Three Seoryeongs

'The power a story holds goes beyond imagination.'

This was an industry littered with the corpses of productions that had poured hundreds of billions into their budgets and stocked their casts with household names, only to fail spectacularly anyway.

'…Just like Father always said.'

Delighting the eyes and ears was one thing; pulling at the mind and the heart was another entirely. The words she'd heard so many times growing up that they'd worn grooves into her brain echoed in her ears once more.

"Gyeo-ul, listen. An actor has to carry a message they want to deliver to people. Audiences are not fools."

Thinking back on it, she felt her breath catch in her throat.

'What a load of nonsense.'

The people who applauded any ugly, filthy portrait of human nature as long as it raked in awards overseas? The ones who whipped up cheap pity and squealed with delight over scenes of squalid poverty? The ones who lost their minds over romance just to live vicariously through nothing at all?

'Horse shit.'

Do Gyeo-ul had exactly one message to deliver.

That superiority was a nobler emotion than understanding.

That even if she never understood them, never could understand them, and never once in her life bothered to try — they would look up at her all the same.

To Do Gyeo-ul, acting was a form of proof.

Proof that even if some part of her mind was broken, she was not a defective product.

Proof that Do Gyeo-ul had never been the one in the wrong.

And with that, the hand holding the episode two script began to tremble.

'It doesn't matter how well does.'

All she had to do was take Han Yeo-reum's performance for herself, exactly as it was.

The ignorant masses would shower Do Gyeo-ul's scenes with applause once again.

Like following a script already written for them.

'I could have done it with nothing more than a ten-minute web drama.'

A ten-minute web drama had been more than enough for Do Gyeo-ul to lift Yeo-reum's acting wholesale.

Which made this an opportunity.

A chance to work more precisely — to carve the thing up piece by piece and make it truly hers.

"Gyeo-ul, get some sleep once we take off. You've been running schedules for days without a proper night's rest."

"Yes, Team Leader."

"Honestly, where would anyone find an actress as diligent as you? I've dropped hints everywhere that you want to do a period piece next, just like you said, so a good script should come in soon. A proper, orthodox sageuk — nothing like those fusion things to even compare!"

Do Gyeo-ul smiled silently.

"…I'm stuck."

I closed the script. The moment something snagged, my analysis stopped dead in its tracks.

Sighing, I read through Seoryeong's character description one more time.

"Right — this is where the problem starts."

Before she sets out on her revenge, Seoryeong — the girl who once wanted every good thing the world could offer, who wanted to taste every rare delicacy and savor every pleasure — hears something incomprehensible from Jeong-an one day. "The time has come. All things flow as fate intends, so give me whatever grudge and grief you carry. I will carry them with me to the underworld." More nonsense, of course. Seoryeong ignores her and goes down into the village anyway. But when she returns that day, what greets her is Jeong-an's cold corpse. A single sheet of paper left behind like a will, and the nun passes on to the world beyond — leaving before Seoryeong ever handed over her grudge, her grief. Utterly alone in the world, Seoryeong's resolve for revenge hardens at last. Clutching Grand Prince Seonghwi's name from Jeong-an's final letter.

"The changed Seoryeong… won't kill Yeomga in the final scene."

In the original, Seoryeong gives her life to protect Myeong-do, the royal inspector she holds in her heart. That was who she was — a girl who believed even her own spiritual power was nothing more than the ordinary course of fate.

"But then, into Seoryeong's hollowed-out life, a stone called Myeong-do sends ripples across the water."

The detached air, the placid temperament — she had lived believing there was no meaning in any of it.

But the changed Seoryeong is different.

She is truer to her own desires than anyone. She resents Yeomga because of that incident, and she cannot bring herself to trust Jeong-an either.

"The only person she believed in was herself."

And if she had truly lived on nothing but her burning hatred for Yeomga, she would have left Jeong-an's side the year she came of age.

"But Seoryeong never left…."

The truth is, she must have been afraid. Of meeting again the person who had once tried to kill her.

"Seoryeong has already brushed up against death once before."

Which was probably why she clung to that refrain — we die together — as if to bury the memory of it.

"Like a vow to herself."

There was no way Seoryeong couldn't know that only by staking her own life could she kill Yeomga. The two of them knew each other's spiritual power inside and out.

"But when the woman he loves says she's ready to lay down her life, there's no way Myeong-do just stands by and watches."

He would want to honor her wishes, but somewhere in his chest he'd be begging her without end, even knowing it was useless.

Begging her to live.

"So at least once, he'll say it out loud. And in that moment… the truth will break through and come pouring out."

Myeong-do would probably promise her that Yeomga would answer properly — under the laws of men, not the laws of spirits.

"And Seoryeong, at the very end, will find herself desperate to believe those words."

There was no way to know if my analysis was right, since I didn't have the later episodes.

But human beings are complicated creatures. Seoryeong, too, must hold countless emotions inside her.

"Beyond the rage that burns deepest in her…."

The guilt of never having fully trusted Jeong-an — and so, this one time, the desperate wish to believe in Myeong-do. The worry for all the people they had saved together along the way. And underneath it all, the naked truth that she doesn't actually want to die…. All of it would shake Seoryeong without end.

