Handkerchief
Today's shoot was the scene that followed what we'd already filmed. Kang Mirae's fist flew toward Lee Bo-hyeon's chin. The school had already fallen into Lee Bo-hyeon's grip; what came next didn't even need thinking about.
"You better listen up! Ugh... taking this kind of crap... I oughta—right now!"
The homeroom teacher glared at me, his hand rising above his head. It was the kind of thing no teacher would even consider now, but well into the early 2000s, hitting students had been treated as a given.
"Bo-hyeon... are you all right?"
"Haa... Principal. Do I look all right to you right now?"
"N-no, of course not... Call the police on that student immediately!"
The principal folded at a ninety-degree bow, making it abundantly clear who sat above even him.
Hah. I was speechless.
This was supposed to be a school?
"Hey. Where do you think you're putting that hand down? If you weren't a girl, I'd have already beaten you senseless!"
"Then hit me."
"...What? You little shit, talking to a teacher like—"
"If you're a teacher... is that something you're allowed to do?"
Caving to money. Failing to protect the students you were supposed to protect, and just leaving them to rot. How could anyone call that being a teacher?
"Just hit me. I'll leave this school according to my own convictions anyway."
I knew it too. That violence, in any form, could never be justified. But the reason I'd asked Writer Park Ja-wook to add this scene was this.
I wanted to say it. That no matter how the world beat you down, no matter if there was no one to help you—so long as you didn't lose yourself, you could always stand back up.
"Hah... you little—!"
Then, without warning, the door opened and a man stepped into the principal's office. The man's identity was Lee Bo-hyeon's father—Lee Man-ok, the steel magnate who had built himself up from nothing and risen into the top ten of the business world.
Whoa. The presence on this guy was insane.
Before I knew it, I was staring at Cho Changdae—the actor playing Lee Man-ok—in open astonishment. He was over seventy this year, but looking at him you'd still put him in his fifties, that much masculine vitality still clinging to him. Even through his clothes, a body that solid showed, completely at odds with his age. No wonder he could play the father of a high-school daughter when she wasn't even a late-in-life youngest child.
"C-Chairman."
"Dad!"
The principal and the homeroom teacher hurriedly bowed their heads, avoiding his eyes. If it were me, I'd probably look away too if I caught Cho Changdae's blade-edged gaze.
But my role was a character who yielded to no one—who stood tall.
I will not lose.
Without looking away, I met Lee Man-ok's eyes head-on.
"For a young one, you've no shortage of confidence."
Lee Man-ok took the seat of honor Lee Bo-hyeon had just occupied as if it were his by right.
"Dad! That bitch did this to my face!"
"So. You're the one who did this to my daughter's face."
"Yes. I believe hitting her was wrong."
"Then..."
"However."
I wasn't finished.
"I believe she did something that deserved it first."
"So you hit her?"
I nodded.
"No act of violence can ever be justified. That's the fashion among children these days, I hear. Is that what you think?"
"Yes."
I nodded again. Lee Man-ok stroked his chin once, then twice, and looked straight at me.
It was the same kind of look as before, but the meaning packed into it was different. The first time, it had meant that if you had the courage to look even a powerful person in the eye, you could climb. Now it was Lee Man-ok looking at me—to make sure I wouldn't even glance at a tree I couldn't climb.
"Apologize, then. This will all be over as if nothing happened."
He would simply crush me underfoot.
"I refuse."
"...I hear you have no family."
The only family I'd had, I'd lost a few years ago. In an accident so absurd it still didn't make sense.
"Yes. They died in an accident a few years ago. During a police operation..."
"A police officer. I knew a cop who died in an accident a few years back as well... His name was... Kang Han, was it?"
Kang Han!
How was my father's name coming out of the chairman's mouth?
"How do you know my father's name...?"
"I see. I'd heard Kang Han had a child. So that was you. A pity."
"Yes. My father was an outstanding police officer."
"That he was. Outstanding, yes. Though he did occasionally overstep and get on my nerves."
"Pardon?"
"It's nothing. Since you're Kang Han's daughter, I'll grant you one more chance. Apologize to my daughter. Then I shall forgive you."
My answer was the same as before. No matter how many times I said it, my thinking—my conviction—would not change.
"I refuse."
"What you're doing now is not conviction. It is pointless obstinacy. In this world, you'll find no one who cares for that kind of stubbornness."
"...I know. But this isn't stubbornness. It's a conviction that hasn't broken."
"You... what is your dream?"
A dream...
