In This Life, The Greatest Star In The Universe

“Did you say Jiho is talking in there?”

“Yes.”

We strained our ears but heard nothing. The closed metal door seemed to ask, “What noise? You hear something from me?”

Joonghyeon pointed at the emergency exit.

“I can hear Assistant Director Jo and Jiho’s voices inside.”

“Really?”

I pressed my ear to the door. The cold metal pressed against my skin as faint voices drifted out.

It was Assistant Director Jo’s voice.

“It’s real, right?”

“...He really is in there?”

“Come listen for yourselves.”

I suggested, but my two brothers shook their heads.

“It’s a private conversation. Better to respect their privacy. Eavesdropping feels wrong...”

“Why listen at all? Let’s come back later.”

I felt uneasy...

In my mind, the pieces clicked together. Jiho’s standout acting in Slip’s first episode. Other drama productions calling since Saturday morning to ask about casting him. Viewers demanding the producers revive Officer Heo.

And now, right after the first broadcast, the actor team’s manager comes looking for our maknae?

At the emergency exit, of all places. Plenty of empty offices—why here? That felt off.

If it’s something they mustn’t be overheard on, you can guess the content.

I was curious. Should I burst in shouting, “I oppose this conversation!”?

Then I remembered: Jiho has his own thoughts. He isn’t a child I must always step in for. As Biju said, privacy matters.

All right. I’ll ask what happened later.

“For now, let’s go.”

I told the other members.

“We’ll ask later what they’re talking about in there.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“This is an opportunity you can’t miss.”

Assistant Director Jo said, “Did you see the online reaction after yesterday’s broadcast?”

“Yes.”

“I ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) checked for Noeul’s acting by searching online, and an entire forum page was plastered with Officer Heo posts.”

He handed me the tablet PC.

“Take a look.”

“Wow...”

It was a site I’d never seen. There were so many posts about Officer Heo. People even shared color-corrected GIFs, saying how heart-wrenching it was.

As I stared in amazement, Assistant Director Jo smiled.

“You were on screen for eight minutes—about ten percent of the episode—and you captivated all these people with your acting. Sure, top stars get this reaction for cameos, but you elicited it on your first try when no one knew you.”

I looked up, dumbfounded, and he spoke earnestly.

“You have talent, Jiho.”

“I know.”

“Oh—you know?”

A brief flicker of surprise crossed his face, and I said,

“I know I can act well.”

“Really? On set you always looked upset, saying you’re bad. I thought you didn’t know.”

“Oh—that’s different. I know I’m good, but that’s separate from whether I’m satisfied.”

I’d known for years. In kindergarten plays, I realized I had talent when I made parents cry playing the Little Match Girl. Dad even enrolled me in acting classes because I said acting was so fun. Every time I performed, teachers praised me and fellow students eyed me jealously, so I knew.

But satisfaction was another matter.

Like Woojoo hyung, writing perfect songs but lamenting, “I can’t show this crap to Soufflés!” and playing melancholy harmonica. Or Biju hyung, sulking, “Why isn’t my dancing improving?” Or Hyunhyuk hyung tearing at his hair, “What the hell am I even doing?” Joonghyeon hyung was always content—“My rap, nice rap”—so he didn’t apply.

“I’ve rarely felt satisfied. I heard I did well yesterday, and my ego swelled five centimeters. But reviewing the footage hurt—so many tiny flaws.”

I could’ve made a more natural expression there. That shot felt more like Woojoo hyung than Officer Heo; I should’ve done it differently. Small things nagged at me. Others call me a diamond, but I feel full of scratches. I prefer ruby.

I shook my head to clear the scattered thoughts.

“That dissatisfaction is good.”

Assistant Director Jo smiled.

“It means you have the desire to improve. It proves you can be a great actor.”

He continued commenting on my performance as I tilted my head, thinking, ‘Was my acting really that good?’

He’d found me after lunch, saying he had something important and confidential to discuss, so we moved to the quiet emergency exit. I’d guessed it: as soon as Slip’s Episode 1 ended, he’d call. Sure enough, at the exit he made his pitch.

“Would you like to pursue acting?”

At Lemon Entertainment, managers specialize by field. If an actor sings, the music team manages; if an idol acts, the actor team steps in. Assistant Director Jo wanted to cultivate me as an actor. He spoke at length about how impressed he was and the potential he saw.

