Chapter 124
"They need you on set in five minutes," Alice informed Haru, her voice hushed but carrying the tight, hurried clip of an assistant managing an exploding schedule. She was checking her tablet with one hand while adjusting a loose strap on her shoulder bag with the other, her newly appointed junior assistant trailing two steps behind her.
Haru stood up from the makeup chair, nodding calmly. In the mirror, his reflection stared back with an unfamiliar, stark intensity. His hair was still in the military buzz cut demanded by his recent film role in Vietnam. The harsh, short bristle emphasized the lean hollows of his high cheekbones and the dangerous depth of his eyes, effectively erasing any lingering traces of the soft aesthetic he had carried when he first woke up in this life. It was a face built for psychological warfare, which, given the nature of the film, was precisely what he needed.
Today, he was attending a prestigious network talk show the kind of high-profile broadcast that rarely, if ever, extended invitations to rookies. It was a massive opportunity, a testament to the cultural waves he had caused in a short period , yet Haru felt measured excitement. Only the cold, calculated readiness of a man who had lived through it.
He walked down the labyrinthine, brightly lit corridors of the broadcasting station with Alice by his side, his posture straight and unbothered. A hurried floor manager scurried alongside them, hands flying as he helped secure the wireless microphone pack clipped to the back of Haru's trousers, ensuring the tiny lapel mic was perfectly hidden against the collar of his designer shirt.
"We're doing a final mic check at the wings, then you're straight on after the intro package," the floor manager muttered, tapping his headset.
As they neared the edge of the stage where the shadows met the blinding, multicolored studio lights, Haru's eyes casually scanned the backstage area. Suddenly, his gaze snagged on a figure leaning against a production crate.
Chang-seo.
For a fraction of a second, Haru felt his blood run slightly cold. The name alone brought an intrusive, sharp sting of tension, a reminder of the quiet, malicious rivalries that festered behind the scenes.
But the hardened instinct of Sunghoon took over instantly, ruthlessly shoving the instinctual dread down into the deepest, darkest compartment of his mind.
Chang-seo's eyes caught his across the busy, cable-strewn floor. The veteran actor didn't look away; instead, he tilted his head, letting his lips pull back into a slow, freezing smile that didn't reach his eyes. Before Haru could even process the malicious intent radiating from the man, the sharp voice of the director echoed through the studio monitors: "Three, two, one... and cue!"
Haru let out a slow, controlled breath, letting the tension melt from his shoulders as he stepped out from the wings. The moment his feet hit the polished floor of the stage and the host boisterously called his name, a blinding smile broke across his face bright and charismatic. He walked toward the modern, semi-circular couch setup, bowing politely to the live studio audience whose cheers echoed loudly against the rafters, before taking his seat.
The explicitly stated topic of today's broadcast was the evolution of the entertainment industry. The production team had marketed the episode as a generational bridge, bringing in a breakout rookie whose technical depth had shocked critics, alongside an established veteran who had survived the industry's changing tides.
Initially, Haru had been genuinely excited to delve into the craft. He had prepared notes on character psychology and the changing landscape of independent cinema. He had been told to anticipate a completely different veteran actor a highly respected, gentle character actor known for mentoring youth.
But as he looked across the glass coffee table at the guest sitting in the primary armchair, the stark reality sank in. They had changed the guest at the absolute last minute. Chang-seo sat there, draped in an expensive bled attire, exuding an air of unshakeable authority.
For the first fifteen minutes, the show proceeded with a deceptive, easy warmth. Haru played his part flawlessly. He was charming, articulate, and completely humble, deflecting compliments with a practiced ease that had the hosts laughing at his quick wit.
"So, Haru, how is it so far?" the main host asked, leaning forward with genuine curiosity. "Transitioning from a quiet rookie to one of the most talked-about names in the industry after your drama aired it must feel like a whirlwind."
"So far, I am just deeply grateful," Haru replied, his voice smooth and carrying a resonant, grounded warmth. "Every single opportunity, no matter how small the character or how limited the screen time, is incredibly important to me. A small role is still a piece of a larger story, and I treat it with the same respect as a lead."
The co-host nodded appreciatively. "That's a beautiful mindset. You know, some of us started with much smaller roles. Even those without a single line of dialogue, just standing in the background hoping the camera catches a glimpse of our faces."
"That was exactly how you started out, Chang-seo, wasn't it?" the main host added, turning the spotlight toward the veteran.
Chang-seo let out a soft chuckle, shifting his weight comfortably. "Yes, indeed. I spent five years playing nameless thugs and background extras before anyone even bothered to learn my name." He turned his gaze slowly toward Haru, the smile on his face tight and glittering under the studio lights. "Unlike my junior here, who seems to have been given everything on a silver plate."
He added a sharp, boisterous laugh at the end of the sentence, attempting to frame it as a lighthearted joke, but the delivery was fundamentally mean-spirited. A heavy, immediate wave of awkwardness rippled through the studio floor. The live audience fell completely silent, and the hosts subtly shifted in their seats, their smiles freezing.
Haru didn't flinch. He saw the trap Chang-seo was setting, the classic industry narrative designed to paint a rising star as an entitled, untalented product of nepotism and luck.
