To satisfy the curiosity of the director and writer, Qi Huai went on to perform two more additional scenes, each entirely different in tone, fully completing the three key phases of Seung-hwan’s character.

Anyone with eyes could tell—the creative team was thoroughly impressed with Qi Huai’s acting. And with that, the pressure on the other rookies skyrocketed.

The two poor newcomers who drew lots to follow him went up one after another, and without exception, met miserable ends. One flubbed his lines so badly he practically knelt on the spot in shame. The director and writer’s faces said it all: unbearable.

Baek Soo-kyung’s nerves were stretched taut.

He had originally hoped to catch Qi Huai when he returned to his seat to ask advice. But barely thirty seconds after sitting back down, Qi Huai had excused himself with the classic “bathroom escape”… and still hadn’t come back.

Just as Soo-kyung’s worry was spilling over, Park Seok-jin sunbae suddenly laughed lightly in the front row:
“Director Lee, how about this time I draw lots?”

Director Lee readily nodded:
“Good, good! You draw, Seok-jin.”

Please, change the luck. I’m dying of a headache here.

Park Seok-jin flipped casually through the resumes.
“How about this one—Baek… Soo-kyung. Time to come up.”

Soo-kyung’s heart jumped into his throat. He shot to his feet at once:
“Y-Yes!”

From his row, Choi Min-jun glanced back toward Soo-kyung. His eyes then stilled—the one who had been sitting beside him, Qi Huai, was gone.

Where…?

Min-jun frowned. After a beat’s thought, he rose as well, following the same direction Yoon Nam-hyuk had taken when he left earlier.

---

A few minutes before.

Only heaven knew—Yoon Nam-hyuk had nearly stumbled out, face rigid, restraint stretched to its breaking point.

Even now, Qi Huai’s muffled sounds, restrained groans and shallow breaths, still tormented his ears. The absolute reason for his sudden attack here and now.

Damn it.

Always him. Always that man!

Nam-hyuk stormed into the restroom cubicle, slamming the door shut, yanking his shirt loose, belt undone. His long brows knitted tight, he threw his head back, exhaling a guttural mix of pleasure and torment.

The tiny mole at the tip of his nose glowed crimson, like a jewel or bead of fire, swaying under the dim light as though inviting a lover’s kiss.

Yet his expression twisted in humiliation.

In this narrow, solitary stall, he didn’t mind baring both his hatred of his body and his unwilling submission to physical craving.

But this time—something was different.

The part of him that usually responded with dead silence… flared alive. The sensation maddened him—sharper, hotter, tingling climbing his spine. His toes curled unconsciously in polished shoes, skin fevered red, lips parting with trembling ragged breaths.

It rose fast—then faded just as swiftly.

Nam-hyuk ached all over. Restless, stifled, he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, breath hitching, so pained he almost wept aloud.

By reflex his hand reached for the small carved knife he always carried—only to grasp air. He remembered suddenly—it had long since been confiscated by someone on some ridiculous pretext.

That bastard. That damned bastard!

His chest rose and fell harshly. The fever in him screamed—maybe, if he could just… hear that man’s voice again… maybe then he could—

Knock knock knock—!

A rap at the stall door cut his thought clean.

Nam-hyuk’s eyes snapped open. His whole body froze stiff.

The knocks came light, but constant. No matter how long he tried to wait them out, the knocking remained. Until finally, he had to force his tone smooth and cold:
“…Occupied.”

“I know.”

The answer came steady, low.

It was him.

Qi Huai.

Nam-hyuk’s widened eyes showed rare alarm. He hastily straightened clothes, fumbling in panic. The buttons on his shirt seemed cursed—refusing to line up, slipping against his frantic hands.

The man at the door clearly had zero interest in waiting. His tone was pure, leisurely command, like a man used to manipulating others with ease.

“Three seconds. Or I’ll kick the door down. The others out there will see everything.”

Shit.

That bastard!

“Three… two…”

Nam-hyuk abandoned his buttons, yanked his suit closed, and bolted the door open:
“You—!”

“Shh.”

Qi Huai’s palm covered his mouth the next instant, shoving him back hard into the tight cubicle. Qi Huai slipped inside, locking the stall behind him.