“I can share contacts I have with directors. Some already asked, ‘Who was that in Slip? He’s amazing.’ See Director Song’s message? You know the film Black Flower?”

“Yes.”

That was the ten-million-dollar film Director Jo Gyu-hwan wanted to cast company actors in.

“Director Song’s looking for fresh faces—no new talent lately. He said if you have potential, bring them for minor roles.”

“Oh!”

“If you want, I can mention you.”

“Thank you.”

He smiled, slipped the tablet PC under his arm, and looked me over.

“What do you think?”

I smiled back.

“I’m not sure.”

“Not sure?”

He narrowed his eyes.

“Remember what I said? This is a chance you can’t miss. The entertainment industry is all timing. Even top stars crumble if they miss one opportunity. Who knows if you’ll get another chance after this?”

He shared a cautionary tale.

“An actor I managed hit a home run with a drama role. Scripts flooded in, but he refused them all to hone his craft. Despite the company’s protests, he did indie films—and they flopped. When he returned, no offers awaited. Now he runs a shaved ice shop.”

He meant: don’t assume your first success guarantees the next. So, when attention’s on you as Officer Heo, seize the opportunities.

I listened quietly, then said,

“If I were to do it...”

“Hm?”

“What happens to our album activities?”

“That’s obvious. You think I’d make you quit being a singer for acting? Of course I’d accommodate that.”

His confidence made me pause, then I laughed.

“I’ve thought it through. I don’t think I’ll do it.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to pursue acting as you suggested.”

“...But I heard you joined this company to be an actor.”

“That’s true. I want to act, and I’m not saying I’ll never act again. I just don’t think now is the right time.”

He looked exasperated, as if thinking, This kid just doesn’t get it.

“Because of group activities?”

“Yes.”

“Jiho, think long term. The other members are securing paths: Woojoo has producing, Joonghyeon has rap, Biju has solo, Hyunhyuk has OSTs and songs. You need your own path too.”

“I will.”

I said, “But not now.”

“Why?”

“We’re all pulling together to succeed. I don’t want to break ranks by suddenly focusing on acting alone.”

“...They’ll understand.”

“If I really wanted to, of course they’d support me. I know their personalities.”

They really would.

“But now isn’t the time for me to focus on my path. We haven’t fully established ourselves.”

He couldn’t fathom why I lacked ambition for acting. But I opposed beginning acting this way.

“You said I should think of my path. I’m doing that: I practice acting and asked you to find web-drama scripts. I’m thinking of the future.”

I spoke calmly.

“I want the group to settle first, then acting.”

“Jiho, look at so-called ‘actor-idols.’ When they appear in dramas, does their group’s recognition rise...”

“Really?”

I tilted my head.

“In music-show arrival lines, sometimes fans hold banners for the actor-idol alone. Fans even split by banner.”

“...”

“Sometimes the actor-idols don’t even make eye contact backstage.”

I’d never seen a group rise with assistance from their acting member. If the acting member alone did well, maybe.

“You said it wouldn’t interfere with our idol activities. You know it wouldn’t. Short cameos are fine, but if I blew up as a leading actor...”

Even now my minor role consumed huge time. If I rose to supporting or lead, I couldn’t spend time on the album. The company would adjust group schedules to accommodate my acting, but I pictured fans’ reactions.

“I like singing too. I’m not as good as hyungs, but I’m serious about idol activities.”

“...”

“The fans love it. They’re not cheering for me alone.”

Above all—

“Out of respect for Woojoo hyung. Do you know how much attention he got at debut? He had personal offers all the time.”

Each time we entered the management office, messages requested Woojoo alone. Some were decent PR, but—

“I refused them all flat out. It’s bad if one member overshadows the group.”

And now was a crucial time. I lost sleep worrying about the next album. Thinking of acting now felt selfish. Even after a successful album launch, I’d still want to rise together. I didn’t want to break this united Soufflé-spirit.

If I’d gotten this offer at debut, I might’ve wavered. But not now.

“Hmph... frustrating.”

He forced a smile.

“Well, you’re close now, so fine....”

He looked at me as if pitying that I’d decline his generous offer. I listened to his rambling.

One more reason I couldn’t accept:

I asked quietly,

“But I’m curious—”

“Hm?”

“Did you discuss this with our music manager?”

He paused. A brief flicker, but I saw it. He smiled gently.