"What am I supposed to do with my Seoryeong…?"

My head throbbed trying to figure out how to run wild across the stage Director Jjang had drawn for us. There were three Seoryeongs. The Seoryeong of the original. Director Jjang's Seoryeong. And my Seoryeong.

"…I just don't want to stand there reciting lines off the page."

Not the expressions the script dictates, not the actions the script dictates, not the lines the script dictates. I needed something more — something that could reach through the screen and land on the audience.

The pieces wouldn't fit together, and it made my head ache.

I thought it over for a moment. The answer came faster than I expected.

"Let's go see Myeong Je-ha."

This was the man who had seen straight through even Director Gong's script for Faster Than the Law.

An Analysis stat of S++, certified by the status window itself, would be anything but useless for character work. Definitely.

Myeong Je-ha speed-read the script. Getting through all four thick volumes took him hardly any time at ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠all.

Four volumes was the industry average for a script circulating before production began.

Having seen thousands of scripts in his past life, the ending the director was reaching for stood out in his mind with perfect clarity.

"Well? Well?"

"Mm…."

Yeo-reum, who had been fidgeting beside him the whole time, finally ran out of patience and clung to him with the question.

"How do you think it ends?"

"I think it'll be fun."

"…Stop teasing me, you old man."

Myeong Je-ha deliberately withheld the answer she wanted and just smiled.

This was Dokgo Min's studio — the one with Dokgo Min in it.

At some point it had become half Yeo-reum's. Behind Dokgo Min, who sat hunched over her color corrections with her headphones on, the two of them talked about Gimyo-dam.

"You seriously haven't read Gl--ss Mask? I'm telling you, Je-ha, you're my Tsukikage-sensei right now."

"Haha. Where did that even come from?"

"You don't know Glass Ma--k? That's grounds for having your actor license revoked, sir."

Myeong Je-ha gave her a light fanning with the script in his hand. The breeze fluttered against Yeo-reum's cheek. Sorry, but…

'It's not time to give her the answer yet.'

He needed to know how closely the ending Yeo-reum envisioned aligned with the director's intent.

'Because Director Jjang, in all likelihood, won't take the story where he first imagined it….'

Knowing Jjang's temperament, he was incapable of being the type to force a ending through by sheer will.

Not to mention the weight resting on the director's shoulders was far larger than anyone imagined.

'He probably can't even breathe properly right now.'

JC ENM had promised to spare no expense on the production — which meant that if the show didn't succeed, every last mistake would land squarely on the director's head.

And it wasn't only the director feeling the pressure.

Myeong Je-ha looked at Yeo-reum, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠still floundering in front of him.

'The industry's attention itself has changed.'

People were everywhere, eyes burning red, ready to bite and tear — waiting to see whether her previous works, Pachehi and I Have No-thing to Do With It, had been flash in the pan or the real thing.

The atmosphere was vicious: let's see just how good the director that Jegal Rok chose really is.

'Which means he'll compromise to a certain degree — it's obvious….'

And that was precisely the bland development Myeong Je-ha did not want.

"So. What did you think reading it? Was it fun?"

The truth was, the manga Yeo-reum had been talking about was one Myeong Je-ha already knew. It would have been harder not to know it.

Depending on her answer here, the advice he gave would change.

Myeong Je-ha watched her think for a moment and ran through the answers she was likely to give.

'If I had to guess where she'd focus….'

Her own genius for devouring a role, complete with the character analysis? Or maybe the presence of a rival who seemed flawless? What else was there — passion for the craft?

"Reading it… what I thought was…."

Yeo-reum's mouth opened slowly.

And the answer that came out was nothing like what he'd predicted.

"The scenes where they get hit keep coming up, over and over. The protagonist is just a middle schooler, right? ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠But her mom, her teacher, her rival girl — all of them act like she deserves to be hit. Like getting smacked is how she'll come to her senses. They slap her across the face?"

Myeong Je-ha realized that Yeo-reum was, right now, performing.

She said it with an exasperated little laugh, but clearly—

'She said the scene where she's hit. Not the scene where she hits.'

One degree of separation. And that one degree meant everything.

"Japanese manga just can't help themselves with that kind of direction. If a kid won't come to her senses, fine, leave her alone for a minute. But no — they dress it up as shock therapy and just wail on her. And then what do you know, she finds some new clue? Please. Does her IQ spike for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a second every time a palm connects with her cheek? It's juvenile. Genuinely."

Myeong Je-ha was a man who, out of habit, memorized every scene as if committing it to muscle memory.

Yeo-reum's acceptance speech at the Seoul International Drama Awards floated back to him.

"And to my beloved mother… and my brother. And…."

There had been a pause there. A deliberate one.

Suddenly, Myeong Je-ha thought he understood why Yeo-reum could act grief so devastatingly well.

Yeo-reum went on as if it were nothing at all.

"Oh, but it really is fun, though. There's a reason it's a bestseller. You should read it too someday, old man."

"Sure. I will."

Myeong Je-ha answered readily. And then he handed Yeo-reum the appropriate response.

"Yeo-reum, your analysis is half right — and half wrong."