CHAPTER 013: Perfect Acting
CHAPTER 013: Perfect Acting
The reporters who’d seen Ryu Sunho’s acting began to stir.
“Whoa… did you just see that?”
“Is he really a rookie? Even Park Juwon looked shocked.”
“Not just Park Juwon—every actor in here is surprised.”
“Has there been a rookie lately with acting like that…?”
“Is he from Seoul Institute of the Arts? Or a theater troupe?”
“I looked it up—doesn’t seem like he has that kind of background…”
“But the ad and this both have a similar overall feel. Clear, good, pure. Maybe he’s really good at acting that kind of image.”
“They said he got a Brave Citizen Award. Maybe he’s just that kind of person, so it fits.”
Then someone tapped Reporter Seo Jiyeon on the shoulder.
“Come to think of it, weren’t you the one who landed the first interview for that Brave Citizen Award?”
“Yeah. I recognized it at a glance. That he had the stuff to become a huge star.”
“Hey, that’s getting ahead of yourself. Any actor does well in a role that suits them. The question is whether their acting spectrum is wide.”
“He just debuted. Isn’t that a harsh standard?”
“You said he’s a huge star. Then you have to apply harsh standards.”
Listening to that, Jupiter HQ’s vice president, Bae Junhyeok, quietly nodded.
‘That’s right.’
That wasn’t even in the same league as emotional acting.
A real actor had to portray emotions they’d never experienced.
That was where skill was decided.
‘He’ll definitely fail and collapse in the later part.’
It wasn’t a curse or a prediction aimed at Ryu Sunho.
It was trauma—chewing over his own past.
The wound of being replaced by another actor after his very first script reading.
That wound had hardened into anger.
‘Don’t get mistaken just because you got lucky and popped off with one commercial. You don’t become an actor that easily.’
You had to break once to learn life.
Bae Junhyeok murmured, almost like a whisper.
“Alright, then let’s do the part where Actress Park Dusim and Ryu Sunho match up. It’s the scene where Kang Seoho goes to find the shaman Jang Manok after she’s been released with a fine.”
At that, veteran actress Park Dusim, who played Jang Manok, raised her hand.
“May I make one suggestion?”
“Yes? What is it, ma’am?”
“Even if it’s a special appearance, I believe practice has to be done like the real thing.”
Park Dusim looked steadily at me as she spoke.
“This scene is one where we go into a dark shrine, right? So I was thinking—what if we turn off the lights a bit and make it dark. Only snap them on when we need them. I think we’d be able to immerse completely.”
A sudden suggestion.
“Ma’am, since Sunho is a rookie, if we do that, he might get too tense—”
Director Chae Wongi stepped in, but I cut in first.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll match you well.”
A proposal from a veteran actor would help.
And in any case, there was no need to worry about me getting tense.
In my past life, I’d done presentations worth tens of billions in front of conglomerate chairmen without getting nervous.
At my answer, people stared with startled eyes.
“…That feels like a reckless move.”
“If he cracks and gets trauma, what then…?”
“He’s already a rookie—matching breath with a veteran actor would be nerve-wracking… if you do that, won’t his voice not even come out?”
Park Dusim seemed satisfied by my bold answer and smiled.
“A fearless kid—and he acts well. Let’s make a good picture, Sunho.”
It was a quiet night.
In air without even a hint of wind, the shrine’s lanterns flickered faintly.
An old wooden door creaked open, and through the gap, a man in a black hoodie pulled low stepped in slowly.
Sensing the presence, the shaman Jang Manok turned her body.
“Stop right there.”
She spoke in a low, firm voice.
“If you cross that line, you can’t. You’ve entered a space of the gods.”
The man stared at her in silence, then slowly curled his lips.
“Ah. A space of the gods.”
He didn’t stop walking.
Step by step, he came farther inside.
His gaze slowly swept the surroundings.
Worn, frayed talismans. A bronze knife stained with soot. Masks painted in garish colors. An offering table decorated with artificial flowers.
As he looked over all of it, his lips lifted slowly, as if mocking.
“…If this is the trace of a god, then that god’s pretty shabby.”
Jang Manok’s brow twitched, twisting.
Seoho moved toward the altar.
He tapped one ritual object lightly with a finger. Dust puffed up. Calm and careless, he continued.
“Everything here—god didn’t make it. You did.”
