I'm an Unknown Actress, But Everyone Knows Me

“Hm? What did you say?”

Director Park’s voice rose past its usual decibel range. The nearby staff all turned their heads at once. He let out a short sigh, then grabbed a passing crew member.

“Right. Just a second. Awwng... so sudden. Anyway, got it. I’ll send you the address.”

Then he hung up. The staffer who had been suddenly stopped looked puzzled.

“Can you set up one extra chair? Next to me...”

“Yes, sir. But who’s coming?”

Anyone sitting right beside the director to observe the shoot firsthand clearly wouldn’t be an ordinary person. Everyone immediately started guessing.

‘Could it be Eun Baekhap? No way. Nah...’

‘Please let it be Eun Baekhap.’

‘Who is it? An investor?’

But the name that came out of Director Park’s mouth was someone no one had expected.

“Writer Seomun Ihwa is coming.”

“What?!”

“Don’t get too worked up. If you get tense before filming, the action won’t come out well. Got it?”

Director Park lightly patted the staffer’s shoulder, but the set was already buzzing.

“Seomun Ihwa? Right now? She’s coming?”

“Wow... I’m seriously a fan....”

Seomun Ihwa.

That was the weight her name carried. Every single drama she had written had shaken all of Korea. She was a legendary writer whose ratings had never once dropped below 20 percent.

“When is she getting here? Shouldn’t we prepare something? She must be tired from writing—should I run and grab some energy drinks or something?”

“Awwng. Sunbae isn’t the kind of person who cares about that stuff. Just give her whatever drinks we already have.”

If the Seomun Ihwa Park Jaeyoung knew was arriving here, the first thing she would do was inspect the surroundings.

This was the old downtown of Seongnam.

Under the dim night sky, where power lines tangled together like a spiderweb, faded signboards hung precariously. Ttosik’s Chicken Hof, Drunk Whale Pocha, a hardware store whose blunt sign seemed to care only about stating its purpose. Cars parked illegally along the roadside in whatever way they pleased made the whole street dizzying to look at.

‘No matter how I look at it, I really chose well.’

Director Park felt a quiet pride in how confidently he could show this environment to Seomun Ihwa. To anyone’s eyes, this place was perfectly optimized to bring 〈Unfair Trade〉 to life.

His gaze settled on one spot.

The set assembled beneath the streetlamp. There, among multiple broadcast cameras, lights, and equipment, sat Han Yeoreum in her chair.

Black clothes that resembled darkness itself. A dry hand gripping the script. And her hair, neatly tied back as always.

‘Writer Seomun Ihwa will....’

When Director Park adapted the original work, the character he changed the most was none other than Lee Seohae. The key that would allow this project to distinguish itself from everything else lay in Lee Seohae.

‘What will she think, I wonder?’

Director Park had become endlessly obsessed with shadows.

A device that would make Han Yeoreum—nearly twenty centimeters shorter than Shin Seojin—seem his equal.

The duality of Lee Seohae, who never revealed her true thoughts to anyone.

And that vast sense of distance the viewers beyond the screen would feel.

“Wouldn’t it be better if we simply didn’t show the action scene?”

Today’s action sequence had been born from that single sentence Han Yeoreum said. The moment Park Jaeyoung heard it, a thrill had run through him.

“If it’s Lee Seohae, I think she wouldn’t want to show it. She wouldn’t know where the line of social leniency really ends.”

The sensation one could only feel when role and actor became wholly one person.

‘I thought I’d never meet an actor like this again after Baekhap....’

And yet, Seomun Ihwa still did not even remember Eun Baekhap’s name. She remembered only the character names.

Watching the shadow fall across Han Yeoreum’s side profile beneath the streetlamp, Park Jaeyoung wondered:

Which of the two names would Seomun Ihwa remember first?

* * *

“Really? Seriously?”

“I’m telling you. See that empty chair next to him? That’s where Writer Seomun will be sitting when she gets here.”

At Manager Choi’s words, I clutched at my suddenly racing heart.

‘Seomun Ihwa is coming?’

Seomun Ihwa had opened the gates for NetHolics Korea. After the unprecedented success of 〈Seoul Metropolitan City〉, she had been hailed as a writer on an entirely different level.

