ILHBO C10

This Life Isn’t About a Husband, It’s About an Oscar
Episode 10

“I’m planning to fix that again today. Let’s film it.”

“What? Now?”

“If you don’t want to, then don’t.”

“Hey, hey. What’s with this sudden attitude? So I film it, and upload it to my account?”

“Yes.”

“Nice.”

The cinematographer grinned excitedly as he finished setting up the equipment.

Soon, filming resumed.

And as expected, Ha Eunrae was once again flying through the shoot.

* * *

‘Wow… today was something else.’

My body wasn’t even the problem—it felt like my mind had been completely drained. I collapsed face-down onto the bed.

Yereum said she’d be late today because of a drinking appointment.

‘Guess I’ll have to go pick her up if she gets drunk…’

I reached into my pocket to text her, but something dropped onto the floor with a soft thud.

A business card.

[Naru Stage]

This card was given to me by Seo Kyungbin.

“Uh… I… I heard you don’t have an agency yet…”

“Yes.”

“Um…”

Then he handed me the card.

“We’re looking for… new actresses.”

A lot of words seemed missing, but I understood the meaning.

In other words, Naru Stage was actively casting rookie actresses.

Come to think of it, Seo Kyungbin was from Naru Stage.

“If you’re interested in auditions, call…”

He couldn’t even finish saying “please call.”

Well, it was surprising that Seo Kyungbin—the ultimate introvert type—was showing this much goodwill.

“Your acting was amazing.”

After filming the first encounter scene, Seo Kyungbin told me with an excited expression.

I had worried he might feel threatened by me stealing the spotlight, but instead he looked fired up, saying he needed to prepare even more.

“I-I’ll try not to be a burd… den…”

It was hard to tell whether he had finished the sentence or not.

“You’re already doing great.”

That was the truth. Once the camera rolled, Seo Kyungbin became a completely different person.

But the moment he heard praise, he shrank in on himself like a turtle, so I decided to stop complimenting him for now.

Still, the fact that he even offered an audition meant he thought highly of me.

“I’m only this good thanks to you, ma’am.”

As frustrating as it was, Hong Jongho’s social skills had also been useful.

I smiled slightly at the Naru Stage card.

If my new acting life began with Jekal Seyun, then my second step would be Naru Stage.

And now it was time to use my next “search ticket” for the third step.

‘Something that can get attention at my current level. A project that helps me earn more search tickets.’

This time—it would be a music video.

* * *

Heo Kyunghoe, the representative of Naru Stage, rotated his stiff neck with a tired expression.

He was called a “CEO,” but in reality, he ran a tiny company of just over ten people and personally went out to find talent.

Sometimes he visited university theater districts, sometimes he watched indie films until his eyes burned, and sometimes he carefully reviewed every single application that came in.

Because the company was still small, securing actors was the top priority.

Especially after a rising mid-tier actor left the company the previous year, things had become unstable, pushing him to focus even harder on discovering rookies.

“I know you work hard, Mr. Heo. I joined because you treated me well when we worked together. But you know this industry. I’m older now, and casting depends on connections. And Naru Stage… well…”

He didn’t need to hear the rest to understand.

‘We don’t have any real-name actors, so we have no pull.’

It was painful, since they had built years of relationship—but he couldn’t force the actor to stay. He understood their circumstances.

And through that, Heo Kyunghoe realized something.

‘We can’t rely on established actors anymore.’

It was time to nurture rookies from scratch.

Recently, Seo Kyungbin had gained recognition as a rising star in indie films, but he still wasn’t bringing in commercial CF deals.

There was some growing fandom on social media, but sending him into variety shows…

‘He can’t even hold a normal conversation.’

No matter how much variety shows boosted popularity, it was impossible—at least in Heo Kyunghoe’s conscience—to send Seo Kyungbin there.

‘And if Kyungbin collapses from panic on set, we literally won’t have any actors left…’

So lately, he had been desperately searching for new talent, but nothing met his standards.

The good ones were already contacted by bigger agencies.

And the rejection messages always sounded similar:

“Naru Stage is still too new… it wouldn’t be good for both sides if I joined as a rookie…”

From their perspective, it wasn’t wrong.

For rookie actors, big agencies mattered more than anything.

Companies with established leads could easily insert their own actors into productions.

But there was a downside to that system.

Like idol groups from the same company all looking similar, actors would inevitably become “manufactured talents” shaped by agency branding.

Worse agencies even forced fabricated resumes or altered backstories.

Heo Kyunghoe had left his previous company because he was disgusted by such practices.

Though Kim Byungho—who later founded Agency “Kanna”—didn’t seem to care much about those methods.

He looked at a web drama video playing on YouTube.

‘The name is Kang Yeji.’

Her social media showed a clearly “packaged rookie” image.

Neatly styled clothes to appear calm and intellectual, paired with slightly luxurious accessories.

‘Everything is staged.’

He recognized the strategy immediately—he had seen it used often in his previous company.

Even the tactic of pretending to live in a wealthy district to attract followers was identical.

‘Kim Byungho never changes.’

He shook his head.

This kind of talent was perfect prey for someone like Kim Byungho.

They would be fed glamorous promises and molded into whatever role he wanted.

Forced to do provocative acting scenes, or pushed into uncomfortable variety show concepts.

If they blew up, they’d later be trapped under negative reputation tactics to ensure they never left the agency.

All techniques learned from Kim Byungho’s previous company.

Still, in large agencies, this was considered standard industry practice.

That was exactly why Heo Kyunghoe had left and created Naru Stage.

He wanted it to be a “stage” in the true sense of the word—for actors.

But now, Naru Stage only had Seo Kyungbin as a pushable name, so every meeting ended the same way.

“We like Seo Kyungbin, but we don’t have any female actors right now. You know how it is. There’s a shortage of actresses in their twenties. You should really find one yourself at a time like this.”

As if I don’t know that already!

Everyone’s calling around agencies because there are no usable actors!

That’s exactly why I’m doing this!

Just as Heo Kyunghoe closed his eyes and rotated his stiff neck—

“Director!”

Executive Director Jang Heeja entered.

“Director, you didn’t check the email I sent, did you? It’s a rookie actress for auditions.”

“A rookie? Why send it by email? We only accept submissions through documents.”

Because many applicants sent edited videos, they usually only accepted profiles and written submissions.

“It’s because she was recommended by Seo Kyungbin.”

“Kyungbin? He has an actor friend?”

With that personality? was the unspoken follow-up.

Jang Heeja smiled knowingly.

“Does he? Even if you tell him to meet friends on his day off, he just goes to the practice room.”

“Exactly.”

Nodding, Heo Kyunghoe opened the inbox.

“But he gave our business card to the co-actor in this project. The manager said she was incredible on set.”

“That’s just Kyungbin being Kyungbin.”

He opened the attachment—and the previously indifferent expression on his face changed instantly.

His eyes widened.

“No, not Kyungbin.”

Seeing his reaction, Jang Heeja smiled faintly.

“It’s Ha Eunrae. The actress’s name is Ha Eunrae. They said her presence is no joke.”