The First to Be Crushed (3)
“I heard Lee Min-soo saw a ghost.”
“No way. For real?”
“Yeah, apparently. Remember that ridiculous NG earlier? They say he got spooked because a ghost grabbed his ankle.”
“Whoa, our drama’s gonna be a massive hit.”
“But this studio just opened this year—how’s there a ghost already? Maybe a grudge-holding construction worker who died in an accident?”
“I heard there weren’t any fatalities during construction.”
“Then what kind of ghost is it?”
“Maybe there was a graveyard here before the studio went up. The resentful spirit turned the whole place into its new tomb.”
“Kinda creepy.”
“If we’re going there, I hope it’s a ghost from the Gyeyu Rebellion who died unjustly and didn’t even make it into the history books. That’d have more narrative weight, right?”
The rumor that Lee Min-soo had seen a ghost during filming spread like wildfire through the production team.
A single offhand comment—“He must’ve seen something illusory”—had birthed a rumor that ran a thousand miles without feet.
“Cut. That’s good.”
Even as he called the OK, PD Jang Seung-won kept glancing at Lee Min-soo.
Lee Min-soo’s expression as he returned for monitoring was full of dissatisfaction.
He wasn’t pleased with his own performance.
Oh, sir. Please. This is already the fifth take of the same scene.
Jang Seung-won prayed silently inside, and the cinematographer and staff felt the same.
It was refined, excellent acting that left viewers silently in awe.
Yet Lee Min-soo alone wasn’t satisfied and kept demanding retakes.
And it’s awkward for Seo-hoon too.
Repeating a scene that wasn’t anyone’s fault must be frustrating for Jeong Seo-hoon.
But with a veteran like Lee Min-soo as his scene partner, he couldn’t voice any complaints.
I need to cut it off decisively this time. If I don’t mediate, it could create a rift between them.
Jang Seung-won steeled his resolve.
During monitoring, Lee Min-soo let out a frustrated groan, venting his irritation.
“Damn. It’s like something’s itching just out of reach...”
“It looked plenty good to me, sir. I think we can wrap it up now.”
“Still, just one more time...”
“I’m fine with it. If you want to, sir, we can do as many as you like. I’m enjoying it too.”
With Jeong Seo-hoon backing him up, Lee Min-soo’s face brightened.
Jang Seung-won, who’d been determined to end it this time, had no choice when the other actor volunteered first.
“Alright. But sir, this really has to be the last one, okay?”
“I’ve got some pride. If I’m not satisfied this time, I’ll call it quits.”
“Yes, then one more take. But everything so far has been really great...”
Stepping back in front of the camera, Lee Min-soo swept his calm gaze alternately over Jeong Seo-hoon and the LED wall.
The LED wall on the side wasn’t blending seamlessly into Jeong Seo-hoon’s background.
Did I really see something that wasn’t there?
That sensation when the entire LED wall fused with Jeong Seo-hoon’s backdrop, transforming the surroundings into the world of the script.
The vividness, as if the studio had been plucked out and dropped into the past. In that world, he could truly become the Chief State Councillor.
Why had he tripped over a mere rock and caused an NG?
Was it really a hallucination?
No way. I didn’t drink yesterday. My head’s crystal clear.
A maddening itch rose from the gray matter desperate for answers.
Lee Min-soo gave his all in the take, but it still fell short.
The gnawing sense that he was merely imitating the Chief State Councillor, not embodying him, tormented his heart.
“Cut. Good. That was the best take yet, sir.”
Jang Seung-won’s sincere praise slid off him like water off a duck’s back.
Lee Min-soo strode up to Jeong Seo-hoon and asked,
“You free after we wrap today?”
“Sorry, I have to head out right away.”
“Tomorrow, then? After shooting?”
“Tomorrow should work. What’s up?”
His calm, questioning face stirred an impulse to demand if he was really clueless.
Those steady eyes seemed to know exactly why he felt this thirst, yet pretended ignorance.
Even this thought crossed his mind.
Did he know something about that one moment when the scenery perfectly matched the drama?
Ridiculous speculation.
Lee Min-soo knew better than anyone it didn’t make logical sense.
But he couldn’t shake the doubt that Jeong Seo-hoon knew something.
“Acting with you today, I kept feeling like something was missing. I want to grab a drink and talk it over with you.”
“Not sure I can help, sir. I wouldn’t want to waste your time.”
“No, I’m sure you’ll be a huge help. So, make time after tomorrow’s shoot.”