“You’re being disrespectful. You’re putting words in your mouth you won’t be able to bear, young man.”
Then Seoho let out a laugh—dry, sneering.
“Pfft. Ah, sorry. I haven’t had much to laugh about lately. When something’s funny, you’ve got to laugh while you can.”
He dropped the laughter in a single breath and changed his expression.
His voice lowered, and his eyes sharpened.
“I heard in a book that god doesn’t intervene in our lives. He just watches…”
His gaze pinned Jang Manok.
“But it was strange. That god—out of your mouth, he talks a lot.”
Jang Manok hardened her face.
“The god sometimes speaks through a person’s mouth.”
“No. That’s just an excuse you use when you don’t want to take responsibility for your own words.”
He pulled out a lighter. Click. Flame—out. On—out again.
Jang Manok stared at him with anxious eyes and retreated a step.
“What evil spirit has possessed you!”
“Evil spirit… sure. With a face like this, it’s practically the same thing.”
Seoho approached slowly and pulled down the hood that had been hiding his face.
A face wavering in the lighter’s glow.
“But who do you think made that evil spirit?”
For an instant, a tiny spasm crossed Jang Manok’s face—surprise and fear flashing together.
“Wh… what are you!”
“Remember.”
Like he was calm, but biting down hard—spitting out each syllable.
“That mountain.”
He stepped closer.
“That spring.”
Jang Manok’s breathing shook roughly.
“That gut ritual.”
Her eyes flooded with panic and fear.
“You said it was the will of the gods.”
His voice was low and deep. Then, one beat later, the final line followed.
“Then the gods should feel what it’s like to burn, too.”
Seoho dropped the lighter in his hand to the floor.
Thud—
The talismans, the candles, the oil-stained floor—everything was swallowed by flame in an instant.
Crackle, crack—
Fire spread. A scream. Jang Manok’s cry was buried in the blaze, unheard.
Red flames devoured the shrine, and within them, symbols of shamanism burned away one by one.
The room pulsed red, the firelight swaying, and through that trembling light, Seoho’s face appeared.
There wasn’t even the slightest tremor in his expression. In Kang Seoho’s eyes, not a single emotion remained.
He’d been warmer than anyone.
And yet, ironically, what made him so cold was the hottest thing of all—fire.
Fire burned everything.
His family. His dream.
And even his heart.
In the end, fire swallowed the warmth inside him, too.
As if throwing it behind the flames, Seoho spoke quietly.
“That’s the only way it’s fair.”
Click—
The last line ended, and the reading room lights snapped on brightly.
Park Dusim looked deeply shocked.
With trembling hands, she grabbed a bottle of water, but her shaking spilled it over and over.
What Park Dusim felt from Ryu Sunho wasn’t fear.
It was something like a rising exhilaration.
The excitement and flutter that came from pure admiration at his acting.
‘It was needless worry.’
The worry that he’d do well only in the early part and throw away the later part—it was the most pointless thing in the world.
If anything, he’d been itching to show the later part as soon as possible.
Park Dusim suddenly felt deja vu.
She’d acted for decades, done hundreds of script readings, and there was only one time she’d ever felt overwhelmed by a rookie.
“Gong Hajin…”
“Yes?”
“Just now, Gong Hajin came to mind.”
The actor who, right after debuting, swept both Best New Actor and Excellence Award at Baeksang, then won the grand acting awards at all three broadcast networks seven years later.
He overlapped with Ryu Sunho.
“I’ve been acting for over fifty years, and I’ve got pride too, so I don’t usually say things like this, but… just now, I was the one who fell short. I lost my direction for a moment.”
High praise poured from the mouth of Park Dusim, a great actor acknowledged by everyone.
But no one argued with her.
‘A real image of Kang Seoho drew itself in front of my eyes.’
The two of them acted with the lights off.
The assistant director adjusted the lights one by one to match the acting, and each time, people layered imagination over the visual cues and fell into the illusion that they were watching a scene inside the drama.
A shrine before their eyes—talismans, a lighter, and even red flames.
No one could take their eyes off Ryu Sunho, shivering.
But the one most shaken was Bae Junhyeok, quietly uncrossing his arms.
His fingertips were trembling.
That tremble wasn’t simple admiration or surprise.
Anger. Disgust. And desperation.
The scene he’d just watched was too perfect.
