Chapter One: Sanctuary and Junkyard

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[Parallel World]
[Prologue: An actor’s first lesson is to learn to be a commodity. Unfortunately, I’m defective.]

05:57 AM

When Jang Jae-hoon was jolted awake by his vibrating phone, warm yellow light was already spilling from Lee Sung-kyung’s bedroom.
“Three minutes left before the bathroom is mine. Damn it…”
He resisted the urgent pressure in his bladder, stumbling toward the fridge to pull out a prepackaged rice ball for heating.
The double-door refrigerator was the only luxury in their shared apartment.
Lee Sung-kyung had bought it with her first paycheck from a print ad, staking out a secondhand market for three weekends before finally snatching up the retired display model.
The upper compartment bore a label: “Sung-kyung’s Sanctum”—
Glass jars of cherry tomatoes lined up by size, vacuum-packed chicken breasts with calorie counts carefully noted.
Below was a sticker: “Jae-hoon’s Junkyard”—
Spilled chili sauce staining kimbap, instant tteokbokki a day past expiration, now marked with a skull in red by Sung-kyung’s hand.

As Lee Sung-kyung opened the bathroom door, lavender steam laced with the scent of hair mask swept toward the entryway.
Jang Jae-hoon’s eyes lit up and he dashed for the bathroom, only to be blocked by her arm braced against the doorframe.
“Did you use my hair mask as shaving cream again?”
He marched in place, legs clamped together. “Sung-kyung, the human sphincter has its limits…”
“Did you or didn’t you?”
He tried to squeeze past her arm, but she caught him by the collar.
“It won’t happen again…”
Suddenly, she let go, and Jae-hoon tumbled into the bathroom like a rocket that had failed to launch.

As she sat elegantly at the dining table, eating her breakfast, Jae-hoon’s wail echoed from the bathroom:
“Damn it! Sung-kyung, are you a water heater assassin?”
The cheap water heater only had enough hot water for one person; “water heater assassin” was his daily complaint about her.

Sung-kyung said nothing, scrolling through the latest KakaoTalk group messages as she ate.
On her screen was the Super Model Survivor contestants’ chat—
[Park Mi-na: Sung-kyung, are you really wearing that radioactive pink outfit from the sponsor today?]
[Kim Eun-ji: @Lee Sung-kyung, the stylist says your revised runway chart saved his career^^]

As she quickly typed, “Good luck, everyone,” a calendar reminder popped up: [7:00 AM – Airport Shuttle].
“Jae-hoon, the shuttle to the film crew in Thailand leaves at seven.”
“Mm.”

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The sound of a toothbrush scrubbing teeth mixed with muffled speech drifted from the bathroom.
“You have ten minutes to make the bathroom fit for human entry again.”
“Is that even humanly possible?!”

Jang Jae-hoon shoved his toiletries into a suitcase pocket, when a sudden sting exploded on his tongue—the face wash he’d mistaken for toothpaste was smirking from the bag’s opening.
…
This was the third time he’d brushed his teeth with Sung-kyung’s face wash.

Feeling guilty, Jae-hoon emerged from the bathroom, searching for a topic.
“You’re filming for SBS’s, uh… Model Survival today?”
“It’s Super Model Survivor.”
“Oh—”

As he slung his suitcase and bit into his reheated rice ball, Sung-kyung grabbed him by the collar.
“Check your things: passport, script, emergency urinal…”
Like a security officer, she ticked off each item, finally fishing the Actor’s Handbook from under the entryway plant—courtesy of Hwang Jung-min. “You lose things more reliably than you flub lines.”
“You’re the one who hid—never mind, I’m off!”

Just as the security door closed, Jae-hoon stuck his head back through the gap and shouted, “Sung-kyung’s going to win first place! For sure!”
Bang—
Sung-kyung stared at the shut door for a moment, muttering softly, “Idiot…”

Seoul’s April weather was merciful.
As cherry blossom petals paved the asphalt in the morning light, Jae-hoon’s mood felt as clear as the sky.

This was his first time filming a movie.
It wasn’t an important role, but the production’s budget exceeded ten billion won.
Of course, had he not mistaken the shuttle pick-up point and ended up chasing after the bus, his good mood might have lasted all the way to Thailand.

“You’re Hwang Jung-min’s new signee?”
A fellow passenger glanced at the panting, sweaty Jae-hoon.
“Yes, sir!”
Jae-hoon bowed a full ninety degrees, bumping his head on the seat in front of him; suddenly, the yawning in the bus gave way to stifled laughter.

The older extra’s ears turned red as he nervously gripped his pilled sweatshirt.
“No need to call me sir, I’m just an extra…”
Jae-hoon rested his hands on his knees, earnest: “Mr. Hwang always said, anyone who’s touched a camera before me is my teacher.”
The man’s fingers twitched in surprise.

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He recalled how, just last month on set, while handing water to the lead, he’d spilled two drops—and the assistant director had smacked him on the back of the neck with a script: “Even a dog carries things steadier than you!”
Those gold-trimmed stars had dabbed at imaginary stains with Hermès handkerchiefs, but here was this rookie, sweat still beading on his lashes from the chase.

“Me, a teacher…” the man muttered, pulling a napkin filched from a fried chicken shop from his pocket and handing it over. “You caught up with a suitcase in tow—did you run track?”
“No,” Jae-hoon replied, flashing a white-toothed grin. “Since my role’s a soldier, I did some special training.”
“Did you train in rapping too?”
“Of course! He’s an idol star doing his service, after all!”
“Let’s hear it, then?”

Jae-hoon didn’t hesitate; mimicking PSY’s horse dance, he burst out:
“Oppa is Gangnam Style!!”
The bus erupted in cheers.

As he hit the third eight-count, the driver suddenly pressed the radio button.
PSY’s raspy “Oppa Gangnam Style” flooded the bus, and Jae-hoon danced with even more vigor.

But—

His spirited moves froze mid-step as the bus braked hard—left foot caught on a seat bracket, right arm wedged in a seatbelt, he looked like a marionette on pause.

At least five hands reached out to steady him.

The older extra leaned in, voice low:
“Kid, don’t be so wild on set. The big shots hate scene-stealers.”
“…”

The plane sliced through blue skies, leaving a silver-white trail like a knife through a frosted cake.
As Jae-hoon flipped open his script for the thousandth time, highlighted in every color of the rainbow, the golden edge of the Pattaya coastline appeared outside his window.

A moist breeze, heavy with fish sauce, swept over him as he squinted toward Arrivals.
A crew member from “The International Market” was holding a crooked sign, the movie logo soaked into his sweat-stained T-shirt, making him look like a perfectly marinated sardine.

“Over here! Jang Jae-hoon-ssi!”
The crew member’s arm froze mid-wave.
He watched, wide-eyed, as the fabled “Hwang Jung-min’s protégé” tripped over his own feet and, in a textbook low crawl, plowed straight into his suitcase.