Lead Role? You Do It
The staff member's voice rang out.
“Ready, please!”
The next rehearsal was the final scene of Act 3. It was the moment when Sang-cheol visits Min-woo, who hadn't even shown up to Ha-rang's funeral, out of worry.
This would be Sang-cheol's last appearance in the play.
I looked across at Kim Chan-uk, who was preparing on the opposite side. When our eyes met, he flashed a bright smile and walked over.
“Wow, Doyun! Sorry about last time. Shall we try to sync up properly today?”
He shouted loudly enough for the surrounding staff to hear, as if making a point, and approached me. But the moment he got close, his voice dropped to a whisper only I could catch.
“A minor role should act like a minor role, right? Let's keep it that way today, shall we?”
At Kim Chan-uk's words, a laugh burst out of me.
“You're right. I'll make sure to do exactly that!”
My cheerful reply warmed the atmosphere on set.
“Wow, you two look great together!”
“Let's do this right!”
Kim Chan-uk's face twisted into a sour expression, clearly not having expected that response.
“Tsk.”
He clicked his tongue and returned to his position.
Good.
This is how it should be if you want to step on someone properly.
The hellish three-day intensive training with Dracula. Today, I would prove its results.
At the staff's signal, the rehearsal began.
Would you like to use Director's Vision?
[YES / NO]
What was there to think about? Of course it was YES.
My vision went completely black, as if the lights had gone out.
Visualizing Director Lee Tae-ryun's direction.
And slowly, the scene inside Director Lee Tae-ryun's mind began to appear before my eyes.
It's suffocating.
A studio without a single ray of light.
Dust floated through the air like fog.
Hardened paint and torn canvases were scattered everywhere.
It was a space that felt utterly devoid of life.
So this is the final image of Min-woo that Director Lee Tae-ryun imagined.
After Ha-rang's death, Min-woo's inner world had become this dark and broken.
And at the center of it all sat Kim Chan-uk, playing Min-woo, in a studio where barely any light reached.
The direction is excellent, but...
He's sitting so rigidly. His lover just died—aren't you supposed to be grieving?
Kim Chan-uk's astonishingly wooden acting nearly broke my own immersion.
If it hadn't been for the overwhelming direction shown through Director's Vision, I definitely would have faltered.
Focus.
I steadied my emotions, shrugged off Sang-cheol's worn coat, and spoke in a heavy tone.
“Are you okay? Hey, no matter how hard it is, you should have come to Ha-rang's funeral at least.”
Naturally.
As I was now, I could tell. Sang-cheol was just as devastated as Min-woo. No, he was even more resentful and furious.
But on the surface, he pretended to be fine. Pretended to be looking out for his friend.
I delivered the line while hiding the appropriate darkness to match the absurdly gloomy atmosphere of the room and the director's vision.
“Min-woo. Are you okay? At least say something.”
My hesitant voice came out low and subdued.
At the same time, I could hear the staff whispering among themselves.
“Actor Kim Doyun really knows how to capture the emotion.”
“There's nothing on the stage, but the moment Doyun opens his mouth, it really feels like a studio.”
“But was Sang-cheol always supposed to look this sad?”
“Right? Still, it's strangely immersive...”
“Now it's Actor Kim Chan-uk's turn.”
Kim Chan-uk flinched for a moment, but then opened his mouth.
“...It's soon. The competition is right around the corner.”
An acting performance with no emotion, no substance. Just the delusion that if he followed the script, it would somehow become a masterpiece.
I suppressed my discomfort and continued with my lines.
“Min-woo, I'm worried you'll end up destroying yourself too at this rate.”
No. Sang-cheol was only pretending to be a good person right now. Out of sheer habit.
But deep down, he hated Min-woo—hated him for letting Ha-rang die.
“What could possibly happen to me?”
“Ha-rang left you a letter.”
It was the moment Sang-cheol handed the letter to Min-woo.
“Just leave it there.”
“Still, you should read it at least. It's from Ha-rang, isn't it?”
Kim Chan-uk tossed Ha-rang's letter carelessly onto the floor.
“I'm busy! Now's not the time to worry about that kind of—!”
My brow furrowed in that instant.
Why?
Was it because Kim Chan-uk wasn't putting any real feeling into his acting? Or because the guy had disrespected Bang Jong-su and provoked me?
It wasn't any shallow reason like that.
So this is what Dracula meant by method acting.
I had tried to hold this emotion back. I had planned not to ruin the rehearsal.
But right now, none of that was in my head.
Having become Sang-cheol, the only thing I felt was boiling rage at seeing Min-woo treat the last letter Ha-rang had left behind like trash.
Sincere emotion, not acting, surged up.
I had truly become Sang-cheol in this place.
I have to hold it in.
That was what I was thinking when—
“I'm in the middle of the competition... ugh.”
Suddenly, Kim Chan-uk flubbed his line.
This is ridiculous.
Having possessed Ha-rang, possessing such coveted talent.
Kim Doyun, remembering the original script, began to speak as Sang-cheol.
“Min-woo, get a grip.”
“What?”
A flustered Kim Chan-uk turned his head. The staff began murmuring, but they fell silent at a gesture from Director Lee Tae-ryun.
It meant I could continue.
“I know you have talent. But you haven't even given it your all, have you? What's so hard about this?”
Sang-cheol's feelings of inferiority, envy, and jealousy blended with the real emotions of Kim Doyun.
