Hongdae, Dinner Time – Same Italian Restaurant
Jihoon stepped into the familiar restaurant, the soft hum of conversation and the clinking of cutlery weaving into the cozy warmth of the evening.
As he entered the private room, he spotted them—already seated, already chatting like old friends reunited.
Smiles and laughter filled the air.
But something was different this time.
There weren't just seven people at the table anymore.
There were fourteen.
A new group had joined tonight's dinner—seven women, slightly older than the original group led by Son Yejin.
Their presence was deliberate, not coincidental.
And Jihoon had a very specific reason for bringing them all together.
When Yejin had once shyly asked Jihoon for an opportunity—not just for herself, but for her close friends—he had already started planning a project in the back of his mind.
A script that would require a perfect blend of youth and experience, fresh passion and seasoned grace.
That's when he began thinking of this dinner.
And the women joining them tonight weren't just anyone.
They were titans in their own right—veteran supporting actresses who had been in the industry since long before Jihoon was even born.
Names that didn't necessarily dominate headlines, but ones every director respected when casting for a project that required emotional depth and nuance.
They were the steady hands that carried countless dramas and films on their backs—often without fanfare.
Jung Aeri. Im Yejin. Baek Jongok. Geum Bora. Won Mikyung. Jeon Inhwa. Nam Giae.
Each one of them had a resume that stretched decades, packed with performances that showcased the kind of raw, lived-in realism younger stars could only hope to imitate.
Their names may not draw massive fan crowds to movie premieres, but directors knew—when you needed a scene to breathe, you called them.
They weren't flashy.
They didn't rely on idol-like popularity.
They had what mattered: craft.
And that was something Jihoon valued deeply.
The truth was, the Korean acting scene was shifting.
More and more, agencies were pushing their idols into acting roles—not for their ability to convey emotion, but for the box office pull of their fandoms.
In future Jihoon remember that stars like Blankpink's Jisoo or Twice's Dahyun weren't cast because of their acting skills—they were cast because their names sold tickets.
Jihoon didn't begrudge them.
In fact, he didn't mind working with idols, as long as their roles suited who they were.
He firmly believed that idols could act well—if the character wasn't too far removed from their real-life persona.
But when a director tried to mold them into something they weren't—like casting a bright, bubbly pop idol as a stoic, emotionally scarred war survivor—the cracks began to show.
The entire production would start to fall apart, as the character's image no longer made sense or felt believable.
It wasn't always a matter of talent—it was a matter of time.
Time spent learning. Failing. Rehearsing. Listening.
Time like this is a luxury for these idols. They often spend their days in dance studios or recording booths—not in black box theaters or acting workshops, immersing themselves in the craft.
That's what these seven veteran actresses represented.
A lifetime of dedication to the art.
Jihoon glanced around the table, watching as the two groups slowly began to warm up to each other.
The young stars with fire in their eyes, and the veterans with wisdom in their bones.
His lips curled into a quiet smile.
This was exactly the blend he needed for his next film.
He stepped forward with easy confidence and bowed slightly.
"Sunbaenim. Nonna."
His tone was polite, respectful, but with the hint of warmth that made people feel at ease.
The chatter stopped, and a few of them began to rise from their seats to greet him properly, but Jihoon waved his hand gently.
"No need for the formalities," he said with a sheepish grin.
"I'm the youngest one here anyway. If anyone should be bowing, it's me."
He slid into the last empty seat at the table and set his messenger bag on the chair beside him.
From it, he pulled out a thick stack of printed pages—clipped together neatly and still warm from the printer.
He placed it carefully at the center of the table. The top page read, in bold, carefully designed font: "SUNNY."
A few of the women leaned forward, their curiosity piqued.
Jihoon gestured toward the script. "This is the project I invited all of you here for. You can take a look at it now and—we can discuss everything later."
Then, rubbing his stomach with exaggerated drama, he added with a chuckle, "But first… I haven't eaten all day. I'm absolutely starving."
As he raised his hand to call for a waiter, a voice suddenly cut through the moment—light but laced with mock offense.
