After a brief round of slightly awkward introductions, the night began to ease into motion.
Dishes arrived one after another, their aromas mingling with the warm scent of wine and winter outside.
The centerpiece of the meal was pasta—handmade, al dente, dressed in rich sauces that clung lovingly to each strand.
Conversation started slowly, like any gathering of half-strangers and half-friends, but the wine helped.
Sip by sip, glass by glass, the mood softened, and the edges of formality began to blur.
Laughter started to pepper the conversation.
Even those who had initially clung to honorifics let them go, swapping titles for casual teasing.
It wasn't long before the table sounded less like a networking dinner and more like a group of old friends catching up.
Jieun, meanwhile, wasn't quite part of the adult banter—nor did she want to be.
Tired from a long day of practice at the company, she was happily focused on twirling her pasta, devouring it with the kind of satisfaction only a hungry teenager could manage.
She didn't speak much, but her contentment was obvious.
It was after another sip of wine—maybe her third, maybe her fourth—that Yejin finally glanced toward Jihoon, her fingers gently cradling her glass.
"Jihoon-ah," she began, her voice casual but edged with purpose.
"Actually… there's a reason I asked you to come tonight."
Her words broke through the hum of chatter. Jihoon, mid-conversation with Gong Hyojin, turned his head, curiosity tugging at his brow. "Oh? What is it, noona?"
At once, the table shifted.
The easy, cheerful rhythm paused, and a subtle silence rippled across the women.
It wasn't dramatic—but it was intentional.
They knew what was coming.
Yejin placed her wine glass down and offered him a small, sincere smile—the kind that didn't need performance.
"It's like this…" she said gently. "My friends here... they really admire your work. I mean, how could they not? You've already gone further than most of us ever dreamed."
"And it's not easy for actresses like them—not in this industry, not without the right doors opening."
She paused, her eyes scanning her friends, then returning to Jihoon's. "I know it might sound like I'm overstepping, but... if there's ever a chance—any small role, even just an audition—I was hoping you could consider them."
There was a hint of pleading in her tone, edged with just enough guilt to make it linger—yet beneath it all, a quiet hope.
A desire to use her own rising star to shine a little light on those who hadn't been as lucky.
Jihoon didn't respond immediately.
And in that pause, Yejin rose slightly from her seat and gave a respectful bow—not deep, but meaningful.
Her shoulders carried the weight of what she was asking. She wasn't just an actress tonight. She was a friend.
"I know it's a lot to ask," she added, "especially since we're not... that close. But I had to try—for them."
It was a request wrapped not in ambition, but in guilt and affection.
After Secret, Yejin had risen—gracefully, steadily—into a different tier of the industry. Her name now carried weight.
Not quite the kind that moved mountains, but enough to open doors and turn heads.
Especially after Secret was honored at Cannes—no, she didn't win Best Actress, nor was her name etched on the award itself. But the film won the Grand Prix.
That alone was enough to elevate her profile from rising star to serious actress.
And yet, her glow didn't blind her to the dimmer corners of the industry.
Her friends—each talented in their own right—were still stuck on the platform, waiting for a train that might never arrive.
No spotlight, no silver lining.
Just the long, quiet wait that Jihoon knew all too well from his past life.
Tonight, Yejin wasn't trying to steal anything for herself.
She was trying to buy them a ticket.
Jihoon glanced around the table.
Each face was a name he'd known in passing—some from old drama credits, some from late-night film marathons in his past life. But here and now, they weren't actresses.
They weren't future footnotes in someone else's success story.
They were just women—hopeful, human, and quietly vulnerable.
And then, sensing Jihoon's hesitation, Yejin stood and bowed.
Well... it wasn't unusual in Korea—especially for actors asking a director for a role.
Still, the gesture, though simple, carried a weight that silenced the table.
It wasn't dramatic, but the quiet that followed made it feel loud.
Jihoon's eyes widened. He rose quickly and reached out gently to stop her.
"Noona, you don't have to bow," he said softly, surprise and discomfort flickering in his voice.
"We're still friends. You can just say it—no need for this."
Yejin straightened slowly, a small smile on her lips.
But her eyes held something more—apology, hope, maybe even guilt.
"I know, Jihoon-ah," she said quietly. "But I still feel bad for putting you in this position. I just hope… if there's any chance at all, you might consider them. Even just one."
Jihoon turned to look at the group again. Six faces. Six stories.
All sitting under the same candlelight, laughing just moments ago, now hushed with hope.
He felt the weight of it—not just the request, but the possible consequences.
If he gave an opportunity to one, would it upset the delicate balance among them?
From the short time he'd observed them tonight, one thing had stood out: these women weren't just friends.
They were real friends.
No competition.
No pretense.
Just shared struggles and long-standing loyalty.
Something rare in this industry where even smiles were often rehearsed.
To grant one a role and leave the others behind could fracture that fragile bond.
Introduce jealousy, even unintentionally.
Jihoon knew this world too well—how easily sincerity could sour when fame entered the picture.
And then there was the inconvenient truth—one Jihoon couldn't ignore, no matter how genuine Yejin's request was.
Yes, his studio JH had carved out a solid name for itself in Korea.
The acclaim from Secret, the ripple effect from Cannes, and the buzz following his Hollywood venture with Inception—all of it had pushed his reputation onto a global stage.
But with that recognition came the unspoken politics, and in Korea's tightly wound film industry, this politics were everything.
Producing six films, even over a span of a year or two, wasn't just a logistical challenge—it was a statement.
One that could easily be misread.
Especially now.
The industry was still adjusting after Jihoon's return from LA, trying to make sense of his rapid ascent.
His recent—albeit reluctant—involvement with the Family Outing variety show at SM was a way of signaling that he was still playing by the unspoken rules.
A way of telling the big players that despite his Hollywood footprint, he hadn't forgotten how things worked back home.
But if he were to suddenly announce a slate of six new films, featuring actresses who were all friends, all tied to one social circle... it would send the wrong message.
The whispers would start:
"He's building his own camp."
"He's trying to monopolize the stage."
"He's not just playing the game—he's rewriting it."
The balance of power in Korean cinema was delicate—always shifting, always watching.
He couldn't afford to shake it.
Not like this.
He couldn't conjure six roles without raising eyebrows.
Couldn't help all of them equally without risking backlash, jealousy, or worse—damaging the very friendship Yejin was trying to protect.
And yet…
He wanted to help.
Not out of guilt. Not out of obligation.
But because there was something rare in this room.
As he looked around the table—at the laughter, the ease, the shared glances—he saw sincerity.
These weren't women trying to use Yejin's fame as leverage.
They weren't jostling for attention or playing roles off-camera.
They were simply… friends.
Honest. Grounded.
Talented in ways that the industry hadn't yet known how to nurture.
And then, almost like a whisper in the back of his mind, a word surfaced.
Friendship.
It kept echoing.
Friendship.
Not in the business sense.
Not in the manufactured PR-driven, "we're-so-close" nonsense of celebrity culture.
But real friendship—the kind that holds steady when fame doesn't.
That word stuck to him like a hook.
A story began to form—not six separate roles, not six separate films, but one.
One film.
One ensemble.
A story about group of girls like them.
About the warmth and messiness of growing older, of chasing dreams, of holding onto each other when everything else is slipping.
A story about quiet loyalty in a loud world.
Jihoon felt his heart steady.
The tension didn't disappear, but it had direction now.
He didn't have a solution yet, but he had a seed. And sometimes, that was enough to begin.
[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe, JiangXiu, qinqin, Daoist098135 and Daoistadj for bestowing the power stone!]