that very magical academy.]

Jiho captured that arc perfectly: a youthful face, yet with the presence of a twenty-something.

“Sorry—I have something hard to tell you.”

Only those who knew Jiho well could recognize how astonishing this was. Experience has its limits—seeing a high schooler channel a college student was jaw-dropping. And his emotional clarity was striking. When he finally let loose—like someone unburdening a lifetime of restraint—it was breathtaking.

Then they realized why Jiho could do it.

‘Woo-joo’s got his back.’

Often when one side shines too brightly, the other pales, but here Woo-joo supported him perfectly.

With one playing the part from the inside, and the other bringing the character to life as himself, the synergy was remarkable.

Watching, NewBlack’s members felt a warm pride as they glimpsed the expressions of everyone around them: director, assistant director, client, agency. All were staring at the monitor.

Ri-hyuk checked his phone’s notes.

—When did those two practice this?

—Right?

Jun-hyun shrugged, and Bijoo tapped out,

—Maybe they practiced together beforehand?

One cut, and the scene wrapped.

“Cut!”

“Great job, everyone!”

As they rushed to reset for the next scene, the client reps began gathering their things. An agency staffer approached their Executive Director.

“How was it, sir?”

“Not bad.”

The KG International Executive Director watched the five NewBlack members playfully prancing in the distance and smiled.

“Much better than the last group. We can trust them.”

The agency staff visibly sighed with relief. The Director donned his coat, waved to Manager Woo, and headed out.

“You’re staying here, right?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Keep following up on this project. Report any changes immediately.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And when the variety show crew arrives, be ready. Give them whatever they need.”

With every little instruction delivered, he finally walked away.

Then, Director Yoo-Geon strode over. When he saw us blink, he got straight to the point:

“How about tweaking the script a bit?”

“...Change it?”

“Not really a change. Do you remember the original concept we shelved?”

“Oh, that one.”

As the final approver, the Executive Director nodded.

“Tell me.”

Ignoring the staff behind him, Yoo-Geon laid out a logical case: we have an extra day to shoot, the actors can handle it, just a few lines and scenes shift—everything else remains. Why not use the concept that tested stronger?

When he finished, the Executive Director’s only question was,

“What about cost?”

“We’re just swapping a few lines and one or two scenes—no difference at all.”

The finance officer double-checked and gave a thumbs-up. The Executive Director thought a moment, then made his decision—and Yoo-Geon’s face lit up.

By lunchtime, we’d finished the morning’s shoot.

“Hey, quick—sprinkle some flowers. Our big star is leaving.”

“Big star departing!”

As Jun-hyun and I paraded out like VIPs, Ri-hyuk and Bijoo pretended to toss petals in the air. Jiho’s face turned beet-red.

“Why are you doing this to me? I’m embarrassed.”

We ignored him.

“Look how modest our superstar is.”

“No need to be modest, Jiho—you crushed it.”

“You did awesome.”

“You’ve grown so much, Jiho. Feels like just yesterday you were crying over tteokbokki.”

“That was just yesterday,” he grumbled. “Can we stop this?”

“Oh, come on—sprinkle more flowers. You need it.”

We made a pretend flower path, teasing our maknae—a small revenge for his crying over self-doubt. Of course, it was also our way of showing gratitude for his stellar morning performance.

“It’s because we love you.”

“Why just me? Hyung did well too.”

“No—the MVP today is you.”

As we played up the mood, the other members nodded in agreement.

“True.”

“Woo-joo did well.”

“No, you guys—Jiho was way better.”

“Hyungs, now make a flower path for Woo-joo too.”

And so I received the same mock treatment I’d given Jiho earlier.

While we laughed through our forced flower-path ceremony, Jiho suddenly asked,

“Right—hyung, I’m curious: do you know the name of that teacher who taught acting?”

“Why?”

“Just curious.”

He and the others all nodded.

“Well, it’s been ages... it was a one-day special lecture for all the trainees. A pretty famous guy.” I thought for a moment, then recalled:

“Kim Seok-mun, I think.”

While Sun Woo-joo changed wardrobe in the costume room, the others huddled over their phones, waiting for the meal truck.

“Hey, look.”

They searched “Kim Seok-mun” and a list of names appeared. Clicking the film category brought up his biography:

Once a rising actor who had to retire after an accident left him disabled, he turned to teaching.

Articles popped up:

“Kim Seok-mun: ‘These days, actors just don’t satisfy me...’”

“Hallyu star maker Kim Seok-mun: ‘Gun-woo’s acting is so-so.’”

“Actor Kim Seok-mun’s story: ‘In my ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) day, there was no such thing...’”

Photos showed a stern man in a wheelchair, flanked by the stars he’d trained.

“What did he say about Woo-joo’s acting?”

“He said it was ‘not bad.’”

“That ‘not bad’ sounds different from the ‘not bad’ we know—more like praise.”

“Well, it means you’re good, Jiho.”

“I got tricked again.”

The members, looking at each other like meerkats, spotted Seok-hwan hyung strolling over and watched his unfazed expression.

Ri-hyuk clicked his tongue.

“It’s really strange.”

“How so?”

“He’s obviously talented, but he thinks he’s not.”