"Are we really that old now? That you call the young ones 'nonna' and lump the rest of us under 'sunbae' like we're in a museum?"
Jihoon froze mid-gesture and turned to find Im Yejin eyeing him with faux seriousness.
At 47, she was every bit the elegant veteran actress—but behind the composed exterior was a youthful, playful soul who didn't mind stirring things up.
Jihoon scratched the back of his head, grinning like a kid caught red-handed.
"Ah… my bad, nonna. I stand corrected," he said quickly, flashing an apologetic smile.
The room burst into laughter.
Beside Im Yejin, the ever-graceful Jung Aeri, the eldest among the group, leaned over and gave her a playful nudge.
"Don't mind her, Director Lee," she said with a warm chuckle. "She loves teasing the younger ones. Consider it a rite of passage."
Jihoon bowed his head again in mock defeat.
"Noted. I'll be more careful next time—but please, just call me Jihoon, Yejin-nonna."
As the scripts were passed around the table, the energy shifted—still lively, but tinged now with a sense of purpose.
The women flipped through the pages with curious eyes, their expressions changing as they caught snippets of scenes and dialogue.
Jihoon leaned back slightly, finally taking a bite of his long-awaited dinner.
The flavors were rich, but what really satisfied him was the sight before him—seasoned actresses, each with years of experience, absorbed in the story he had poured his heart into.
Their brows furrowed and eyes lit up at different moments, reacting quietly to what they read.
It was a kind of validation words couldn't quite offer.
This film—Sunny—was more than just another project for Jihoon.
It was one of his all-time favorites from his previous life—a story that had stayed with him long after the credits rolled.
Maybe because it was something he never had.
Like people often say: you only miss what you don't have.
And in Jihoon's past life, he never experienced that kind of pure, unbreakable friendship like the one portrayed in Sunny.
The movies tale of friendship that spanned 25 years, stretching from youthful innocence to the sobering weight of adulthood, had left an imprint on him.
It wasn't flashy, it wasn't loud—but it was real.
He still remembered how deeply the original film resonated with audiences—how it stirred memories of old classmates, the ones we swore we'd never lose touch with.
The ones whose names now sat quietly in forgotten group chats. The film captured something rare: that aching nostalgia for a time when life felt simpler, lighter.
And the emotional gap between then and now?
That was the weight Jihoon wanted to explore.
In his version of the script, he hadn't changed much—just small, delicate tweaks.
A few added layers to deepen certain characters.
A subtle shift in tone.
But the soul of the film remained untouched.
The heart of Sunny still pulsed with friendship, laughter, loss, and the bittersweet joy of remembering who you used to be.
It didn't take long for the energy at the table to shift.
As the women flipped through the Sunny script, the mood turned soft and nostalgic.
Laughter gave way to silence, eyes lowered to the pages, a few smiles touched with tears.
Baek Jongok sniffled. "Why am I tearing up already? I'm barely ten pages in."
Im Yejin gave a quiet laugh. "Jihoon-ah.. it's too familiar. These girls... it's like reading our own teenage years."
Geum Bora shook her head with a fond smile. "I had a friend who used to doodle like that in class. Always got us in trouble."
"There's something real in this," Jeon Inhwa said, gently closing the script. "It's not just a story—it's a memory we all somehow lived."
Jihoon, quietly observing their reactions, finally spoke. "I didn't write this to chase awards. I just wanted to tell a story that makes people feel something… something honest."
Won Mikyung looked around the table, her voice warm. "You've done more than that, Jihoon. This script—this Sunny—it's a gift."
Im Yejin gave a firm nod, then grinned. "Well, if you'll have us… count me in."
"Same here," Sun Yejin added. "We'd be honored."
One by one, the others echoed their agreement with excitement in their voices and warmth in their eyes.
"Looks like we won't be ending this year quietly, huh?" Jihoon said with a warm smile as he glanced around the table.
[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe, BigBoobs, Night_Adam, OS_PARCEIROS, Daoist098135 and Daoistadj for bestowing the power stone!]