The Thing That Drives You Crazy, Ratings (1)
He hadn't figured it out exactly.
But he was strongly suspecting she was someone in the entertainment industry.
Should he reveal his name or play dumb? Jeong Seo-hoon pondered for a moment.
He was aware that he'd skyrocketed to top-class status in the industry overnight, but he didn't let it give him any sense of superiority.
From the start, he'd never had any material desires or craving for fame when it came to acting.
I just planned to watch quietly from the beginning...
"I'm just a regular fan who loves watching dramas and movies. First time for a musical, though. I closed my eyes on purpose to focus on the sound when you were singing. Guess you mistook that for me dozing off."
"Ah... So you're just a regular fan?"
She muttered just loud enough for him to barely catch it: Really? With that physique? No way it's ordinary.
"Personally, Actor Baek Sang-hoon's performance and singing left a huge impression on me. Mind if I ask for an autograph?"
"You know my name?"
"Of course, you're the lead. I memorized the poster inside and out."
Baek Sang-hoon signed it with an awkward chuckle.
But he kept stealing glances. Clearly, he hadn't shaken off his suspicions entirely.
They even shook hands, and as Jeong Seo-hoon turned to leave, a faint mutter reached him—something no one else would have caught.
"That build... He's gotta be an actor or aspiring actor somewhere."
Jeong Seo-hoon slipped out of the theater.
On the drive back, he imagined the riot of raw emotions that had filled the stage.
Standing there, forcing a resonant echo into the audience's feelings like he had at Baek Hyeo-seon's concert—how exhilarating would that be?
Way more amplification than just singing alone.
The steady thump of his sharpening heartbeat stayed crystal clear the whole way home.
Another ambition was rearing its head.
Lee Min-soo sat down in front of the TV right on time for the broadcast.
Watching the PD's final edit of his performance was a mix of thrill and terror.
Like cracking open an ice-cold beer after a grueling day—refreshing, yet bracing for disappointment.
"Left Prime Minister. Did you really think you could keep shaking the roots of this nation forever with that flimsy title of High Minister?"
"Th-this is treason... Ack!"
The Grand Prince's face brimmed with menace as he brought down the iron flail.
Blood droplets splattered his jaw, but he didn't flinch.
Lee Min-soo recalled the terror he'd felt filming that scene.
It was even more brutal in reality.
Not that the direction fell short—the PD had crafted a striking, memorable shot.
It was just the gap between the first-person victim's view and the third-person observer's perspective.
His wife, watching beside him, gripped her fists in suspense.
"To the palace!"
"Yes, my lord!"
The sword gleamed under the moonlight as the Grand Prince led his troops at the forefront.
His unyielding gaze from horseback burned with the venom of a long-honed ambition.
It's different. Nothing like Lee Jin-wook.
If Lee Jin-wook possessed the Grand Prince's body for decades, polishing his essence—could he pull off that expression?
Even in the pleasure killer role, Jeong Seo-hoon's acting had been flawless, but now it was visibly evolved.
This was objective judgment, from a living room couch via TV screen, not on-set bias.
The Grand Prince halted before the seized Gyeongbokgung gates, drew his sword, and thrust it skyward.
"It's mine now."
Some might picture a throne; others, raw survival instinct.
"Eastern Councilor, I must see His Majesty at once and report this tragedy! Lead the way!"
Fierce eyes promising devouring clashed with the Eastern Councilor's pallid terror, as gentle ending BGM faded in.
"Whew, Jeong Seo-hoon's acting is always so intense. How's that even a twenty-two-year-old kid?"
His wife fussed beside him.
Come to think of it, she'd loved Jeong Seo-hoon since Illegal.
"He's nailing middle-aged roles already. Can't imagine him later on."
"He'll just get better."
"I'd love to see him as a chaebol chairman someday, but nah, won't happen. Sigh."
Given the age gap, they'd only catch him up to mid-career at best.
"How was our scholar on the Haegeuk set?"
"Same as always. Like he's hypnotizing us."
"That good?"
"'Stand by,' and I'm hooked before I know it. No clue how to explain it. Never felt anything like it."
"Not just the massive LED monitor wall?"
"Nah. Only with Jeong Seo-hoon."
Lee Min-soo pictured the flail swing. Then Lee Jin-wook stabbing away beside him.
The killer's glare and the ambition's shared superficial similarity but distinct depths.
At such a young age, nailing those nuances—still astonishing.
"But honey, you're always getting killed by Jeong Seo-hoon."
"What? In Su-jang-go, I was the puppet master behind it all."
"Puppet master? You got your slush funds drained and ended up with nothing. No guarantee on a sequel either."