‘After that, every OTT platform tried to get to Seomun Ihwa first.’

Dezney, Amazonic Prime Video, Anple TV, Tivin, Waver, Coupin Play—every single platform had sent her love calls.

‘Because every one of her projects after 〈Seoul Metropolitan City〉 succeeded worldwide.’

Do Gyeoul was the first person who came to mind.

Do Gyeoul at the top.

Over ten million followers. Dozens of advertisements. Ridiculous casting power. Recognition that crossed generations. Every single comparison with actors of her era ending with Gyeoul on top.

‘When Do Gyeoul was at her peak, Seomun Ihwa was right there beside her....’

For a moment, my ears rang as I thought of all the ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) things Do Gyeoul had possessed before my regression—things that might once have been mine.

‘I want it.’

The same emotion I’d felt while staring at the trophy Director Ja had held at Critics Choice resurfaced.

I want to stand in that place.

I want to be the one who seizes that success.

Me.

Han Yeoreum.

‘And today just happens to be a scene where I can leave an impact!’

Lucky.

I touched the thin belt at my waist. The cold metal at its center felt like it was cooling the heat in my fingertips.

“Yeoreum! Let’s do one rehearsal.”

A voice called for me from afar. Kang Hanseong, the martial arts director from Action Academy, was on set today.

Lee Seohae wouldn’t be showing that much in this action sequence, but Director Park had said it would be better to check everything several times in case there was any risk of injury.

“Yes! I’m coming!”

I started walking toward Director Kang.

But something felt strange.

‘Huh....’

A familiar face caught my eye nearby.

‘...Why are you here?’

The moment I looked at him, I froze in place.

Director Kang Hanseong gestured for me to hurry over.

Director Park was watching and smiling from the side.

The surrounding staff’s gazes were on me.

But—

“Hello. I’m Hyeong Changuk, the actor who’ll be matching the choreography with you today.”

“Yeoreum, say hello. He’ll be playing the suspect in today’s scene—”

“When you fall later, make sure—”

Everything after Hyeong Changuk’s voice blurred.

Then the final memory from before my regression surged back.

“So when you think about it, the world really is unfair. Yeoreum could’ve been in Do Gyeoul’s place.”

“Why? It’s true. That lead role in the play back then was originally yours, Yeoreum.”

“If only you’d been more careful on the stairs back then, our Yeoreum would be a ten-million actress by now, bastard.”

Noise filled my vision.

The very first status window I had seen the moment I returned.

“Yes, sunbae. I added the one you mentioned. No, no need to thank me. The acting video you sent over made her look pretty good.”

Do Gyeoul talking on the phone.

And on the other end of that call—

the senior I had trusted and followed so completely.

Hyeong Changuk.

“Please send Yeoreum’s videos a little longer next time. You know it has to stay secret that I’m doing this, right? Her pride is so high. What do you think would happen if she found out a classmate was giving me advice?”

The acting videos sleeping inside Do Gyeoul’s computer—

those were the files I had handed over without a shred of suspicion when Hyeong Changuk, back in our theater days, offered to “give me advice.”

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Why are you here?

“Excuse me? Are you okay?”

“Hey, Yeoreum. You just need to trust your sunbae.”

His present and past overlapped before my eyes.

“Director, I think her condition right now is a little—”

“Hey, if I’m pushing you this much, you need to practice properly too. Is this all you’ve got for this month’s acting video? At this rate, when are you ever getting out of extra roles?”

That easy smile.

That warm, approachable tone.

Everything familiar about him reeked.

The scenery around me turned completely white.

“Awwng... what do we do? Did it upset your stomach?”

“Yeoreum, look at me! What is it?”

“Can someone bring water over here—!”

A hand carefully holding my shoulder.

A steady rhythm patting my back.

Voices buzzing around me.

I snapped back to myself.

‘Get it together, Han Yeoreum.’

I focused everything on my breathing.

Slowly in.

Out.

I fought to push away the disgust spreading through my chest like mold.

“Yeoreum, drink some water. Water.”

I didn’t even know when he had come over, but Manager Choi had already placed a straw to my lips. Cold water slid down my throat.