I hadn't thought of one yet. If I had to pick something, it would be becoming a police officer. I wanted to become an outstanding cop, just like my father, Kang Han.
"I want to become a police officer and catch the bad guys. And I want to bring people like Lee Bo-hyeon—people who torment the weak—to justice."
From the first word to the last, I looked at Lee Man-ok with eyes that never wavered.
"You would say such a thing so boldly in my presence? When a single word from me could keep you from ever becoming a police officer like that proud father of yours?"
"...It doesn't matter. Even if I can't become a police officer, I intend to help the weak in my own way."
Help the weak. Never bow to evil. That was the conviction I had chosen, the one I had received from my father, and it would not change.
After the shoot wrapped, I was so locked into the performance that my body had run hot.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
"Ah... unnie, I'm fiiine..."
"You don't look okay at all. Your words are dragging."
"Ehh~"
White steam was practically rising off my head. If it were the dead of winter that might have been possible, but summer hadn't even arrived yet. Still, it was pretty hot for spring. March enrollment, plus a blazer on top of the uniform—it was far too much for this weather. The inside of the uniform was already soaked with sweat.
I slipped a handkerchief inside the uniform and wiped myself down.
"Hey! What do you think you're doing where people can see you! Stop that right now!"
"Ehh~ but it's hot... If I don't do this, sweat gets on the borrowed clothes and it looks weird on camera too~"
"I'll go borrow a fan or something, so don't stick your hand inside your clothes!"
The road manager started rummaging through the van. What she found was a portable fan. She hit the power button, and the blades spun fast.
And then.
Beep—
A single warning tone, and the power cut out.
Huh...? Dead battery?
It had been caked in dust from the moment she pulled it out, so maybe that was to be expected.
"Huh? Why's it doing this? It worked fine through last year."
"Looks like it wasn't charged? If you used it last year and never again, the battery could've drained."
"Ah... then at least this."
Flap, flap. The road manager fanned a spare script, stirring up a breeze. It wasn't as strong as a portable fan, but a gentle wind still came through.
Ah... that felt good.
The air slipped into the uniform I'd briefly opened and cooled the sweat in a hurry. Still, was this okay? To anyone watching, it would look like I was working my manager like a servant.
I glanced around. Everyone was absorbed in their own work; nobody was paying me any attention. The only ones showing any interest were the part-time staff. Rumors could leak outside. The part-time staff were on break too, phones in hand—any one of them could sneak a picture of me. They'd all signed contracts with a no-external-leak clause before starting work, sure. But the world had all kinds of lunatics in it. Being careful never hurt.
"It's fine. I'll do it this time."
"No, I—"
"Give it here. Unnie, you're sweating too."
"That's just from digging through the van just now."
"Tsk. Hand it over. Or else..."
I closed the script I'd been reading and started fanning the road manager. Not to be outdone, she fanned me right back, and a cool breeze passed between us.
"By the way, Jiwoo."
"Yes~"
"Once you've rested a bit, shouldn't we do some stamina training?"
"..."
I'd come all this way and I did not want to work out. Was there a good idea for making a break for it? I turned it over in my head, hunting for an escape.
The road manager had already seen right through me.
"I can hear the gears turning from here. Don't try anything weird. I already heard from Hoyeon unnie. You bounce right back the second you hit a set, don't you? We're going to use that and squeeze in workouts whenever we can."
The road manager whispered it low enough that no one else would hear.
"I used to manage a male idol group, you know? Idols get worked the same whether they're boys or girls. So don't even think about running. Accept reality. You'll feel better that way."
Now that was some advice. Having heard words so beneficial they could practically save the world, I ended up smiling in spite of myself.
But wasn't there any other advice? Idols were people too, so there had to be a chance of escape. Or a way to make working out fun, at least.
While I was looking at the road manager, a good idea popped into my head. A way to work out without running from it—and to make it fun. I told the road manager what I'd thought of.
"Unnie, could we maybe work out while filming?"
"While filming?"
"Yes. If we film me exercising and show it to a specialist, we can fix bad form, right? So..."
"Ah, I get what you mean. Hold on. I'll set it up real quick."
The road manager rummaged through the van again, setting up a phone mount and a state-of-the-art camera that rotated a full 180 degrees.
Where on earth had that camera even come from? I was a little startled, watching a van that produced whatever you named, like a magic pouch.
Meanwhile, the camera setup was done.
"You can start working out now!"
I finished a light warm-up and stood in front of the camera. And so, on set, with the buff that kept my stamina from dropping, my workout began.