CHAPTER 020: Where Did This Monster Come From?
CHAPTER 020: Where Did This Monster Come From?
“Is this really… a second life…?”
Director Chae Wongi muttered under his breath, his face filled with genuine shock.
Beside him, Park Juwon’s shoulders trembled as if he had just seen a ghost.
“Do… Dojun is my grandson.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t know Reborn Rich? It’s a web-novel-turned-drama. The protagonist lives his life a second time.”
“Ohhh, that drama with the memorable ending?”
“Sounds kind of ominous.”
“Shh. Someone might hear.”
The two of them carried on like a comedy duo.
Had those two always been that close?
“No, but seriously, Sunho—what are you? You’re good at English too? Did you live overseas?”
“English aside, what you did just now—that was straight-up advertising copywriting. Even regular office workers rack their brains over copy all day long, but you came up with that on the spot. That’s what shocked me even more. Sunho, if you’d gone into advertising, your career would’ve taken off.”
“Hey, but with acting skills like that, it’d be a waste to live as an office worker. And that face—no way it belongs trapped in some office.”
“That’s true. A face meant for TV, no matter what. The world wouldn’t have left you alone. Anyway, the more you learn about him, the more surprising he gets.”
“Thank you for thinking so highly of me.”
Just as his face was heating up from the barrage of praise, the special-effects makeup team came to his rescue.
“Sunho, we’re ready for makeup!”
He slipped away, leaving the two behind.
On the way, he ran into Seo Yoonha getting out of her car. She flinched awkwardly.
“Ah, I forgot my watch. Watch. A watch.”
She clumsily turned around and headed back to the car.
What’s with her?
From some point on, the KakaoTalk messages she used to send every day had stopped,
and on set it felt like she was avoiding him.
It was nice not to be bothered, sure,
but when someone suddenly changes like that, it’s strange.
Was she mad at him about something?
While Ryu Sunho was off getting special-effects makeup done,
a crowd flooded onto the set.
A living legend of the Korean film industry—
Director Baek Junbong, along with his disciples.
“Oh! Director! Welcome! For you to come all the way to such a shabby place—what an honor!”
Director Chae Wongi sprang up and bowed at a perfect ninety degrees.
“Haha, an honor? Hardly. I’m the one who should apologize for dragging people along to someone else’s set.”
“I learned so much from you, Director. This is nothing. But these days, your films—?”
“I’m resting. I’m getting old now. I figure I’ll make just one last film before retiring. That thought’s made me cautious, and time just keeps slipping by.”
“If there’s anything you need, please say the word. I’ll support you in every way.”
“Alright, alright. Even just saying that means a lot. Ah, I’m late with introductions. These are my students.”
Behind Director Baek Junbong,
people of all ages—from youthful-looking men to middle-aged directors—greeted Chae Wongi.
Among them was a familiar face: Yoon Gyeonghwan, director of last year’s six-million-viewer hit film.
“Huh? Director Yoon, you came too? Aren’t you past the stage of needing to learn from anyone?”
“Me? I came to see your face.”
“What? What are you scheming?”
Director Yoon Gyeonghwan replied with a sly grin.
“I figured I’d have a drink with Director Baek Junbong for the first time in a while, and take a look at some actors too. I’m starting a new film soon.”
“You’ve been hitting one box-office success after another lately—looks like you’ve gotten addicted? No rest, jumping straight into the next one?”
“When would I rest? I’ve got to work. By the way, how are Seo Yoonha and Park Juwon?”
“Do I even need to say it? They’re incredible. But listen—”
Director Chae Wongi glanced around, then leaned in and whispered into Yoon Gyeonghwan’s ear.
“There’s an actor even more incredible.”
“What? Who?”
“You’re better off seeing him yourself than hearing about him. Today’s his last shoot, actually—your timing’s perfect. Once you see him, you’ll be shocked.”
“That good?”
“That’s everyone’s first reaction.”
Watching Chae Wongi laugh heartily, Yoon Gyeonghwan looked utterly baffled.
The scene being filmed today was one where Detective Han Jaeyoon sits Kang Seoho down in the interrogation room and presses him about the crime.
It was also Sunho’s final shoot.
“Let’s lower the boom mic just a bit. We need to catch even the actors’ breathing. Check carefully for sound reflection on the walls.”
“A-cam, we’re going to run this take long. Stay with the actors so their emotional flow doesn’t break. Don’t miss a single detail—their eyes, the tremor in their fingertips.”
The audio director pressed his headphones tight, checking even the faintest noise.
The cinematographer meticulously reviewed the blocking.
This was a crucial scene—the moment Detective Han Jaeyoon discards his own stubbornness and decides to truly cooperate with the shaman Shin Myeongju.
Every line, every breath would determine the entire scene, so the whole staff prepared with peak concentration.
At that moment, Director Chae Wongi approached him.
“Sunho, today’s your last shoot. How do you feel—sad? Relieved?”
“A bit of both. I need to finish strong.”
