Episode 19 — The First Cut

The first shooting scene was a conversation between Pi Chae-won—who had fled the bewildering reality of her situation to the rooftop—and Jun, the male lead, who ran into her there.

“Alright! Let's check that skin tone—!”

The camera, the lighting, even the actors' blocking—every piece of the setup was complete. Yeo-reum followed a staff member's guidance to the center of the set, where the enormous camera lens trained on her as if to swallow her whole.

“No need to be nervous. It's your first scene, so just relax~ relax~.”

Director Jjang, who had been watching Yeo-reum stare briefly at the camera before her eyes met his monitor, let out a hearty laugh.

No matter how prepared she is, a rookie is still going to look like a rookie.

Having seen the well-worn, dog-eared script in Yeo-reum's hands, Director Jjang found her nervousness endearing—even adorable.

Her voice work may be excellent, but physical acting can still feel awkward… It's fine if the first scene takes a few NGs.

I'll just cover for her here and there. That was how loosely Director Jjang was thinking about it.

At last, my camera! Mine! A drama that's all mine!

But Yeo-reum, at this moment, had no idea what nervousness even was.

“Going in for the shoot—!”

For Yeo-reum, who had only ever been able to claim a single camera's attention by wedging herself into a crowd of people, this was the first time a camera had been devoted entirely to her.

My first lead role, my first camera, my first shoot….

Pressing all of it down deep inside her heart, Yeo-reum closed her eyes for a moment.

Let's nail it.

The staff, watching as she slowly opened her eyes, began to call out.

“Sound queue.”

“Camera roll.”

Clack— The sound of the slate rang through the set.

“Action!”

At Director Jjang's word, the filming began. Yeo-reum took a deep breath, then shuffled forward a few steps—her ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠posture reasonably straight, and yet somehow still radiating an air of exhaustion.

“Ugh….”

Pi Chae-won was not a character written to talk much. The elements that made up a shoujo manga were, broadly speaking, a sunshine heroine, a wounded male lead, and a cast of extras whose every conversation began with romance and ended with romance.

“What even is this, seriously.”

And here, Pi Chae-won was the gloomy transfer student—a brand-new character. Though she'd been invented as an extra to wedge between Hina and Jun, she possessed a real-world self of her own, which was why she came with the dead-fish eyes.

“…Maybe I should just drop out.”

Unlike Hina, Pi Chae-won's charm lay in her deadpan delivery—the way she drew laughter simply by refusing to react. She was a mashup of childishness, cringe, and B-movie sensibility, yet also a device that let the audience take a step back and see the whole absurd picture. That, in essence, was what Pi Chae-won existed to be.

“This uniform was already annoying back in my day.”

Yeo-reum made a lazy show of loosening the ribbon around her collar, then undid a button as though the whole thing suffocated her. Every motion flowed as naturally as water.

“…Cut!”

Director Jjang, who had been watching Yeo-reum stare blankly out past the rooftop railing with her dead-fish eyes, finally called the cut. Yeo-reum turned to him with eyes suddenly sparkling bright, as if she'd never looked bored at all.

“That hand movement just now felt a little off, didn't it? Should we try it more mechanical this time? Keeping the shoulders as still as possible?”

Yeo-reum walked over to Director Jjang and listed out everything she herself had felt was lacking.

Director Jjang nodded along, marveling that a rookie actor on her very first shoot could pinpoint her own weak spots so precisely.

“Exactly. If your shoulders stay perfectly still, that sardonic edge comes through so much better.”

“Then that's how I'll play it this time!”

Watching the two of them light up with excitement, Chu Ga-eul swallowed hard. A trivial little gesture, a trivial little line—and still, Han Yeo-reum drew every ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠eye in the room.

Oh, this skill is great.

I'd been feeling it shimmering above my head for a while now, and I had to clamp down on the corners of my mouth—they kept trying to lift, and it was sabotaging my dead-fish concept.

My solo shots wrapped without a single NG. At this point, Director Jjang applauded me no matter what I did.

So this is… the taste of being the main character?

I could cry, I'm so happy. I finished shooting takes from every angle they asked for.

And then, at last, the next cut—the scene where I traded lines with Ju Jun-seo. Waiting off to the side, Ju Jun-seo stepped up onto the railing and climbed onto the rooftop.

