Chapter 34
Kwak Seung-chul was the first to charge in.
“You refuse to schedule shoots after 9 PM?”
“Do you think that’s something you can unilaterally decide?”
“Isn’t drama production all about adapting to co-stars’ schedules and shooting timelines? Things change constantly.”
As Jeong Jik-han flapped his mouth wordlessly like a goldfish, Kwak Seung-chul continued in a steady, authoritative tone:
“Actress Lee Sun-hye told me. You work at a café after 11 PM.”
“……”
“As I said earlier, Dream Tree prioritizes the needs of our actors and models above all else.”
Jeong Jik-han studied Kwak Seung-chul’s expression and finally grasped the subtext.
He’s saying I’m not important enough yet.
A rookie dictating terms? Practically unheard of.
Yet Kwak Seung-chul’s confidence stemmed from one simple truth: Jeong Jik-han didn’t warrant special scheduling.
He wasn’t an actor whose future projects hung in the balance.
Too promising to discard, yet not valuable enough to fully invest in—a metaphorical chicken rib.
This was Jeong Jik-han’s standing.
To some, it might sound harsh, but to him, it was a relief.
This balance suited him perfectly—not excessive, not lacking.
For someone with neither starry-eyed dreams nor conviction about acting, it was the ideal arrangement.
If anything, this is lucky.
Jeong Jik-han smiled faintly and extended his right hand again.
“Thank you for your consideration. I’ll be in your care.”
“Ah! Then... shall we move elsewhere to discuss details?”
When Jeong Jik-han glanced at Director Kim, the man waved his hand forward and backward like a metronome, urging them to proceed.
As Jeong Jik-han left with Kwak Seung-chul, Director Kim—who’d been observing quietly—turned to Lee Sun-hye.
“Dream Tree’s no small agency. Isn’t this excessive enthusiasm over a rookie odd?”
Lee Sun-hye shoved her hands into her pants pockets as Director Kim arched his brows.
“Many at our company work passionately, Director. Your words sting.”
“I’m saying you’re overestimating Jik-han. He’s not Dream Tree material yet.”
“Oh? You brought him here. Shouldn’t you stand by that choice?”
“Haha! Fair point. Still, I’m not fully convinced.”
Lee Sun-hye tilted her head.
“Convinced of what?”
“He’s got no obvious flaws—even has all the right qualities. But crucially, there’s no fire for acting in him.”
Director Kim clicked his tongue ruefully. Lee Sun-hye responded with a thin smile.
“I agree.”
“Huh? About what?”
“You said he lacks passion but has the traits, right?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t you bring him here precisely because of that? To test the waters?”
“……”
“That’s why I’m taking him too. If he ever finds that passion, he’ll soar.”
Director Kim’s eyes narrowed.
“So you’re snatching him before others see his worth? Grabbing him while he’s still a ‘chicken rib’ with potential?”
Lee Sun-hye’s smile deepened as Director Kim clucked his tongue.
“Sun-hye, you’d have killed it in sales.”
“Haha! I actually did sales before acting.”
“Really?”
“It was on my audition profile. Didn’t you notice?”
“Who reads those? I judge by acting. You’ve always stood apart from others.”
Both watched Jeong Jik-han’s retreating figure, sharing the same thought:
Latent potential.
One day, it’ll shine.
After finishing the Season 2 trailer shoot, Jeong Jik-han headed to Nonhyeon-dong with his contract in an envelope.
Dream Tree.
A well-regarded management company in the entertainment industry.
Kwak Seung-chul had approached him through Lee Sun-hye’s referral, and after brief negotiations, the deal was set.
The exclusive contract spanned five years.
The company would fully handle casting for modeling, dramas, and films, though Jeong Jik-han insisted on changing “consultation” to “mutual agreement” in the terms—a critical distinction for legal disputes involving performers whose bodies were their livelihood.
A clause explicitly barred scheduling work after 9 PM.
The contract duration, negotiable between three to seven years, was set at five.
If his café job at The Departed’s Café went well, he could leave after five years. Hence, the matching term with Dream Tree.
—This stop is Nonhyeon Station, transferable to the Shinbundang Line. Exit doors are on the right.
Jeong Jik-han rose at the subway announcement, merging into the crowd as he checked the time and moved toward Exit 2.
Following the map Grandfather Kang Chun-su had shared, he navigated the streets.
Exit Nonhyeon Station Line 7, Exit 2. Take the first alley.
Follow it to find a shabby building with a fallen sign.
Emerging from the exit, Gangnam-daero stretched ahead—a wide avenue flanked by skyscrapers, streetlights casting dim glows over colorful neon signs.
Amidst the glittering nightscape, Jeong Jik-han felt an inexplicable loneliness.
Why does this solitude hit harder here?
Days pulsed with energy, but nights revealed the city’s rigid, isolating framework.
Office workers trudged home with slumped shoulders and weary faces. Jeong Jik-han joined their flow, slipping into an alley.