It wasn’t lacking as “acting.”
If anything, it was deeper, more convincing, and more complete than any reading he’d ever seen.
And that was the problem.
‘How do I cut this out?’
For a moment, his mind went blank.
Because he remembered why he was sitting here.
‘Kang Seoho has to go to Seo Juhak.’
BigBlue Entertainment—soon to be merged.
And the actor they were pushing, Seo Juhak.
This drama would likely become the first project after the merger, and Seo Juhak needed to be inserted at the starting line for a deal that benefited both Jupiter and BigBlue.
‘He’s not even a lead. He’s a near-supporting role who appears for a few episodes and that’s it.’
He shoved down his shaking emotions and pretended calm.
When the reading ended, he walked over to Director Chae Wongi and Writer Park Eunju, who wore satisfied expressions.
“Good. The script reading. The best I’ve seen.”
“Thank you, Vice President.”
“But.”
The smiling Bae Junhyeok suddenly went stone-faced.
“Ryu Sunho was a little too much.”
“…Pardon? Vice President, you’re joking, right? You just saw him act. Here, today.”
“I’m serious. That’s why I’m saying it. I can’t accept it. Replace Kang Seoho with another actor. Or…”
Bae Junhyeok deliberately added slowly.
“I’ll withdraw the investment.”
A ripple spread—people began to stir.
“Just now, that—!”
“Director Chae. Don’t respond emotionally. We’re investors. More important than admiration or applause are numbers and performance. Objectively speaking, he’s still an unverified rookie.”
Writer Park Eunju’s eyes sharpened little by little.
“…You’re even more blatant than I expected. In a situation where reporters are present.”
“I’m always transparent.”
Director Chae Wongi, mindful of the room, hurriedly tried to smooth things over.
“Let’s not discuss this here—later, separately—”
That was when it happened.
Someone who’d been sitting quietly in the meeting raised a hand.
“Excuse me.”
Writer Park Eunju and Director Chae Wongi turned at the same time.
“I’m Lee Jaehyung from WePlex Korea’s Content Investment Division.”
“…Yes? Ah…”
“I came to observe today, but I didn’t expect things to go this way.”
He stood and spoke in a clear voice.
“After watching the reading up to this point, we would like to participate as this work’s global streaming partner.”
Silence.
Then small exclamations rippled among the reporters.
Lee Jaehyung continued.
“We’ll fully support the production budget. However…”
“……”
“We’d like you to exclude investors who try to interfere unnecessarily with the work from this drama. Our platform has to face the world with a single, complete work.”
Bae Junhyeok shouted, heated.
“What do you mean—!”
“Ah, if you intend to keep obstructing, we can also consider signing an exclusive rights deal on our side.”
At that, the room stirred again.
Writer Park Eunju nodded quietly and said,
“Of course. Then the decision is simple.”
She looked back at Bae Junhyeok.
“Leave now. Or stay quiet.”
Jo Sehun—Park Juwon’s manager and the head of Flash Entertainment’s actor management team.
He’d been grinding in this industry for over ten years, handling the discovery and contracts of countless stars, and his eyes were wide.
His gaze was fixed on Ryu Sunho.
‘…What is this kid?’
Watching his acting, his entire body had gone rigid.
It wasn’t reading a script—he looked like he became the person and threw the words out as that person.
Even the silences between lines were filled with emotion.
Jo Sehun felt goosebumps rise along his forearms.
‘This is… even actors with solid careers can’t do this…’
He pulled out his phone and searched fast.
Ryu Sunho.
No agency, apparently.
His judgment followed immediately.
‘This isn’t a lottery ticket. It’s a first-prize winning slip.’
He’d been anxiously waiting until the script reading ended.
Ryu Sunho headed out to the lobby.
Just as Jo Sehun was about to follow—
His phone rang.
It was the division chief.
‘Fucking… if I don’t pick up immediately, that bastard will throw a fit.’
But right now, the division chief wasn’t the priority.
Right in front of him, a walking first-prize ticket was about to get blown away by the wind.
Yet in the split-second he hesitated, Ryu Sunho vanished from his sight.
He hurried after him, but—
“Um… Sunho…!”
Too late.
The lobby was packed with managers even faster than him.
Each one holding out their business cards.
Ryu Sunho scratched his head and shouted.
“Line up. In a line.”