I Don't Like It

I don't like it!

Ten minutes.

Far too little time to read a script, get a handle on a character, and actually perform. The suggestion had clearly gotten under Heo Min's skin — the third-year who meant to catch a professional troupe's eye at the May drama competition and grow into a real actor.

"Ten minutes...? You think that's enough? Acting isn't a game, you know."

Heo Min frowned at Kim Woojin, who seemed to be taking the whole thing far too lightly.

"...Ah! S-sorry. I left out the part where I meant we'd just perform one short line."

"Ah... r-right, yeah."

Only then did Heo Min's expression ease a little. Ten minutes wasn't enough to grasp an entire script, but performing a single line from a single character — while difficult — wasn't impossible.

"Alright, here's a spare script. You two take President Kang's lines on page three."

I flipped through the copy I'd been handed and read President Kang's dialogue.

The kind of line you'd see in any movie or drama — a boss furious after a subordinate lost a pile of cash. Nothing about it jumped out as a particular angle to play, and the character himself wasn't anything unusual.

A murmur rippled through the auditorium. The other seniors seemed to have figured it out too: the role the club president had handed us was easy and hard at the same time. Then again, why would anyone give a juicy character to a freshman who'd just waltzed in and announced they were joining practice?

"Got it. I'll practice this line as hard as I can!"

Kim Woojin answered with total confidence.

"I'll go through it carefully too."

I wasn't about to lose to him, so I answered just as boldly. This was a bet with coffee and pride on the line. There was no way I was going easy on him.

And so we put a little distance between us and buried ourselves in the script.

"How the hell is anyone supposed to understand this character in ten minutes?"

I snuck a glance behind me. Kim Woojin was sitting perfectly still with his eyes closed, looking like he'd completely zoned out.

What's with him? Did he lose it?

That's what I thought, but apparently not. His lips were moving, just barely — he was memorizing the script with his eyes shut. Even if this was only practice, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you couldn't stand there holding a script for an acting evaluation.

"I should just focus on my own work."

I turned my eyes back to the page. President Kang had lost a fortune because of a subordinate's mistake, and he was furious. The real question was how much money you'd have to lose before a subordinate would even consider selling his own organs to pay it back.

That's the key.

First, I opened the camera app on my phone and propped it against the stairs.

"This should be far enough?"

I backed up until I was framed properly in the shot, then delivered the line I'd memorized.

"You think this is a joke?!"

Once I finished, I still had to review the recording and give myself feedback — all inside ten minutes. I moved fast, scooped up my phone, and checked the footage.

"Hmm..."

Something felt off. There was nothing wrong with the acting itself. The camera had captured President Kang's rage, just as the lines described. And yet... an unplaceable sense of wrongness lingered.

"Guess I don't have a choice... I was saving these for when I got home."

I swore I'd never use them together...

The reason was simple. They burned through stamina way too fast.

But now I got it.

There was a huge difference between drama and theater. In a drama, there was a director. You shot multiple takes, picked the best one, and stitched everything together in the edit. Theater, on the other hand, was a single performance you carried all the way to the final curtain. If you flubbed a line, there was no doing it over.

"First... I need to figure out who President Kang actually is."

I checked the time I had left. Less than five minutes. I speed-read the script, pouring everything into understanding the character of President Kang.

"Ah... I had it wrong from the start."

President Kang wasn't angry at his subordinate. The person he was actually furious with was...

Ten minutes later, Kim Woojin and I stood in front of drama club president Heo Min.

Clap, clap.

"Alright, alright. Time to deliver the lines you practiced. Who wants to go first?"

Heo Min clapped his hands and looked at us. I didn't mind going first, but the person who'd made the bet should take the lead, right?

"Woojin, you go first."

"...Yeah?"

Kim Woojin shrugged.

"What, not feeling confident?"

A faint sneer crept into his voice.

That... little shit...

A curse surged all the way up my throat.

"Then I'll go first."

Kim Woojin stepped forward and set the script on the floor. He let out a light breath.

"Hoo..."

"You think this is a joke?!"

The first line came out hard and sharp. Not bad.

"Do you have any idea what that money was?! And you blew it! Sorry? You think 'sorry' is going to cut it? That money's more than you'd get selling your own kid's organs!"

The rage kept coming. He'd clearly acted before — his voice punched straight into your ears.

"Or..."

The last line.

"Are you actually planning to sell them?"

No movement at all — just his voice, and the whole situation painted itself in front of you. And more than that.

He didn't just sustain the anger the whole way through. He cut it off midstream, and that spike in intensity made you forget it was a performance. You could almost believe he was actually furious.

When he finished, I was the first to clap.

"Well done. I'll evaluate after I've seen both of you. Next."

Heo Min looked at me. I stepped forward the same way Kim Woojin had. There was already no script in my hands. I hadn't been holding it since the moment I finished memorizing the lines.