"It was just a matter of perfect timing, I guess," Haru added willfully, keeping his tone light, conversational, and entirely devoid of defensiveness. "My agency happened to have a small role open for an audition. I saw the opportunity, threw myself out there, and worked as hard as I could to make sure I didn't let the director down."
"Oh, was it really just perfect timing?" Chang-seo chuckled, leaning back and turning his gaze toward the hosts rather than Haru, a classic dominance tactic used to alienate a target. "We all know how the industry works nowadays. Let's be honest wasn't it because you are incredibly close with Raiven?" He let the name hang in the air like a weapon before continuing, "We all know his family has connections in the entertainment industry. A single phone call from a family like that can open doors that take the rest of us a decade to walk through."
The insinuation was clear, ugly, and designed to completely invalidate Haru's hard work.
Haru swallowed slightly, the muscles in his jaw tightening imperceptibly. The buzz cut left his face completely exposed; he couldn't afford even a flicker of anger to register on his features.
"At that specific moment in time, I was not nearly as familiar with Raiven as I am right now," Haru said, forcing a bright, self-deprecating laugh that echoed clearly through his microphone. "I highly doubt anyone, no matter how powerful their family, would go around doing massive favors for a total stranger."
The hosts caught onto the lifeline Haru threw them, laughing quickly to break the tension, but Chang-seo's expression only grew more venomous.
"Haru..." the co-host chimed in, her expression tightening as she looked at a cue card that had clearly been handed to her from the production desk off-camera.
"Actually, since the topic has been raised... there is an audio clip that has been recently circulating on certain online community boards. Some netizens are claiming that the specific role you secured in The Night of the Rose was directly influenced by him."
The air left the room. Haru felt a heavy, dull thud in his chest. The audio. If it was what he thought it was, Chang-seo hadn't just hijacked the guest slot; he had orchestrated a calculated ambush with the production team to broadcast a targeted scandal on national television.
"I believe entirely in my own abilities," Haru said, his voice dropping its light, soft adjacent register, replaced by the firm, unyielding tone of a man who refused to be broken. "I don't need to depend on Raiven, or anyone else, to secure my roles. Every project I have signed has been earned through rigorous auditions and the final judgment of the directors."
He was deeply, profoundly insulted. The sheer audacity of the implication, that his sleepless nights, his grueling shoots, his meticulous research into psychological profiles, and the emotional wreckage he endured to bring his characters to life were just the result of a boyfriend's handout burned like acid in his veins. He looked at Chang-seo's smug, triumphant expression and knew with absolute certainty that the man had masterminded this entire segment.
"But the audio is believed to be straight from the director himself, discussing the casting choices," Chang-seo pressed, his tone dripping with mock concern. "As a senior, I'm just saying... it's better to clear the air. The public deserves transparency."
"As I have already clearly stated, I have no knowledge of any such conversations," Haru replied, his eyes locking onto Chang-seo's with a cold, lethal intensity that made the veteran's smirk falter for a split second. "I went to the audition block alongside dozens of other actors, performed my scenes, and secured the role based on what I brought to the table."
"Well, independent talent is one thing," Chang-seo said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gossipy purr as he delivered the final, devastating blow, "could you perhaps state that there is something more... intimate between you and Raiven? Something personal that would explain such a strong, unyielding bond?"
The question took the entire studio completely aback. The hosts visibly gasped, and a collective murmur broke out among the staff behind the cameras. For an industry that survived on unspoken open secrets and heavily guarded privacy, to ask a direct, thinly veiled question about a same-sex relationship on a mainstream talk show was an act of professional suicide or an attempt at public execution.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
"What are you insinuating, Chang-seo?" Haru asked.
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a terrifying, crystalline clarity that cut through the background hum of the studio equipment. The polite honorifics were entirely stripped from his tone, his words delivered with a raw, authoritative gravity that stunned the room. He didn't look like a rookie; he looked like a man who could dismantle anyone in his path.
Sensing that the broadcast had veered into highly dangerous territory, Chang-seo quickly held up his hands, letting out a loud, nervous laugh. "Nothing, nothing, I'm afraid! I suppose I've just watched far too many speculative videos online lately. You know how the internet is."
The main host, sweating under the studio lights, immediately stepped in to seize control of the sinking ship. "And on that note, that is all the time we have for today's deep dive into the industry! A huge thank you to our guests..."
The cameras cut, the red 'ON AIR' lights flickered off, and the music package began to play through the monitors.
The moment the transition was confirmed, Haru stood up instantly. Every muscle in his body was coiled tight with an explosive, volatile frustration. The utter disrespect of the ambush, the calculated malice of Chang-seo, and the compliance of the network burned inside him. Yet, the decades of survival insticts built into his soul kept his movements entirely controlled. He didn't storm off. He refused to give Chang-seo the satisfaction.
Instead, Haru paused, turning to the hosts.
"Thank you for your time today," he said, his voice tightly controlled but polite.
The hosts looked deeply uncomfortable, their expressions swimming with genuine sympathy and silent apologies as they bowed back, but neither of them dared to say a word aloud in front of the crew.
Haru turned on his heel, his face an unreadable, icy mask as he walked past a silent, watching Chang-seo without granting the man a single glance. He marched straight through the backstage exit, his long strides cutting through the shadows as he headed back toward the dressing room, his hands curled into white-knuckled fists inside his pockets.