“Ready—!”

Director Jjang called the action, and I turned around, gripping the railing. It was the moment Pi Chae-won, mid-monologue, first met Jun. My eyes locked with Ju Jun-seo, who'd been lying sprawled across the rooftop.

“You woke me up.”

It was a serviceable performance—flat, deliberately uninflected—and I matched my reply to that same even tone.

“If a noise like that wakes you, why are you sleeping on a roof?”

“….”

Ju Jun-seo said nothing. Instead, without using the rooftop railing, he simply leapt straight down. His body control was effortless.

Is it because his legs are so long? That was a rock-solid landing.

Then he strode toward me with an easy, unhurried gait. Models really were built different. Watching that one moment alone, I finally understood why Ju Jun-seo had been cast. He stopped precisely at the mark I'd noted down earlier, tilted his head at a lazy angle, and looked at me.

“The rooftop is my space.”

It was exactly the kind of line you'd only ever find in a shoujo manga—and yet, coming out of Ju Jun-seo's mouth, it looked pretty damn good. I wasn't the only one privately impressed; Director Jjang let out another gasp of admiration.

It had been only two scenes. Even so, the mood on set had begun to turn decisively positive.

“Ju Jun-seo's better than I expected.”

“Did you see that walk just now? A model through and through.”

As they prepared for the scene where Ga-eul makes her entrance, the staff chatted in low voices. Ga-eul, who had to appear in the very next shot, grew more and more restless.

What? Seriously, it was nothing special.

But Ga-eul could feel it too. The chemistry between those two was better than a B-grade web drama had any right to be. As the same scene was shot over and over again, take after take, it kept growing more and more convincing.

“Rolling the slate—!”

This was the scene where Ga-eul muscled her way in between the two of them and livened up the atmosphere. The slate clacked, and the take number rang out. Ga-eul's hand tightened around the rooftop door handle.

“What's this, what's this~? You two were here all alone? I'm so hurt—laaaah—!”

It was a heroine's entrance, dressed head to toe in weaponized adorableness. With every step Ga-eul took, her pink hair fluttered like cotton candy. She grabbed Yeo-reum's arm and shook it.

“What were you two talking about? Tell Hina too—come on, tell meee~!”

Then it happened. Yeo-reum, who should have stood her ground, wobbled. Exactly in the direction Ga-eul was shaking her arm.

…Huh? Wha—?

Flustered, Ga-eul froze, her expression locking solid.

“Cut—!”

It was an unmistakable NG. Ga-eul had never imagined making such a blunder on her very first appearance. She turned to stare at Yeo-reum. That move wasn't in the script. This was entirely Han Yeo-reum's fault.

“Ooh, I like that just now? Let's go again, same as that.”

But against all expectations, Director Jjang didn't say a single word of criticism to Yeo-reum. On the contrary, he praised her acting and told everyone to keep it exactly like that.

That just puts the spotlight on Han Yeo-reum AGAIN…!

Bit by bit, piece by piece, Han Yeo-reum was swallowing ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠whole the role of Hina—the heroine who was supposed to be the cute, lovable one.

Somehow, Ga-eul had a premonition that this wasn't going to be all. A signal was flashing through her mind, ringing out over and over: this was only the beginning.

Man, I really hope my flimsy little paper-doll Pi Chae-won goes viral.

Dodging Chu Ga-eul's glare, I raised my hand along with Director Jjang, who was giving ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠me a thumbs-up. The aloof, unflappable Pi Chae-won character had gone through a light revision a few hours earlier, worked out between me and Director Jjang.

Aloof, unflappable—and now, a dash of listlessness.

It was the maximum amount of character you could squeeze out of someone who acted like a stiff, mechanical machine. Add in that faintly pathetic quality, and the role came alive—felt human. I glanced over at Chu Ga-eul and let a small smile slip.

Which is why nobody told you to go picking fights you can't win.

Thanks to Do Gyeo-ul, I'd learned a thing or two. The Han Yeo-reum of today had not only fully recovered from Actor Syndrome—her head held exactly one thought: how to grab even a single frame more of the spotlight.

You picked the wrong person to mess with.

Hina, Chu Ga-eul, whatever. I'll make her forget the girl even exists.