"Hoo..."

I took the same short breath and looked at Kim Woojin.

You were good. No question. But... President Kang isn't that kind of character.

I didn't look at the club members. I lifted my chin just slightly, angling my gaze about fifteen degrees above them. This wasn't a camera shoot. This was theater. That height was exactly right.

"Haa... you think this is a joke."

Not Kim Woojin's raw fury — a performance laced with lament.

"Do you have any idea what that money was.... and you... blew it? ...What? Sorry? Did you just say sorry?!"

I let the anger build in a gradient, climbing hotter with every word.

"That money is more than you'd get even if you sold your own kid's organs!!"

My emotions hit their peak. My pupils shook violently. I clenched my teeth.

"Or.... are you actually going to sell them?"

A stir ran through the auditorium. The hall grew restless. I understood. The same character shouldn't be able to look this different. If Kim Woojin's performance had been a one-sided assault, mine was rage at its peak — fury at himself, because he wanted to look the other way at his subordinate's mistake and simply couldn't.

"Hauu..."

When it was over, I let out a long breath and the strength drained from my body. Hauling that much rage all the way to the top of my skull left me a little dizzy.

"You... what the hell was that? Why'd you play it like that?"

Kim Woojin asked, looking like he genuinely didn't get it. Did he actually not know? Anyone who read even a little of the script should have seen it.

"You ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠really don't know?"

"What are you even..."

The moment a flustered voice left Kim Woojin's mouth—

"You both did well."

Heo Min walked toward us. What's this? I turned my head. Heo Min was beaming.

"Have you two... studied acting before?"

"Yes. I've had a few bit parts in dramas since I was little."

"Really...? That's impressive."

I was surprised too. I'd only heard he was interested in acting. I never imagined he'd actually been on TV. Ah... so that's how he could pull off a performance like that. I nodded to myself.

"I've been in a drama too, actually."

"Wait — a bit part?"

"Well... something like that?"

It was a supporting role, four episodes' worth. Technically 3.5. Calling it a bit part wasn't entirely a lie.

"Wow... I never thought freshmen would already have drama credits. No wonder your character analysis was so sharp."

"What do you mean by that?"

Kim Woojin tilted his head.

"Ah... Woojin, the President Kang you played was the President Kang you can feel from the lines. But the President Kang Jiwoo played..."

Was the man himself.

"That's... what."

At Heo Min's words, Kim Woojin looked ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠slightly flustered and checked the script.

"Ah... so that's why..."

He'd been so focused on the lines that he'd missed the character of President Kang entirely.

"And that's not all. The way you played to the audience instead of the people in front of you, like real theater... it was like you'd actually been on a stage before."

"Theater..."

Another thing Kim Woojin had missed. He'd focused too hard on the acting itself. The script we'd been given was a theater script.

"Well... looks like you two were competing, but I look forward to working with you."

Heo Min held out his hand. That look forward to working with you...

"Does that mean we passed?"

"That's right. Officially there's a formal audition next week, but you two would pass it anyway, so there's nothing weird about accepting you now. And..."

Heo Min pointed behind him. The rest of the drama club was staring straight at us.

"The other members agreed too."

At his words, the other members nodded. For real? All we'd done was perform once.

In my previous life, I'd applied to a school club just because I wanted to feel like I belonged somewhere. You took a test, and three days later — a week at most — they told you pass or fail. By text. That was it. That was the whole process.

"Already?"

"Already? With talent like yours, we don't even need to look at anyone else. We don't need people who are learning to act. We need people who already know how."

"Ah...."

It was the same here. Just a bunch of teenage high schoolers. Most of them couldn't even dream properly. One look to the side told you everything — Choi Wooseok, crouched in the corner, shut out of the conversation.

He doesn't even know what his dream is. He's just coasting.

Not that that was Choi Wooseok's fault. The problem was that nobody had even given him a chance.

"Still, shouldn't people get a chance? You know... Senior Jin Joo-hwa!"

I'd heard Jin Joo-hwa spent about ten years as an unknown actress. She'd fallen in love the first time she saw a play in high school. She'd told me that herself, at a short wrap gathering after the fourth day of filming. She said she still remembered it. The seats were so tight her shoulder pressed against the person next to her. The ventilation was terrible, and the air was a stew of unpleasant smells. And still, she couldn't look away. She'd fallen completely into the play.

"I heard even she got her start in acting in high school. I think a chance should go to everyone equally."

I looked around. Everyone's faces said they understood what I meant. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠But.

"We know that too. But... if we want to survive, there are only two ways."

Heo Min held up one finger.

"One. All of us get good enough to be outstanding."

He raised a second finger.

"The other. We hitch a ride on an actor so good they eat everyone else alive."

He wasn't wrong. The problem was.

I don't like it.