“Got it.”
Jeong Seo-hoon watched Lee Min-soo stagger slightly back to his spot, then turned away.
He muttered to himself, unheard by anyone,
“Looks like you saw it for real, huh, Professor Lee Min-soo.”
Jang Seung-won wasn’t content with just virtual production and outdoor sets.
He’d secured priority access to a massive 1,600-pyeong indoor studio and built palace sets and more inside it.
Virtual production for grand augmented reality backgrounds.
The indoor studio dressed with various interior and palace scenes.
And outdoor sets mimicking cityscapes.
Most shooting rotated through these three, with only occasional location shoots when absolutely necessary.
“Man, having half of Paju Studio to ourselves makes things so convenient.”
“PD, this feels twice as fast as shooting historicals at old KBC.”
“We were smart not to shoot at KBC.”
“Totally. With CV Cable, we get full use of this Hollywood-level studio. At KBC, the quality would’ve tanked.”
“And they’d have eaten up the budget anyway.”
“Terrestrial TV’s done for. Cable’s untouchable now. CV Cable’s the king of dramas.”
The shooting crew that followed Jang Seung-won from KBC directly experienced Paju Studio’s scale and efficiency, feeling the shifted power dynamic between terrestrial and cable.
“Heard it cost over 300 billion to build this place... Way beyond what terrestrial stations could dream of.”
“No chance.”
“If this works out, they might build something even bigger depending on the response...”
“Terrestrials should stick to cheap daily soaps. Leave the profitable premium content to cable and private producers.”
There were side effects, though.
By monopolizing the studio’s top three key facilities, complaints poured in from all sides.
But Jang Seung-won handled every claim without batting an eye.
“The head of headquarters approved this. Don’t complain to me—go talk to him.”
“We’ll only use it until May, then dismantle everything. Book after that.”
“What? Just take down the sets for a weekend slot? We shoot weekends too. You think we’re camping in tents? We shoot nonstop.”
“Let’s see... We have three days off next month. We’ll dismantle then. Exactly three days. If you don’t finish and clear out, we won’t vacate even on off days from then on.”
Jang Seung-won deftly deflected protests and pleas while flawlessly managing the schedule as PD.
The next day.
True to his word, after wrap, Jeong Seo-hoon headed to a draft beer pub with Lee Min-soo.
It was a spot famous among celebrities, but patrons recognized them without approaching or asking for autographs.
“House rule set by the owner. Celebs can fan-service first, but if fans approach, it’s Golden Bell—they foot the whole bill.”
“Nice for relaxing.”
“But pricey. Ten thousand won per 500ml draft? That’ll make you think twice.”
“Doesn’t seem like the owner’s in it for the money.”
“Right. He’s a former rapper—that’s why the rule.”
Lee Min-soo started with light topics: how today’s shoot went, whose acting stood out, hoping to stick with Paju Studio.
Once alcohol warmed their veins just right, he brought up the sensitive matter.
“You remember yesterday’s absurd NG while syncing with you.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Do you think, like everyone else, that I saw a ghost?”
“I’d like to think so. They say seeing a ghost means a big hit, right?”
“That’s for recording studio ghost stories in music. Drama sets don’t have such hopeful superstitions.”
Embarrassed to broach it sober, perhaps, Lee Min-soo poured more beer into his gut.
“Truth is, I saw something weird then.”
“Not a ghost, but something strange?”
“A landscape that made it feel like you and I were really in the mountains.”
“The LED wall’s sharper and denser than expected. Pixels barely visible even up close.”
“Not that.”
His voice rose excitedly, but he caught himself with an awkward smile and called for a cheers.
Jeong Seo-hoon silently clinked glasses and sipped slowly.
Lee Min-soo downed the fizzy beer in one go, his face flushing as he continued.
“Call it crazy, but I saw a real mountain landscape, not the LED wall. No PD, no camera.”
“...”
“Remember me staring at my feet? Unbelievable, I know, but I saw myself standing on a mountainside path. My right foot caught on a small rock.”
“The floor’s not LED—it’s just plywood, right?”
“Exactly why it’s weird. What the hell did I see?”
His tone sounded like Jeong Seo-hoon held the answer, begging for it.
“I’d love to see it too, sir—the landscape you saw. It would’ve helped lock in the emotions.”
“Last night before bed, I even thought...”
Lee Min-soo stared with unfocused eyes, continuing slowly.