“Someone came in. Don’t make a sound.”

At the same time, his gaze ran quick and sharp along Nam-hyuk’s arms, cuffs, checking for stains. Seeing none, his chest eased slightly.

“Thought you’d hidden a knife again.”

His lips curved faintly as he breathed into Nam-hyuk’s ear. Soft, mocking.

The sensitive skin at the back of Nam-hyuk’s neck shivered violently.

Clamped under Qi Huai’s palm, Nam-hyuk couldn’t even reply. Not that Qi Huai was waiting. His ear angled to the crack near the bottom, body taut, listening.

Across the restroom, footsteps. Another presence entered.

—Choi Min-jun.

Late. He only glimpsed the trailing hem of Qi Huai’s jacket vanish at the end of the hall. Still, for a man like Min-jun, that was enough. At the dead end, the only possible place for an adult man to disappear—was this restroom.

And yet Qi Huai was nowhere to be seen.

Min-jun’s half-lidded eyes narrowed, calculating.

Feigning casual, the curious spy stepped in, whistling as he flushed a urinal, but his gaze flicked constantly—to each stall’s base gaps, counting the shadows, checking… how many bodies inside.

---

Pinned against the cubicle wall, Nam-hyuk was immobilized.

Qi Huai’s right hand covered his face. His left hand clasped both slim wrists and pressed them hard over his head.

Their bodies were too close. Heat against heat, strands of hair brushing. In that suffocating distance, Nam-hyuk could smell Qi Huai’s shower gel, faint herbs, subtle sage.

But… compared to that special woody scent lingering on his body the other day, it was less intoxicating.

Nam-hyuk’s eyes pinched shut, heart hammering as his hot breath dampened Qi Huai’s palm. His lips brushed skin in stuttering fragments, feeling the warmth, the pressure.

The scent. The touch. The sound.
Pinned, controlled, dominated.

Humiliation—yet so thrilling it edged into ecstasy.

His wrists strained once—Qi Huai’s grip only tightened. Slammed back down.

God…

Nam-hyuk groaned inside. It feels… too good.

Inches apart like this, Qi Huai could sense every shift, every pulse beneath him. He braced tighter, palms steady, even pressing Nam-hyuk’s waist closer to his own body to keep him from jolting against the door.

And then came… a sound. Half gasp, half sob. Pain, pleasure, on the edge of breaking.

Damn it, Qi Huai cursed inwardly.

Meanwhile, the intruder outside lingered. Whistling, washing his hands ever so slowly. Dragging time. Torturing Qi Huai’s patience thin.

He nearly considered storming out and knocking the man cold—when finally, footsteps receded. Silence fell.

Qi Huai exhaled relief.

Nam-hyuk exhaled too—though utterly confused.

Qi Huai’s hand slipped slowly away from his mouth, his grasp on wrists releasing. Nam-hyuk blinked dazedly up, meeting Qi Huai’s gaze, not realizing his own eyes brimmed with a reluctant sort of loss.

Qi Huai’s throat bobbed. His dark eyes bore down, fierce with restraint.

His right hand still hovered near Nam-hyuk’s face. His left traced lightly through the man’s ruffled black hair, warm fingertips brushing temples like a lover’s. Enough to leave Nam-hyuk’s ears burning numb.

The next moment—his thumb pressed lower. Down Nam-hyuk’s throat, skimming straight over the Adam’s apple. With the other hand, he reached into the twisted mess of clothes, retrieved the clothespin clipped wrong into his pants, fixing it properly.

“Don’t thank me.” His husky whisper came rough in his ear.

“Mm!”

Nam-hyuk’s hips jolted hard. His grip clutched Qi Huai’s sleeve, body trembling, his head blank white with rapid, ragged breaths.

Just the faintest touch, yet his body convulsed as though drowning, reactions too sharp, trembling drawn out long minutes—so long even Qi Huai faltered.

Too sensitive. Barely needs a spark to shake apart.

He had assumed—surely, as “Gong #1,” Yoon Nam-hyuk had already had experience before the protagonist shou entered the story.

But maybe… no?