In This Life, The Greatest Star In The Universe

I was observing a group of animals in the marble-decorated lobby.

They were called “dongsaengs” in scientific terms, notable for their handsome faces and long, lanky limbs. They kept looking around and making excited “uwaang” sounds.

“Uwaa, hyung, look at that,” the lowest-ranking member of the group said, pointing dramatically toward the distant elevators.

“There are three elevators. Three,” they exclaimed.

“Look, there’s a fountain too.”

“Should we toss a coin and make a wish?”

“Hyung, I feel like we’re at an amusement park... that cleaning machine the lady is using is the latest model......”

And among these fools, I was the only rational one—me, Sun Woo-joo.

I asked in disbelief,

“Is this really that amazing?”

Answers came right away.

“Yes.”

“Of course.”

“Aren’t you impressed, hyung?”

Even Bi-ju nodded in agreement.

“Hyung, you’ve been here six years, but for us it’s new. We’ve only heard about it in stories. It’s our first time inside a big agency.”

“I see. It just feels like coming back to my old school.”

Despite the lobby’s grandeur befitting a trendsetting K-pop agency, it didn’t impress me much. I’d been here so many times I was tired of it, and my last visit hadn’t ended well, so I didn’t have pleasant associations.

“Uwaa.”

I smiled and followed their gaze to see what had excited them «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» this time. On the wall hung dozens of promotional photos spaced evenly. In the most prominent spot were the eight members of TNT, each in their own frame, with Han Tae-hyun’s greasy smile front and center. Familiar faces of trainees who’d become actors, models, and singers filled the rest of the wall. Seeing peers who’d chosen different paths made me feel strange.

“Hey, look at that empty spot, hyung. They must be hanging a new photo.”

“Where?”

“There. Right after the TNT photos, the next most visible spot.”

At Ji-ho’s pointing, I explained to the curious dongsaengs,

“Someone’s coming to sign a contract today, I think.”

“What?”

“When TJ recruits a new talent, they hold an event. They meet in the lobby, hang the new photo, then go upstairs to the CEO’s office, stamp the contract, and tour the company. That’s how it works.”

“Uwaa.”

“What exactly is so amazing here?”

Their reply, of course, was another “uwaa.”

While the dongsaengs speculated about whose photo would go there, Seok-hwan hyung returned from filling out the visitor log.

“What are they so excited about?”

“They’re hanging a new photo. Look, they’re preparing it.”

“Oh.”

Seok-hwan glanced at the wall and said casually,

“Looks like a pretty big signing, judging by the spot.”

“Right, who could it be?”

“No idea. There’s no singer worthy of that spot now. Must be an actor. There are so many free agents on the market these days.”

He fell silent as a group of people stepped off the elevator. It was time to switch back to “no comment” mode like at the broadcast station.

“Hyung,” Bi-ju, who’d been staring at the photos, asked me,

“If our photo gets hung there, which spot would it be?”

“Hmm.”

I almost said they wouldn’t hang ours yet—but I didn’t want to spoil their innocence. So I smiled and pointed randomly.

“Somewhere around there.”

We arrived on the seventh floor and were led straight to the TJ New Media advertising division’s conference room. The large windows offered a view of Cheongdam-dong, and the walls proudly displayed past ad campaigns. Two sharply dressed men with glasses sat before us—the AE team handling this ad. AE stood for advertising executive or planner, working as liaison and overseer between the client and the production company, akin to a PD in a drama. No wonder their eyes looked weary and bloodshot.

Mr. Kim, sitting on the right, smiled sheepishly.

“You look like hell. We should have greeted you in better shape, but we’ve been swamped preparing for PPM.”

We nodded in sympathy and laughed, and the meeting began.

“This is the ad concept. What New Black should focus on is the storyboard I’m handing out.”

As the deputy distributed the boards, Mr. Kim said,

“As you know, this ad isn’t for TV. It’ll be distributed mainly on SNS. You know those ads before YouTube videos?”

“Yes, we do.”

“That’s the format.”

A storyboard landed on my lap—fresh off the printer, labeled “Ad Model – New Black.” I felt a surge of pride. At the bottom, among many roles—agency, production, AE, AD, PD, CD, CW—one name stood out: the client, KG International. They owned the school uniform brand Everdream, our client today. I’d looked them up before our meeting: part of the KG Group trading conglomerate, with businesses from raw-materials trade to hotels. We were modeling their small-but-notable uniform line. As a big company, it felt like high stakes for us.

The AEs meticulously explained every point as we flipped through the boards.

“The client wants to shed the brand’s old-fashioned image. Most people think ‘parents pick the uniform’ or ‘outdated.’ To change that perception, this ad will be completely different.”

He continued,

“Since the core target is teens, this won’t be a typical glossy CF. It’s a dramatized concept with a fun storyline.”

“Dramatized? Like a story?”