“Not officially yet, but I needed to ask you first. I can’t push ahead without knowing your decision.”

He sidestepped smoothly. Anyone could see he intended to whisk me away from the group, but I didn’t call him on it.

“Next time, talk to our music manager first. They know the industry better than I do.”

“...All right.”

“I’ll follow Director Yoon’s advice on my acting pursuits. If it’s okay, I’ll inform him of today’s talk.”

Embarrassment flickered on his face. He tugged at the back of his collar, as if disappointed a child didn’t swallow his sales pitch.

“Well, this puts me in a bind. No need to cause friction between teams, right?”

“...”

He said oddly,

“If people heard this, they’d think I’m causing trouble. We always update our manager on work matters.”

Assistant Director Jo clicked his tongue, staring at me as if I were cunning beyond my years.

“...You’re something.”

Adults always talk down to you as if you’re naive, then scold you for not behaving like a child.

“I’ll take that as a no, but think it over. If you change your mind...”

“Yes, I’ll tell my manager.”

“...Fine.”

He stomped down the stairs, face pondering how to explain this to Director Yoon.

“Goodbye.”

I hoped it was our last meeting. I didn’t want him handling me if I did act.

I retrieved my phone from my windbreaker pocket.

[Recording completed.]

Just as Woojoo hyung had told me: “Record every surprise meeting. At TJ, people changed their stories.”

Recording—me too. I’m an adult now.

I smiled smugly as the emergency exit door slammed shut below.

“Phew...”

I let out my tension, flopped on the stairs, and remembered my moment of resolve.

‘I was pretty cool just now, right? Hehe.’

I wondered if I should’ve sounded more heroic, like in a drama.

Refusing like that to company staff made my heart race. But I felt proud—me, kicking away an acting offer to protect group unity.

Lost in self-congratulation, I chuckled, imagining my brothers’ reactions: “Jesus, Deoksoon, our maknae is so cool...”

Ha! No—

“They’ll laugh at you for thinking you’re cool. Pfft.”

“Really? Jiho grew up so much? Should I make you a chocolate shake? You’re not a kid? Fine. Banana shake it is.”

“Whoa, cool. Like a stag beetle.”

“Feeling cool? Good, huh? Pfft.”

Ugh. I must stop thinking about them.

I’d definitely come back to “Our master actor!” teasing. Those mean brothers.

Lost in those thoughts, my mouth fell open.

“Wait a minute. Was declining really the right move...?”

Had I missed an incredible opportunity?

Mom heard at the fortune teller that I’d get a big break this year. Was it this, and did I squander my luck?

My mind darted to a future scene.

Far ahead, on a shoot, a handsome elder with a cane stands as drama staff watch.

“Who’s that extra grandfather?”

“He had one cameo, got attention, then never succeeded again. It haunts him.”

“Now he still lingers in the drama world.”

Ugh. No. No way!

“I should’ve accepted.”

But I’d declined so bluntly.

Had I done the right thing? My thoughts flitted back and forth as I paced the exit stairs, laughing and crying through every emotion.

“Agh, I don’t know.”

I shook my head. No regrets.

Remembering Dad’s lesson—‘Once you knock over the glass, someone else will fix it’—I decided the glass was already broken.

Though a pang of loss struck me, I sighed.

“I did the right thing.”

My brothers might not know, but as long as I believed I’d done well, that was enough.

I’d discuss acting steps with Director Yoon later and build my career gradually. And when more fans know NewBlack globally and my hyungs launch solo projects, then I’d act.

‘Then I’ll ride the group’s momentum.’

Pleased, I turned the exit door handle.

It was time to go back.

“I’ll go eat chocolate with hyungs—”

Humming, I yanked the door open—and froze.

Clatter.

Something tumbled out.

“Uaaaah!”

“Eep!”

“Blegh!”

I stared wide-eyed.

Four brothers lay piled like sandwiches on the floor. I felt momentarily stunned.

“Kim Joonghyeon! I can’t breathe!”

“Sorry.”

“Who’s hand is on my leg? Move it now!”

“I’m pinned under Joonghyeon—can I move my hand from your leg? Ow, my back...”

“Hang on, I’ll get up.”

“Don’t move! Nobody move!”

Limbs tangled in a fresh chaos, I blinked rapidly.

‘What is this?’

When I opened the door, my hyungs fell out.