Caught in the Act
"Thirty minutes, tops? I'd really appreciate it. I missed the beginning of the play."
With the longer sentence, Myeong Je-ha's distinctive voice rang out more clearly than before. That voice alone was enough to lend even his most casual lines a magnetic persuasiveness.
Every critic worth their salt in this country has pointed out that exact thing at least once.
A low, tender voice you could listen to all day.
"Help me out with the review, yeah? We're classmates, after all."
It was a trivial request, yet he made it nearly impossible to refuse. And besides…
If I get close with Myeong Je-ha.
The Snob Scales materialized in my mind once more. On one pan sat thirty minutes of Han Yeo-reum; on the other, the ten-million-ticket actor Myeong Je-ha, waving with a smile.
This wasn't even worth deliberating.
The answer practically leaps out on its own.
The Snob Scales tipped decisively toward Myeong Je-ha.
"Thirty minutes, then."
Well, of course. He was Myeong Je-ha, after all.
Considering he'd let everyone else leave and singled me out to keep behind, it was obvious—he had no intention of focusing on school life either.
Myeong Je-ha's weight on my Snob Scales grew heavier still. I'd already debuted, which meant connections like him would only get easier to leverage.
Myeong Je-ha and I sat across from each other at a study café nearby, and I opened my laptop.
"Thank you so much. I'd have been in real trouble if it weren't for you, Yeo-reum."
"Oh, this is nothing."
It was only opening night today. In a few days, the planted press articles and blog posts would start circulating anyway.
The beginning is just the same predictable rom-com beats everyone already knows.
Erasing a small favor for Myeong Je-ha in exchange? Pure profit for me.
Since we'd taken a private room no one could see into, Myeong Je-ha removed his cap without worry and ruffled his hair carelessly with one hand. The pale wheat strands caught the light and glittered.
Even a single strand of his hair is on another level. What did I expect—he's a celebrity.
And on top of that, there was the faint, unmistakably expensive scent of shampoo. Absolute perfection. I was starting to understand why people couldn't stop going on about Myeong Je-ha.
If I keep Myeong Je-ha in my corner, is there anything Do Gyeo-ul could do to block me?
He'd know plenty of directors and writers, plus all the investors willing to throw money at his name alone. At the very least, I wouldn't get edged out in casting or suddenly fired the night before a shoot.
Right. Time to get friendly.
I flashed my warmest, most sociable smile at him. Myeong Je-ha met my eyes and smiled back.
"I tried to come straight after my schedule, but I got something on my shirt…"
Looking closely, a faint stain had indeed bloomed on his shirt.
Probably a sponsorship thing, given how his eyes crinkle when he says it.
I offered my advice with all the kindness I could muster.
"Just go wipe it off in the bathroom. If you'd caught it early, it wouldn't have set."
"Ah… the bathroom's a bit of a walk from the theater, so I just roughly dabbed at it with wipes from the car."
"What are you talking about? It's immediately to the right of the basement entrance. I guess you didn't look properly."
"I got turned around. I thought it was on the first floor. That's not a theater up there, it's some office—doesn't the door stay locked?"
He doesn't look it, but there's a real airhead streak in this guy. Maybe he's just hopeless with directions.
"Silly. The first floor is part of the theater too. There's only one door you enter by."
I laughed it off lightly and went back to typing.
"So what was that line in the middle again? The one where the three of them confront each other. You never—after that."
"'You think anything in a skirt is yours for the taking? You? Keep this up and you'll be dragging your aunts and grandmothers around, insisting they're all your girlfriends.' That one."
So Professor Geum Bit-gang whips even working celebrities into shape.
Myeong Je-ha was filling out the review with meticulous, almost excessive thoroughness.
"And right before the ending? The lines under the streetlight."
"'The proof that something preys on your mind is the proof that your heart's been caught. Reasonable evidence, that.'"
I dutifully fed him every line he asked for. Clearly he hadn't watched the play properly either.
"Hey, Yeo-reum."
"Hm?"
"Isn't it strange…"
Click.
The sound of Myeong Je-ha closing his laptop echoed far too loudly in the little room.
What now? Had he finished writing it? Already?
"It's your first time seeing this play today, yet you act like you've memorized every single line…"
My fingers stopped over the keyboard.
…What did he just say?
A heavy silence settled over the room. Myeong Je-ha tossed the words out as if they were nothing.
"Like someone who's spent years watching nothing but this one play."
I—the person who had actually spent years watching that play—went rigid as stone.
Watched it? I sold tickets to it. I performed in the ensemble.
He'd phrased it offhandedly, but right now he was demanding an answer. Across the table, I could see him staring at me, unblinking, without so much as a word.
…But I can't exactly tell him that.
Obviously not. That was the fastest route to getting written off as a lunatic. Who would believe it?
And above all…
Instinct warned me. Never reveal that you've regressed.
This is the only card I hold. I can never play it face-up.
Let me look at this through an ordinary person's eyes. What's the right thing to say here?
Tense, I took a light breath first. Priority one: don't let the panic show.
Just deliver the line as naturally as I can. Yes. Think of it as acting.
Circulating script collections around was perfectly normal in this business, after all.
"I just dusted off my memory of the script collection I had lying around. It's probably not a hundred percent identical, so—"
"It is. A hundred percent identical."
And so much for the performance of my lifetime—Myeong Je-ha swatted it aside in a heartbeat.
Just as I opened my mouth to challenge him—and how would you know that?—our eyes met.
Myeong Je-ha was looking at me with a face completely unlike anything he'd worn until now. His expression was, how should I put it…
"I'd know, won't I? That play."
Like a beast with its prey in sight. His deep-set, darkened eyes fixed on me as though they could see straight through me.
"…Did you get hold of a script collection beforehand or something?"
"No. How would I have done that?"
Myeong Je-ha lobbed the question right back at me and smiled, easy and bright.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
What is this? Did they launch a drama adaptation alongside the play's run? No—I've never heard anything like that. Did someone he knows write the script?
A dozen hypotheses tangled together in my head. Despite it being such an innocuous question, I couldn't land on a single decent answer.
"Yeo-reum."
Myeong Je-ha called my name again.
Not five minutes ago I was thinking no voice in the world could possibly be as lovely as his.
Now it sent chills down my spine. I strained to keep my face composed, to act the calm through.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
It felt like the pounding of my own heart was ringing in my ears.
"Did you know?"
"…Know what?"
"The Blue Art Center—you know it, right?"
As he named the theater where we'd watched the play tonight, Myeong Je-ha's face lit up with a radiant, almost sunny brightness—an unmistakable thrill, like a hunter savoring a catch finally taken.
"Right now, only the basement level is in use."
Clunk.
My heart, which had been hammering so violently a second ago, plummeted straight down.
"Not the first floor."
"…"
"Which is why there are two doors you can enter by."
Myeong Je-ha's signature crisp, precise enunciation drove the words straight into my ear.