“Yes. Think of it as a short film rather than an ordinary ad.”

A story in an ad sounded entertaining, but could we pull it off? Only Ji-ho had formal acting training. I had to ask:

“Will we need to act emotionally?”

The deputy waved her hand,

“No. Since you’re rookies, there are only one or two scenes requiring real acting. The rest are everyday actions. The goal is still an ad, not a drama, so no worries.”

“However, the more you prepare, the more freedom the director and client have on set,” Mr. Kim added.

Seok-hwan answered for us,

“Yes, we’ll prepare thoroughly.”

We began flipping through the storyboard. It was intriguing—like a comic, easy to grasp at a glance. Each scene was numbered with notes on dialogue. As I read, the ad played out in my mind... but something felt unusual. It wasn’t the typical school uniform ad. The concept was unique.

“It’s unusual, right?”

They smiled,

“We offered several ideas during the pitch, but the client chose this one.”

It made sense—a conservative conglomerate picking such a daring concept. I read on and asked,

“So the kids in the board are wizards?”

“Yes. It’s about students at a magic school. That’s the concept.”

Before diving into details, they invited us to review the full boards. The quiet room echoed with the sound of paper turning. The story: students learning magic at a wizard academy, with comedic mishaps. The opening was striking—enough to make viewers pause their finger before skipping. It was light yet not frivolous. Our initial casual glances turned serious. I studied it forward and backward, envisioning it. A thought struck me:

“Well?”

The AE asked for our impression as the paper rustled. We all looked to the maknae, Ji-ho, who sat at the window, examining the board with intense focus like someone checking an OMR sheet on a crucial test. No matter how we tried to speak, he was silent, as if we shouldn’t interrupt. When he finally closed the first page and looked up, they asked again,

“Well?”

Ji-ho, after pondering, spoke simply,

“It seems too good to be just an ad.”

That compliment lit up their faces. The rest of the meeting flew by in a warm atmosphere.

“All right, see you on the shoot date.”

As we organized our things, Mr. Kim, loosening his cuffs, approached with a word of caution.

“I’ll mention this just in case. With new executives at KG International, they’re reviewing every detail of the business. The person in charge of this ad is very passionate and meticulous, so please be careful.”

He meant that the client’s leadership change had them scrutinizing budgets and operations, making the ad manager extra nervous about every small detail. We nodded.

“Thank you for letting us know. We’ll do our best.”

“Please do.”

With the meeting over, we left the room. We handed the boards to Seok-hwan to prevent loss. Our maknae looked disappointed.

“Aww, it was so fun.”

“Really?”

“Didn’t you guys think so? I was totally absorbed.”

I had. Recalling the scene gave me a strange feeling. Seeing our usually goofy maknae suddenly silent and intent on the boards was unfamiliar.

“I was imagining all sorts of things. It feels like there’s more story to add—like a prologue.”

“Maybe. I just thought it was fun.”

The others nodded.

“It’s a shame to waste the concept on a simple ad.”

“Same here. It’s basically a Harry Potter knockoff.”

“I still don’t really get it, though it was fun.”

“Ugh, it feels like there’s something more......”

As our clueless hyungs complained, we exited the agency office into the lobby—only something felt off. The desk staff had vanished, and a crowd was bustling in front of us.

“Wow. How does someone look that good?”

“Did they sign the contract today?”

“Must be. The director just gave them an internal tour.”

The staff who’d been indifferent earlier now whispered excitedly, even office workers came out to gawk. We tilted our heads.

“Who’s here?”

“That person they were going to hang the photo of on the first floor.”

“Ah.”

We thought about waiting for the crowd to disperse, but considering our next schedule, we headed for the elevator. As we skirted the gathering, we saw the figure surrounded by people—and our jaws dropped.

“Uwaa.”

That was the thirteenth “uwaa” of the day, and deservedly so. The person greeting fans was one of Korea’s hottest top stars: actor Lee Kyun-woo. He’d shot to fame last year as a royal guard in a fusion sageuk and earlier this year played a painter with superpowers, cementing his Hallyu-star status. We were in awe—not just because of his face, but because TV couldn’t capture his real presence.

But our amazement paused when I saw who stood beside him: the man in the luxury suit and gold-rimmed glasses was Han Young-joon, the executive director who’d delivered my cut from the debut lineup when I left TJ. We hadn’t parted badly, but it felt strange.

Jung-hyun asked,

“Do you know him, hyung?”

“Yes.”

“Will we... should we say hello?”

The crush of people made it unlikely we could get through.

“We’ll be late for the next schedule. Let’s go, guys.”

“Yes, director.”

We turned down the hall, abandoning hopes of greeting them—until a voice called out behind the crowd.

“Hey? You’re New Black, right?”

How did he know us? As he beamed and waved to greet us, Director Han’s eyes widened.

“....Sun Woo-joo?”