“Hahaha, really. You’re different. It’s like talking to someone my age.”
He laughed heartily, then lowered his voice, his eyes gleaming with meaning.
“Just do what you always do today. Not that you need me to say it—you’ll handle it on your own. But today, something very good might come your way. No… actually, it might be an opportunity for them instead.”
Sunho didn’t understand what he meant.
Before he could ask, the director had already returned to the monitor.
A good opportunity?
There was no time to dwell on it.
Across the table, Park Juwon had already locked into his emotions.
The smiling, easygoing Park Juwon from earlier was gone.
In the cold air of the interrogation room, he was now fully Detective Han Jaeyoon, eyes sharp and piercing.
No way he was going to lose.
Sunho drew his emotions up to their limit and sat facing him.
The interrogation room was steeped in suffocating silence.
The chair was hard. The air was still. Even the ticking of a second hand was absent.
Under the cold fluorescent light, all that could be seen were cuffed hands and neatly organized case files.
Yet Kang Seoho could feel it clearly.
A gaze.
Not from the man in front of him,
but from somewhere unseen—a strange presence flowing in.
It felt as if someone beyond the room was staring straight through his skin.
“Traces found at the victim’s house. The point of ignition and the fire’s spread. They match exactly with the memo found at your home.”
He spoke without the slightest tremor, tapping the documents.
“I think this is enough. But you’re still saying nothing. Isn’t that a bit disappointing, considering we’re acquainted?”
Silence again.
Kang Seoho kept his head lowered, unmoving.
Like a corpse. Or something about to collapse.
Only after a long time did his lips begin to move, ever so slowly.
“Detective.”
His voice was low and slow.
As if mindful of the burn scars pulling at his skin, he drew out each word with care.
“Do you know how fire moves?”
Han Jaeyoon did not react.
“Fire moves toward what’s weakest. The driest leaf. The oldest furniture. The most neglected wiring… It seeps toward whatever looks like it’ll die first.”
Seoho raised his head.
His gaze was eerily calm.
There was no heat in it, no cold.
Only emptiness.
“The evidence you mentioned… that kind of thing can all be fabricated by human hands. But fire isn’t like that. Fire… can’t lie.”
Han Jaeyoon’s eyes wavered, just slightly.
His expression was professionally controlled, but that faint ripple couldn’t be hidden.
“Fire honestly shows what will collapse first. Whether it’s a wall, a ceiling, or the human living inside.”
Seoho stopped speaking.
Silence once more filled the room.
“…It was the same that night. The flames were ready to swallow that shrine from the very beginning. I just helped them along.”
Han Jaeyoon pressed his lips together.
There was no elaborate persuasion in that quiet confession, no forced self-defense.
If anything, it sounded sincere.
Which made it all the more chilling.
“…You’re justifying murder.”
“Justifying?”
Seoho let out a short laugh—self-mocking, resigned.
“You believe in logic, Detective. Evidence, data, science. You’re someone who believes those tell the truth.”
His eyes slowly lifted upward.
The camera closed in on them.
“But logic is always slow. It hesitates, falters. So I chose certainty instead of logic.”
“…Certainty?”
Han Jaeyoon frowned.
“What makes fire frightening is that it doesn’t stop. It keeps moving in the direction it believes is right. In front of that heat, no one gets to make excuses.”
Seoho lowered his head, then raised it again.
Now his gaze seemed to pierce beyond the detective, through the space itself.
“You still don’t know, Detective. What kind of smell it is when a person burns.”
The room felt as if its temperature had dropped all at once.
Then came a whisper.
“Oil. Flesh. Hair… they all burn separately. But, Detective—the smell that lasts the longest, the strongest, is—”
A long silence.
Then one word fell.
“Mouth.”
Even the detective swallowed his breath.
“The smell of a mouth burning while screaming for help. Do you know how sticky it is? Even if you block your nose, you can still smell it vividly for days.”
Beneath his grotesquely twisted expression,
a madness that could no longer be called emotion spread.
“All those so-called shamans are the same. Wagging their mouths and calling it the will of God. And when they’re about to die, God is nowhere to be found—they scream for help in their own voices.”
Han Jaeyoon said nothing.
He simply followed Seoho’s gaze.
Seoho was staring straight beyond the interrogation room,
at the exact spot where Shin Myeongju stood.
“That’s why I tried to burn them all. Those mouths. So they’d never speak again. So they’d never invoke God again. To make them quiet.”
Then he looked back at the detective.
“But you stopped me here.”
He smiled.
A smile that once held innocence was warped by the tightened skin.
That made it hurt more. Made it more terrifying.
“Thank you.”
For a fleeting instant, the detective saw something in those eyes—
regret, perhaps. At least the awareness that came too late.
“For pulling me out… before I burned completely black.”
Outside the interrogation room set,
the great master Director Baek Junbong stood pale, one hand covering his mouth as he cried out:
“Th-that… where did that monster come from?”