Uncomfortable Kindness
The moment I realized, a little too late, that I had just performed in front of other people, a faint flush of embarrassment crept up on me.
"Your acting was really good, you know?"
Yun Hyeon-mi, completely oblivious to what was going through my head, was simply heaping praise on me.
…Or was she?
Maybe she had noticed, and the praise was deliberate.
Well, even so — short as the moment had been — even I had to admit the performance had been pretty solid. A role whose circumstances mirrored my own background, combined with this body's powers of concentration, had done most of the work.
I'd felt it for a long time… more precisely, ever since I started gaming: the ability to consciously drop into a state of total immersion was more remarkable than people gave it credit for. If I had to put a name to the talent, it would be something like an unmatched capacity for focus.
…I really want to play RuneB.
The mere thought of the game made a keyboard and mouse shimmer in front of my eyes.
Anyway. Right now, I needed to focus on the situation in front of me.
"Have you finished thinking it over?"
"Um…"
"Ah, just call me Uncle Hyeon-woo. No need to be formal."
So he couldn't bear being called "mister," then?
I was curious how he'd react to that, but I decided to save the experiment for when we were a little closer.
"Okay. Uncle Hyeon-woo."
I stared down at the contract in front of me and sank into thought.
…What on earth is any of this saying?
The contract was wrapped in such dense legalese that even throwing the full weight of my previous life's knowledge at it left me barely able to parse a thing. The only parts I could make sense of were the financial clauses — and even those I couldn't properly evaluate without having worked in film before.
The only things I could rely on right now were the fact that I was a girl under the age of criminal responsibility — Korea's ultimate protected class — and Yun Hyeon-mi, who kept glancing back and forth between her phone screen and the contract.
Seo Hyeon-woo was a famous actor. Director Kim Tae-sik was steadily building a solid career. Both of them were already well on their way to success. What mattered here was my social position.
Would the press really just shrug and move on if a child actor cast from an orphanage got scammed? No — they'd seize on it and run the story into the ground. There was a chance it would sink into indifference instead of the outrage I expected, but in that case I'd just have to get out there myself and force the issue into the public eye.
Either way, Korean society was especially generous toward young children. Just off the top of my head I could think of that much — so would anyone really try to rip off a little kid?
I had no legal guardian on record. If you wanted to stretch the definition, the country standing behind the orphanage itself was my guardian. That meant any money generated after the contract could only go to one place: me.
…They're giving me this much?
One million won.
No matter how many times I looked, there it was — a full six zeros.
I was playing the childhood of Lee Ye-rim, the protagonist of Until Out. In other words, a supporting role, not a lead. The number of shooting days wasn't even that high. And yet the fact that the signing fee alone came to this much was genuinely astonishing.
All that fretting about scams and the rest of it had been a complete waste of energy.
Lying in a corner of the orphanage playroom, staring blankly at the ceiling, I felt my sense of reality settle back into place. If I earned just a little more like this, would living on my own actually be possible?
……Probably not.
There was school to consider, and my age was a problem too.
Still — I'd made more money than I'd expected. There was a saying that the most useless worry in the world was worrying about celebrities, and in that moment I finally understood what it meant.
I quietly spotted Yun Hyeon-mi opening the door and beckoning me, and stepped outside.
"Uncle Hyeon-woo is here."
I nodded and slung a small crossbody bag with a squirrel face printed on it over my shoulder. Yun Hyeon-mi snorted a little laugh at the sight, then immediately softened into a worried expression and stroked my hair.
"A-yeon. Are you really okay going alone?"
"Yes. I'll call if it gets hard."
Receiving the money in an account under my own name, an eleven-year-old heading to a film set by herself — by the common sense I used to know, none of this should have been possible. But this was a different world, so I supposed it made sense that the rules were different too.
As I approached the luxury sedan, the door opened and Seo Hyeon-woo greeted me with a bright smile.
"Hello, Uncle."
"Hey~ A-yeon's here!"
…Where was I supposed to sit?
For a second I hesitated between the passenger seat and the back, but before I could finish deciding, Seo Hyeon-woo opened the rear door for me. It was clearly meant as a kindness, and honestly, I was very grateful.
"Seat belt on?"
"Yes."
"All right, then — off we go~."
In the slight silence that settled after Seo Hyeon-woo started driving, putting on a brightness that felt just a little forced, I thought about how much more awkward the passenger seat would have been — and felt even more thankful.
"Uncle, how come no one else comes to pick me up?"
"…Did Uncle do something wrong?"