Raw fish joints and barbecue spots lined the path, patrons drowning their exhaustion in soju.
A signless store…
As he scanned the area, his eyes caught a menu board in a corner parking lot.
—Spicy stir-fried pork.
Following the arrow on the board, he soon found the dilapidated building—a location even locals might miss.
Most would’ve turned back at the bleak, unlit facade resembling a failed business. But Jeong Jik-han knew better and stepped cautiously forward.
Ding-dong. Ding-dong.
The entrance bell chimed. From the kitchen, a muffled voice called:
“Welcome!”
Simultaneously, amber lights flickered on inside.
Did my entry trigger these?
The lighting felt oddly unnatural. Puzzled, he stepped back outside—only to see a dark, lifeless interior.
Yet from within came sounds of active business.
Like H Company or KarMa Entertainment, this place clearly hid itself from the living’s sight.
Reentering, he heard muttering from the kitchen:
“Huh? Did they leave?”
A middle-aged man peeked out, squinting before raising his brows sharply.
“……Are you… alive?”
“Hello. Nice to meet you.”
“How did you find this place?”
The man studied Jeongjikan with curious eyes.
Jeongjikan wasn’t sure where or how to begin explaining.
Scratching his head awkwardly under the man’s gaze, the middle-aged man asked nonchalantly, “Have you eaten?”
“No, not yet.”
“What’ve you been doing all this time without eating? Come in.”
The man pointed to an empty seat, gesturing for him to sit. Water, side dishes, alcohol, and drinks were all self-service.
Jeongjikan sank into the indicated seat and scanned the interior. Unlike the polished Café of the Departed, this Restaurant of the Departed felt homey. Was it the lighting?
Then the sweet, spicy aroma of jeyuk bokkeum assaulted his senses, making his mouth water.
‘It already smells incredible.’
He gulped the saliva pooling in his mouth and cautiously stood. Pretending to fetch water from the dispenser, he peeked into the kitchen.
Sizzle—! Sizzle—!
Flames erupted from the wok-tossed meat. This wasn’t ordinary stir-fried pork—the controlled blaze alone proved it special. The portion alone could feed thirty people.
As Jeongjikan gaped, the man wiped sweat from his brow and asked, “Could you hand me that over there?”
“Which one?”
“The long chopsticks.”
Jeongjikan mechanically obeyed, passing the utensils.
“Boss...”
“Hmm?”
“Are you... alive too?”
“Why? Do I look dead?”
The man chuckled dryly and continued, “Sit and wait. It’ll be ready soon.”
“…Understood.”
Pestering someone this busy felt rude. Jeongjikan returned to his seat to await the dish.
Jingle-jangle!
The glass door chimed as customers flooded in.
“Boss Park, we’re here!”
“Welcome!”
“Boss, we made it!”
“Haha! Come in!”
They beelined to their usual seats like clockwork, filling the 30-pyeong space within moments.
“The pork’s ready!”
The man began plating with vigorous clatters. Soon every table received servings—including Jeongjikan’s.
“Eat up.”
The man sat across him, wearing a contented smile.
Jeongjikan lifted his chopsticks, eyeing the glistening meat. Steam curled from its surface, the aroma teasing his nostrils. He swallowed another mouthful of saliva.
The moment the tender pork touched his tongue, his eyes flew open.
‘Holy hell—this is amazing.’
He stared wide-eyed at the man, who smiled benignly. “Good?”
Too hot to speak, Jeongjikan covered his mouth and nodded furiously.
The man retrieved a soda from the fridge, looking pleased. “Eat slowly while we talk.”
“Huh?”
“You didn’t come just to eat. Why are you here?”
“You noticed already.”
“Hard not to. That goblin mark on your shoulder.”
“You can see it?!”
“Born with spirit-seeing eyes.” Leaning forward, the man rested his elbows on the table.
Jeongjikan swallowed his bite. “Then I’ll be direct.”
“Go ahead. You’re clearly in the same line of work.”
“I’m Jeongjikan from the Café of the Departed. I came to ask you something.”
The man’s eyes ballooned like lanterns. “The Café of the Departed exists?!”
“Yes.”
“No way!” He stared intently. “They say only resentful spirits go there—isn’t it terrifying?”
“There’s nothing to fear.”
“But that mark—”
“It’s not the mark. Our guests seek peace, not malice. They’re not evil spirits.”
“But ‘resentful spirits’ are evil...”
“No. They’re different.”
The man nodded slowly. “Still—how’d you find this place? It’s not exactly on maps.”
“A customer mentioned eating here.”
“Impossible. Resentful spirits can’t enter.”
“Unless resentment forms where none existed.”
At the man’s puzzled look, Jeongjikan explained, “He grew resentful while waiting for his wife. Ended up at our café.”
“Resentment from waiting?”
“His heartbreak curdled into bitterness. After that... he was banned from here.”
The man stroked his chin, then tilted his head.
“This spirit... would his name be Kang Chunsu?”