“Maybe you see something like that every take. Maybe that’s why your acting feels so authentically like the character...”
“...”
“I know, it’s silly. But after that illusion syncing with you, I couldn’t shake it even in sleep.”
“You seem pretty drunk.”
“Have you really never seen anything like it? Tell me straight—no one else will hear. My chest’s so tight.”
Too much beer too fast?
Lee Min-soo’s cheeks glowed with intoxication.
Leveraging the buzz, he spilled delusions he’d normally dismiss as absurd.
As Lee Min-soo’s torso slumped, Jeong Seo-hoon caught him.
Gazing into his bleary eyes, he spoke slowly.
“I do imagine every time: no crew, no cameras, just the drama’s world enveloping me.”
“I see...”
“Sometimes I immerse too deeply and trick myself into thinking I’m really in that world. Like you said, sir, illusions flicker during takes when the camera rolls.”
“Ah, as expected...!”
Intoxicated and glassy-eyed, Lee Min-soo muttered in faint agreement.
Jeong Seo-hoon could imagine his parched throat, how desperate he’d been.
A lifetime actor, now chasing the lens’s fleeting ecstasy like a mirage.
Regrettably, he didn’t know how to share the power.
If he did, he’d spread it freely, elevating the cast.
Han Seo-hee, Lee Min-soo.
Those who’d come closest to the lens’s power. What set them apart?
Or...
Maybe I’ve changed since then.
Soon, Lee Min-soo dozed off against his chair. Jeong Seo-hoon returned to his seat, savoring the beer’s crisp foam.
After sending Lee Min-soo home via his manager, Jeong Seo-hoon dreamed that night.
In the dream, he was Grand Prince Suyang, leading retainers on a mountain hunt.
A massive deer appeared ahead; he shot an arrow, and it fell. Retainers cheered wildly.
One burly retainer hoisted the deer, and as they descended, they spotted the solitary Chief State Councillor.
The thorniest obstacle, who’d sniffed out his ambitions early and constantly checked him.
—Your Highness, the Premier’s alone. Shall we hunt him now?
—Hold. Could be a trap. Why would a Premier wander these mountains solo?
—Then...
—Still, since we’ve crossed paths, let’s exchange warm greetings.
The Grand Prince sauntered up casually and greeted him flippantly.
—What brings you to these deep mountains, Premier?
The Grand Prince anticipated disdain filling the flustered Premier’s eyes.
But reality diverged.
The Premier’s eyes widened in shock, then he frantically checked his own attire.
—Premier?
—Grand Prince. What are you doing here?
Regaining composure, the Premier suddenly bristled with anger.
—Secretly gathering men in the mountains for military drills?
—Your words go too far, Premier.
—What goes too far is your treasonous heart!
Retainers stirred; murderous intent surged in the Grand Prince.
—Treason? Who are you slandering, Premier!
—You! Grand Prince! You, who covet the throne, plot to kill your nephew, and uproot this nation’s ancestral shrines—Grand Prince Suyang!
The Grand Prince drew his sword, unable to hold back, and plunged it deep into the Premier’s chest.
Blood gushed from the deep wound as the Premier collapsed.
The Grand Prince squatted by the gasping Premier’s head, stabbing his sword vertically into the ground with a smirk.
—Sir. You can’t use the name Suyang. NG. Let’s go again.
The blood and wound on the Premier’s chest were real.
So was the fact that it was all a dream.
Whether the recent berserk rage belonged to Rashid or the Grand Prince was unclear.
The Premier stretched a convulsing arm, lips twitching as if to speak, but died with eyes wide in resentment.
Retainers rushed to “dispose” of the body amid chaos; the Grand Prince sat on a rock, watching impassively.
Then a faint vibration hummed from somewhere.
It grew into an earthquake shaking the whole mountain; a stark white hole cracked open in the ground, swallowing everything.
There the dream ended.
Bzzz. Bzzz.
Awaking to his phone’s insistent vibration, Jeong Seo-hoon blinked at the ceiling before checking the caller.
“Yes, sir. Jeong Seo-hoon speaking. Did you get home safely...”
—Sorry to call so early. Did I wake you?
“It’s fine. I was just waking from a weird dream anyway.”
—Same here. I just had a bizarre dream—me getting murdered by the Grand Prince.
Jeong Seo-hoon rubbed his face with his other hand. Half-asleep or rationality slipping, words escaped unbidden.
“Well, why’d you call him Suyang and cause that NG?”