Hyeong Changuk’s face was still vividly clear in front of me.

“Um... Actress Han, are you okay?”

Fake bastard.

Even the concern in his eyes looked like acting.

‘You son of a bitch. Do Gyeoul got you planted here, didn’t she?’

The urge to grab him by the collar and ask hit me hard.

But I forced myself to swallow the water in my mouth.

Get your reason back.

Right now, Hyeong Changuk and I are just actors meeting for the first time on this set.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

I can’t act strange.

‘...Right. I’m Han Yeoreum.’

I’m not the old Han Yeoreum.

I’m not the one who used to crumble over a single extra role.

Everyone on this set is looking at me.

The director wants me.

My name is printed proudly on the first page of the script.

I’ve eaten with bureau chiefs.

I know actors now.

So...

‘There’s no reason for me to be chased off a set like before.’

My place.

The moment that certainty settled in, the fear squeezing my heart finally began to fade.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t sleep well last night... I’m okay.”

When I smiled at Director Park, the tense atmosphere around us finally loosened.

“Awwng... then should we rest a little longer? Are you really okay?”

“Yeoreum. Any scene involving physical movement needs real caution. Speak comfortably. We’ll go when you’re ready.”

“I’m really okay.”

The fact that everyone seemed genuinely worried about me eased the stiffness in the back of my neck.

The ugly tension melted away.

Right.

Who am I?

The kick of 〈Unfair Trade〉.

Lee Seohae.

‘Unlike you, Hyeong Changuk, I’m not some nameless role anymore.’

I have a name now too.

‘So....’

Go tell Do Gyeoul exactly how my acting was.

“We’re rolling.”

I looked straight at Hyeong Changuk.

Today, in this shoot, I’ll make you understand exactly what it feels like to remain nothing but a supporting role.

* * *

Hyeong Changuk was getting a little tired from the repeated rehearsals.

‘Is it usually like this?’

He had done extras and supporting roles a few times before, but this was the first director he had seen who obsessively exchanged opinions with an actor and directed things this precisely.

“Your hand like this... the ankle.”

“Yes, I’ll make it look entangled.”

Director Park and Han Yeoreum were adjusting even the shape of a single hand.

‘That just means it’s important.’

A justified pride spread through Hyeong Changuk’s chest.

A while ago, he had received a call from Do Gyeoul, his junior from the same school who had climbed so high she now felt impossibly distant.

“What? D-Do Gyeoul...?”

She had told him there was a role in 〈Unfair Trade〉 that would suit him, then offered conditions so appealing they were hard to understand.

“I just... need you to tell me about the atmosphere on set.”

“The set?”

“When there’s an NG, why did it happen, how are they acting... actually, I’m interested in action and crime too, but I haven’t built up the courage yet, and everyone’s expectations of me are so high.”

Do Gyeoul had sighed lightly, saying she wanted to challenge herself with action someday, but she still wasn’t mentally ready.

“If that’s all it takes, I—I—”

“Sunbae, I’ve heard so many people say you’re a good actor. I was surprisingly diligent about department life, you know.”

Hyeong Changuk had never once met Do Gyeoul before.

But hearing that an actress of her caliber knew of his reputation made his head spin.

An actress like Do Gyeoul knew him.

Recognized him enough to give him a role.

He accepted the offer immediately and secured himself a proper place here on the set of 〈Unfair Trade〉.

To report back properly to Do Gyeoul, he sharpened all five senses.

He planned to relay every single word exchanged between Director Park and Han Yeoreum without missing a syllable.

Then it happened.

His eyes met Han Yeoreum’s.

‘Uh....’

He faltered for a moment.

Han Yeoreum’s refined gaze was pointed at him like a finely honed blade.

He swallowed involuntarily.

An unexplainable standoff stretched between them.

And right at that moment, a taxi pulled up onto the set.

“Writer Seomun Ihwa has arrived!”

At the arrival of Seomun Ihwa, Han Yeoreum’s eyes lit up.

As if she had been waiting for this very moment.

Han Yeoreum smiled—a smile that looked as though she had prepared it specifically to act in front of Seomun Ihwa.