I'm an Unknown Actress, But Everyone Knows Me

* * *

At the script reading venue, a crowd far beyond Reporter Wi Jaehwi’s expectations had gathered.

“Senior, you made it?”

“Of course I did. It’s Do Gyeoul.”

“Didn’t expect to see so many familiar faces here.”

Taking out his camera, Reporter Wi exchanged greetings and quick updates with seniors from other newspapers.

Could Do Gyeoul finally break the jinx that plagued child actors once they became adults? That was where everyone’s attention was focused.

“Honestly, when you say child actor, it was Do Gyeoul. And when you say Do Gyeoul, it was child actor. It was her world.”

Despite her young age, her ability to memorize entire scripts, her composure far beyond her years, acting that was neither awkward nor excessive—and above all, the fact that she was the daughter of youth star Domunjeong.

Every condition tilted in Do Gyeoul’s favor.

“Right. In this country, ten out of ten scripts with child roles went to Do Gyeoul.”

So it could only be Do Gyeoul. Child roles rarely carried heavy weight in a drama, and there was no need to take a risk by casting a newcomer.

As reporters chatted noisily, each throwing in a comment about Do Gyeoul—

Thunk-.

The door to the reading room opened.

Click-click-click-click—!

Amid a flurry of camera shutters, Do Gyeoul appeared.

As if unwilling to miss even the moment she took her seat, everyone kept snapping photos.

Used to it, Do Gyeoul gave a small smile.

“Hello. Thank you all for coming. I’m the director of 〈Beyond the Closed Door〉—”

The director began with introductions, and the moment Do Gyeoul brought the microphone to her lips, it was as if the air itself shifted.

One hundred percent concentration converged on Do Gyeoul. Everyone leaned in, determined not to miss a single word she said.

“Hello. I’m Do Gyeoul, playing the female lead in 〈Beyond the Closed Door〉. Thank you for coming.”

Her voice felt unfamiliar after so long—slightly more mature, more refined.

One thing was certain: the way her voice reached the ear felt different.

‘She said she left briefly to study... but did she really? It feels like she’s researched something new.’

Reporter Wi tilted his head slightly. The voice resonating from deep in her throat continued, and when Do Gyeoul began reading the script, the reporters’ uncertain gazes changed.

‘...Is she better than before?’

‘She’s more natural.’

The senior next to Wi reacted no differently. Do Gyeoul’s acting had grown, not at all like someone who’d taken a hiatus.

‘Has Do Gyeoul ever acted like this?’

And yet, at the same time, Wi felt a faint sense of discomfort. She was good—clearly improved—but there was something he couldn’t quite define.

“She’s going to do well.”

While Wi was lost in thought, the senior beside ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) him spoke. Wi nodded in agreement. At the very least, she was undeniably good.

“She memorized the whole script again.”

“It’s Do Gyeoul.”

As always, Winter had memorized the script with her insane recall. Impressed by her unchanged diligence, reporters were already finishing favorable draft articles in their heads.

“Then we’ll conclude the script reading here. Thank you all so much for your focus. From now on, we’ll have the cast answer a few simple questions.”

After the brief reading, a Q&A followed like an informal discussion. The focus naturally drifted toward Do Gyeoul rather than the work itself.

“I have a question. 〈Beyond the Closed Door〉 is partially pre-produced, and we heard you’re balancing it with your studies. Since it involves regional locations, it must be tough—was there a reason you didn’t take a leave of absence?”

The first question, of course, was directed at Do Gyeoul. Smiling, she answered.

“During the transition from child actor to adult, I had a lot to think about. No matter how long I’d acted, I wondered if I was really doing it well.... Those kinds of doubts.”

Her age-defying composure remained unchanged. Do Gyeoul was like a perfectly painted masterpiece—no rough edges, beautiful to the discerning eye, always giving answers that fit exactly what the audience wanted to hear.

“So I decided not to take a leave. I learn a lot not only from professors with far more experience than me, but also from classmates I work alongside. Even if it’s a bit exhausting, I want to greet viewers with a better 모습, a better performance.”

Once again, Do Gyeoul’s answer drew satisfied smiles from the reporters. When the reading ended, reporters who had been posting articles from their seats stretched their stiff bodies.

“The story looks decent enough. Solid clichés.”

“What do you think the ratings will be?”

“Let’s see.... If I had to guess....”

One reporter, known for eerily accurate premiere rating predictions after years in entertainment journalism, spoke up.

“About 5.4.”

A rating well above average. It meant Do Gyeoul’s comeback was already being positioned as a standout anticipated drama of the second half of the year.

* * *

[A warm and friendly script reading.... Do Gyeoul shows off her beauty at twenty]

[Do Gyeoul–Noh Seungchan 〈Beyond the Closed Door〉 already perfect chemistry]

[From child actor to a flawless image transformation.... “Since it’s my first romance, I’ll work even harder,” says Do Gyeoul]

‘Wow, Do Gyeoul again.’

My phone screen was filled with articles about Do Gyeoul. Everyone was focused on her first work as an adult actor after being a child star—across ages, across genders.

‘It’s all just Do Gyeoul....’

I glared at the status window floating in front of my eyes.

‘...Is it because of Do Gyeoul that I’m not being recognized as an Iconic Rookie?’

Success Condition

[Let’s further strengthen the title ‘Iconic Rookie’ among more than 100,000 members of the public.]

Rewards

[Popularity] increase

[Title] acquisition

[1,000 Lucky Points] acquired

The mission was still unchanged. One rookie award from the drama awards wasn’t enough.

‘...Well. Can’t be helped.’

Even though it was the Seoul Drama Awards, half the awards went to foreign works and foreign actors.

My footing in Korea was still weak. There was no way it could reach over 100,000 people yet.

‘When will this mission clear?’

The next 〈ParCheHi〉 spin-off would probably lack firepower. Joo Junseo and I only appeared in Episode 1, and even then just the early portion. The lead was now Choo Gaeul.

‘It’s basically a cameo.’

Then the next schedule. MusicN, where I was currently a fixed MC.

‘With styling or something, I might snag the occasional RT.... But that’s a different vibe from an Iconic actor image.’

Then Blu-ray funding? Web drama Blu-ray funding was rare—maybe I could solidify an iconic image with that. If so, I’d want the package to be generous.

‘Iconic, iconic....’

My head grew more tangled by the second.

My next project, 〈Strange Tales〉, wouldn’t air until next summer. It would be great if 〈Law-Faster-than〉 released before then, but with films, delays of several years weren’t unusual.

“....”

Do Gyeoul kept pulling ahead, and I felt like I was stagnating in place.

I tightened my grip on the cue card once more. This was JC ENM’s production center in Ilsan, where my fixed schedule—recording a music program—took place.

‘Let’s just do what’s right in front of me well.’

Moping early would only hurt me.

‘Who am I?’

As usual, I stared into the mirror and did some mind control. It was a habit I’d picked up recently—remarkably cost-effective.

‘Han Yeoreum, recipient of the Special Jury Award at the Seoul Drama Awards.’

Good. A brief moment of self-indulgence calmed me down. The idol I co-hosted with hadn’t arrived yet.

Having the waiting room to myself wasn’t bad at all.

“Live MusicN! MC Han Yeoreum, Seo Eden.”

I began memorizing the lines on the cue card as if they were dialogue. The anxiety slowly melted away.

Today, too, there was a camera filming me. A broadcast where my name would be spoken.

‘That’s enough. No problem.’

But there was something I’d overlooked. This was live, and it wasn’t something I could carry alone—it was a double MC setup.