"No, it's not that… There are staff and PDs and people like that. I was just wondering why you'd go out of your way…"
It was partly a question thrown out because the silence felt uncomfortable, and partly genuine curiosity about why he bothered to come in person.
"Hmm… I figured A-yeon might feel uncomfortable with someone else. ……If it bothers you, you can just say so."
"No. I like it when it's you, Uncle."
If someone else came to pick me up, I highly doubted they'd show up in a car this nice.
"…Ahem."
Missing the calculating black heart behind my words entirely, Seo Hyeon-woo cleared his throat and hid a smile behind his fist.
Some time passed, and winter break was drawing to a close.
"A-yeon's here!"
"PD Ju! Move that camera so A-yeon can get through!"
"Want a piece of candy?"
I cut through the set, now familiar with the people and the place, and headed into the dressing room.
"A-yeon!"
"Hello."
Yoon A-gyeong, the makeup artist, greeted me warmly.
"Hehe. You've been using the lotion Unnie gave you, haven't you?"
"Yeees…"
I barely got the answer out before a stick of candy was thrust toward me, leaving me no choice but to open my mouth. It absolutely was not because the strawberry candy looked delicious.
Yoon A-gyeong lifted me up as if it were the most natural thing in the world, settled me into a plush chair, and began working on my hair.
"We've still got a little time before A-yeon's shoot… Mind if Unnie does whatever she wants?"
I nodded, rolling the sweet candy around on my tongue.
Between the expensive lotion she'd gifted me and the snacks she always prepared that happened to be exactly what I liked — I was more than willing to play doll for her, within reason.
A little time passed like that, until the candy Yoon A-gyeong had given me had completely melted away.
"Ta-da! What do you think?"
"…"
I hated to admit it, but the result was better than I'd expected.
The atmosphere on set was always hectic. But what I had to do was simple: memorize the script I'd been given in advance, show up at the appointed time, and shoot. When we needed to move locations, I just rode in Seo Hyeon-woo's car. That left enough free time that I could even brush my teeth at a leisurely pace.
"You brush your teeth already?"
"Yes."
Having brought me here himself, Seo Hyeon-woo seemed determined to look after me as thoroughly as possible, and he kept checking on me throughout the day. I sat down in the little chair in the corner of the set that had somehow become my designated seat, and Seo Hyeon-woo crouched beside me and launched into his usual stream of explanations.
"Alright. That scene — should it go out as a full shot, or a close-up?"
At the tip of his finger, standing on her mark, was Park Si-a — the adult version of the same Lee Ye-rim role I was playing, and the lead of this film.
Seo Hyeon-woo tossed out questions like this from time to time. It never put me on the spot. If anything, it felt good — like I'd found a decent conversation partner.
"Hmm…… full shot?"
"Why do you think that?"
"…Just a feeling. And it's not really a moment worth going out of your way to highlight."
For the record, I had zero actual knowledge in this area. Just like studying for a day or two doesn't make you successful, shooting a few times didn't make me a real actor.
"Oh, sharp. You're right. Whether it's Lee Ye-rim getting overwhelmed looking back on the past, or a little something starting to spark with the character I'm playing… a good actor knows when to push and when to pull back."
Sound principle. Considering my age, Seo Hyeon-woo was clearly making a real effort to feed me useful knowledge as an actor.
"Being an actor seems pretty hard."
"Doesn't it?"
"…Honestly, I figured it would be tough, but I still thought of it as just doing a few scenes and collecting a paycheck."
One small mistake delayed the whole shoot. Prolonged filming ate away at stamina and mental energy, which in turn caused more mistakes. And even when you finally nailed a decent take, if the director's OK didn't come, you started all over again.
Of course, maybe because of all the special consideration I was getting, I couldn't remember doing more than a handful of retakes.
"That's why it's a little uncomfortable."
"…Huh? What is?"
"You don't have to go out of your way to cut me slack just because I'm a kid."
A director calling for retakes even when, as far as I could tell, we'd already gotten a perfectly good take. Park Si-a pressing her forehead and taking shallow breaths as if blaming herself. Even Seo Hyeon-woo, who was considered an outstanding actor, rarely got through a shot in a single take.
So how did it make any sense that I — someone who'd set foot on a film set for the first time — had fewer retakes than any of them? Sure, there was a difference in the number of scenes between the leads and a supporting player like me. But still. Wrong was wrong.
I'd already been paid more than enough to simply accept special treatment for being young. What weighed on me more was the worry that a production built on so many people's hard work might somehow be compromised because of me.