Drama air nights turned the VilLab community into a frenzy, busier than usual.
Even casual Haegeuk fans wandered in, tilting heads or stirring trouble.
The Grand Prince seized control relentlessly.
Having purged the High Minister's faction in blood, nothing stood in his way.
He openly pressured his nephew for the throne, no pretense.
"Your Majesty, the people's will is heaven's will. Defy it, and face divine wrath."
The kind uncle was gone.
To the young nephew, he was just a hunger-maddened demon.
Then the high monk visited quietly.
"The Grand Prince needs but one final step."
"Thank you, Abbot. This is all thanks to your aid."
"Counsel for the royal house: Do not take that step. The ancestral line will endure millennia."
"Abbot?"
"But take it, and the nation's fortune falls short of six centuries."
"Abbot, do you know my thoughts?"
The snarling prince faced an unmoving monk.
"Soon, impure temptation will plague you. Dig where the pine that first saved your life stands."
"Abbot, why such ominous words?"
"My regrets end here. Heh, futile as ever..."
The monk vanished, never to return, leaving riddles.
No elders remained to curb the prince's tyranny.
The overwhelmed nephew yielded the throne, retiring as Supreme King.
Now king, he scoured all royal records for the curse's source.
"Gone! Nothing! Impossible!"
The spent pine Buddha crumbled to ash again; his illness worsened—the drive behind his bold rebellion and purges.
"Dig everything! It must exist somewhere!"
He even exhumed his brother's and sister-in-law's graves.
No trace of the curse.
"The omen on my brother! The spell redirecting it to me—it's here somewhere! Find it!"
"Fell the pine at the royal altar!"
His last hope: the lone sapling at the capital grounds.
Carved into a Buddha, it halted the disease—but no recovery.
"Abbot, where...?"
Troops sought the monk in vain.
The Han shaman, summoned secretly, divined again.
"As long as the Supreme King lives, plots for his restoration won't cease. Beware blades from aides when sending continental envoys this summer."
Her warning thwarted the plots.
Learning his nephew gifted a long sword personally, the uncle raged.
"Demote the Supreme King to general and exile him east!"
On the exile day, the last pine Buddha turned to ash.
"Abbot, what does this mean?"
"Your Highness..."
The head monk from the capital's greatest temple stammered.
"No punishment. Speak truth."
"Buddha rages at the demotion and exile, Your Highness."
The uncle drew his sword, severing the monk's head.
The reassured elder died unknowing.
That night, the Han shaman returned.
"I once said life sustains by taking others'. You remember."
"Yes. To live, take brother's seat. Then his son's."
"I couldn't say plainly then. You weren't ready."
She still called him Grand Prince; he didn't mind.
"Life takes life—literally."
"Take life..."
His eyes quaked.
"Eat my nephew? Rip flesh like a beast, drink blood, tear meat?"
"Brother gone, take his son's. My first divination for you—unchanged."
Soon, impure temptation will plague you. Dig where the pine that first saved your life stands.
He couldn't rage at her.
He bolted up, leading inner guards to the sanctuary.
His childhood savior pine's roots.
"Dig here! Now!"
"Yes, Your Highness!"
Shovels struck metal deep underground.
A rusted iron coffin.
Inside: decayed bones.
Recognizing royal grave goods, he collapsed.
Jeong Su-ryeon held her breath, glued to the screen.
Sleeves fallen to elbows revealed pus-oozing, mottled horror on the arms.
Something wearing her brother's face glared disgust at its own limbs, rubbed its dry face, exhaled a curse-like breath.
That gaze—like a mutilated soldier eyeing phantom stumps.
Vivid loathing for its grotesque body.
She hated admitting it, but her brother had elite physique. Self-loathing impossible.
Yet the screen creature treated its flesh like a lifetime monster's.
Ending BGM flowed; she finally relaxed taut muscles.
"Hey, the end was decent at least. How'd you nail that emotion?"
"Sis, remember when you were blackout drunk and I carried you in? Imagined that—perfect immersion."
"Tried praising you for once, and you hit me with the worst diss."
Jeong Seo-hoon's smirk vanished blank as he turned.
He raised his arms, recalling the scene.
Makeup team's festering skin was nothing next to Lens-granted rot.
Chemical-warped arms: dozens of bulging tumors, red-black-yellow pus dripping, rotting chunks sloughing.
Easy disgust fuel.
Polished skill plus final details.
On a real stage, could I inject that exact emotion into the audience?
Jeong Seo-hoon quietly recalled the recent musical.
He'd wanted to beam that revulsion straight to viewers—but impossible. Hence the regret.