The private screening room at the LUNE headquarters was an exercise in oppressive luxury. The walls were upholstered in deep navy velvet, and the lighting was dimmed to a cinematic amber, creating an atmosphere of high-stakes intimacy. A small, hand-picked group of journalists—each one a trusted contact with a history of loyalty to LUNE—sat in the plush leather armchairs. They were the only ones permitted in the room, a strict preview designed to build prestige through exclusivity rather than mass exposure. 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝙚𝔀𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝒐𝒎

At the front of the room, under the soft glow of a single spotlight, stood the core of the "Fox Priestess" project.

Director Park stood at the center, his posture rigid, his eyes hidden behind thick-rimmed glasses. Beside him was Kim So-young, the scriptwriter, whose expression was a mixture of pride and anxiety. But the real gravity of the room was held by the two women standing before them: Mirae and Chae-won.

The contrast between them was visceral. Mirae, as the protagonist, possessed an ethereal, haunting quality that seemed to draw the light toward her. She stood with a quiet, simmering intensity, her eyes reflecting a depth of emotion that felt almost dangerous. Chae-won, playing the antagonist, was the antithesis—sharp, commanding, and radiating a cold, calculated elegance that could freeze the air in the room.

"Quiet," Director Park commanded, his voice cutting through the low murmur of the journalists. "We are here for the first table read. This is a working session. I expect precision. I expect soul. Most of all, I expect you to inhabit these characters as if they were your own skin."

The reading began.

As the scenes unfolded, the room fell into a heavy, breathless silence. The script was a masterpiece of tension, and as Mirae and Chae-won began their dialogue, the air in the room seemed to vibrate. They didn’t just read the lines; they performed them with a raw, psychological intensity that left the journalists leaning forward in their seats, mesmerized.

Mirae’s voice shifted from a fragile whisper to a commanding resonance, capturing the complexity of a woman caught between two worlds. Beside her, Chae-won was a force of nature. Her delivery was surgical, her timing impeccable. Every word she uttered felt like a velvet glove hiding a steel fist. The chemistry between them was explosive—a friction of power and desire that made the fiction feel frighteningly real.

Director Park was a perfectionist, and he didn’t hesitate to intervene. He would stop the reading abruptly, his voice booming through the room.

"Stop! Mirae, your cadence in that last line was too fast. You’re rushing the longing. Slow it down. Let the silence breathe. The audience needs to feel the ache before you speak."

Mirae nodded, her expression humble. "Understood, Director."

"Again," he ordered.

When she repeated the line, it was perfect. The silence stretched, the tension coiled, and when the words finally came, they hit the room like a physical blow. The journalists exchanged glances; they had never seen a table read this visceral.

However, the seamless flow was shattered when a rookie supporting actor stumbled over a complex line. He paused, stammered, and tried to restart, but the momentum was gone.

Director Park’s face hardened. "Again. From the top of the page. And for the love of God, read the line. Don’t interpret it—just read it. If you can’t handle the basic delivery, you’re not ready for the set. Go back to the rehearsal room and don’t come back until you can say the words without tripping over your own tongue."

The rookie turned pale, bowing frantically and retreating into a state of visible anxiety.

But the real tension in the room wasn’t between the director and the rookie; it was between the director and the male lead.

The male lead, a rising star whose popularity had spiked in the last year, was an actor who believed his own hype. He entered the scenes with a swagger that bordered on arrogance, attempting to project a dominant presence. But as the reading progressed, it became painfully clear that he was being utterly overwhelmed.

He was trying to play a role of power, but he was standing next to Chae-won and Mirae. Every time he tried to assert dominance in a scene, they simply absorbed him. Chae-won’s cold gaze seemed to diminish him, and Mirae’s emotional gravity pulled the focus away from him effortlessly. He was like a small boat trying to navigate a storm; the harder he fought to stay relevant, the more he looked like he was drowning.

Director Park noticed it immediately. He didn’t soften the blow.

"You’re overacting," Park stated flatly, looking at the male lead. "You’re trying to ’show’ us you’re in control. Stop trying. The character is powerful because he is powerful, not because he’s shouting or posing. You’re fighting against Chae-won and Mirae, and you’re losing. Stop fighting. Listen to them. React to them. Stop trying to steal the scene—you’re not strong enough to steal anything from these two."

The male lead’s jaw tightened. A flash of anger crossed his eyes, a flicker of bruised ego that he tried to mask with a strained smile. He wanted to snap back, to defend his craft, but he was acutely aware of the hierarchy. In terms of popularity and industry weight, he was far below Chae-won. To alienate the director and the lead actress this early would be professional suicide.

He swallowed his pride, his voice tight as he replied, "I understand, Director. I’ll adjust."

"Adjust faster," Park countered. "We don’t have time for ego."

As the final scene concluded, the room remained silent for a heartbeat before the journalists erupted into quiet, appreciative applause. The raw power of the performance had been undeniable.

"Thank you," the cast said in unison, though the tone differed. Mirae and Chae-won looked satisfied, their eyes meeting in a shared moment of triumph. The male lead, however, looked like he had just survived a battle he hadn’t realized he was fighting.

As the actors began to disperse, the journalists converged on Director Park, their notebooks open, their faces full of questions.

"Director Park, the tension between the leads is incredible," one journalist began. "Is this the direction the entire film will take? A psychological battle of wills?"

"The tension is the story," Park replied, his voice returning to its usual professional distance. "The ’Fox Priestess’ isn’t just a fantasy; it’s a study of power. If the audience doesn’t feel that tension in their bones, the movie fails."

Meanwhile, Mirae stepped away from the group, her shoulders relaxing as she headed toward the elevator. She felt a strange mix of exhaustion and exhilaration. Performing alongside Chae-won was like playing tennis with a professional; it pushed her to levels she hadn’t known she could reach. As she entered the lift and the doors slid shut, she leaned against the wall, letting out a long, shaky breath.

But in the hallway, the atmosphere was far less serene.

The male lead was walking toward the exit, his pace fast and his expression sour. His manager, a frantic man in a beige suit, was scurrying beside him, trying to soothe the bruised ego.

"You did great, Min-ho," the manager urged, his voice a nervous flutter. "The director is just... you know how he is. He’s a perfectionist. He pushes everyone. He probably just wants to see how you handle the pressure."

"Handle the pressure?" Min-ho snapped, his voice low and irritated. "He didn’t just push me; he targeted me. He spent half the reading making me look like an amateur in front of the press. He’s trying to diminish me to make the women look better."

"I wouldn’t say that," the manager replied cautiously. "I think he just wants a more natural performance."

"Natural?" Min-ho scoffed, his eyes flashing. "I’m one of the top actors in the city. I don’t need a lecture on ’natural’ from a man who spends his life behind a monitor."

The manager sighed, knowing the signs. Min-ho had a tendency to spiral when he felt his dominance was threatened. In the past, these spirals usually led to a "bad habit"—a sudden need for a drink, a late-night party, or a reckless decision to prove his status. He had a history of letting his ego dictate his actions, and as they walked toward the parking lot, the manager could tell that the "recovery" phase was not currently on Min-ho’s agenda.

"Just keep it together for the next few days," the manager suggested. "The press is already buzzing about the chemistry. If you can just play the part of the professional, the public will love you."

"The public loves whoever they’re told to love," Min-ho muttered, his gaze hardening.

As he climbed into the back of his black sedan, he glared back at the LUNE building. He had come into this project as a star, but for the first time in his career, he felt like a supporting character in his own life. He didn’t like the feeling, and he certainly didn’t like the man who had induced it.