“With talent that shines so brightly.”
In the future, Kim Chan-uk would quit being an idol and devote himself to acting.
I had seen his acting in that future.
There's no way a guy who acts like that could hate acting.
Kim Chan-uk loved acting.
At the very least, the performances he gave in the future and the way he stared at the script during rehearsals suggested as much.
Above all, Kim Chan-uk possessed outstanding talent, even if not quite on Lee Se-rin's level.
The future proves it.
So how could someone like him act this poorly?
It could only be from lack of practice.
That was why these lines struck at the painful spot for both Min-woo and, at the same time, Kim Chan-uk.
Only then did a sharp edge enter Kim Chan-uk's voice. His eyes, when he looked back, burned with anger.
“You've said enough...”
I cut off Kim Chan-uk's words and continued my line, staring straight at him without averting my gaze.
“Not even practicing properly and talking about a competition? In the first place, are you even sad that Ha-rang died?”
The line Kim Chan-uk was supposed to say to Min-woo.
“...That's...”
Kim Chan-uk was momentarily speechless.
The emotions visible on his face were anger, bewilderment, and guilt. Only then did real feeling begin to mix into Kim Chan-uk's acting.
I turned toward the staff with a smile.
“I'm sorry! I got too immersed in the script for a moment. I've been living on the stage for the past few days to practice method acting, so an ad-lib slipped out without me realizing. Could we please take it from the top?”
At my words, the staff who had been frozen nodded.
“That can happen. Doyun's interpretation of the script is really good!”
“Wow, so that's why he borrowed the stage.”
Cinematographer Yun Seong-woo looked up from his camera with a cocky smile.
“It looked good on camera.”
Writer Yun Song-i spoke up.
“D-Doyun really looked like Sang-cheol.”
I lowered my head, looked at Kim Chan-uk, and opened my mouth.
“I'm sorry, Actor-nim. I got too immersed and ended up saying things that weren't even in the script.”
Kim Chan-uk glared at me, his face flushed red.
“What the hell are you doing during rehearsal! You really...”
Why? Weren't you the one who stopped the entire set during rehearsal and hurled every insult imaginable at Bang Jong-su?
If anything, I was being rather mild.
So, what should I say in response?
Staying silent would seem rude.
But saying I got pissed off at his trash acting wouldn't be appropriate either, right?
So I simply smiled.
“Ahaha. I guess I was too immersed. I'm sorry.”
“If I'm a minor role, then I should act like one...!”
The moment Kim Chan-uk tried to say something, he seemed to realize the uncomfortable atmosphere on set, clicked his tongue, and turned away.
“Damn it...!”
It was then that Director Lee Tae-ryun's voice rang out.
“Let's take a short break.”
Director Lee Tae-ryun suppressed his displeasure and replayed the monitor footage over and over.
“Again.”
“Director, is there something you don't like about the Sang-cheol actor's performance? Why do you keep watching only this part...”
The first assistant director looked anxious, knowing full well that Director Lee Tae-ryun despised ad-libs.
Director Lee Tae-ryun let out a sigh.
“What an insolent fellow.”
In Director Lee Tae-ryun's eyes, actors had a visible 'brilliance.' This was no exaggeration or metaphor.
It was perhaps a synesthetic color born from the senses he had cultivated over many years, his genius direction, and the inherent qualities that showed in every gesture and movement.
He himself didn't fully understand its true nature, but the fact that this brilliance appeared in his vision was undeniable.
Director Lee Tae-ryun took that brilliance and placed it in the right positions, connecting them into lines that formed constellations. That was how his works were created.
In that regard, Kim Chan-uk shone moderately.
Lee Se-rin, on the other hand, sparkled more brilliantly than any actor he had ever seen. It was clear and obvious at a glance where she should be placed to shine most beautifully. She was a talent close to the ideal answer that Director Lee Tae-ryun himself loved.
But.
Kim Doyun.
Kim Doyun was different. There was no brilliance to be seen at all.
Instead, there was a pitch-black hole. An abyss that seemed to have dozens, hundreds, thousands of monsters clinging to it.
I can't accept this.
It felt as if his entire aesthetic was being denied.
He had always believed that those who didn't shine simply lacked talent. Yet the Kim Doyun on stage was destroying the aesthetic he had built.
Even beside Lee Se-rin, who should have been radiant light, Director Lee Tae-ryun couldn't tear his eyes away from that black hole.
A bizarre presence that escaped the control of any director.
With a sigh, Director Lee Tae-ryun leaned his head back against his chair.
To a genius who could see the correct answer, an incorrect answer he couldn't look away from was a terrifying thing.
An incomprehensible, inscrutable existence.
In that case, perhaps...
What if he poured all of his direction into that hole?
What if that black hole swallowed his work whole?
What kind of landscape would unfold beyond it?
It was the arrogance of a genius director, and at the same time, the greed of a genius who wanted to see a new vista.
Just before the rehearsal resumed, Director Lee Tae-ryun opened his mouth.
His voice was cold and indifferent. Yet it froze the entire set.
“Kim Doyun. Do you want to try the lead role?”
The set fell into complete silence. Kim Chan-uk's face turned deathly pale.
It was the expression of someone watching the very ground he stood on crumble away.
I, too, looked at Director Lee Tae-ryun in shock.
What kind of situation is this?
Director Lee Tae-ryun paid no attention to the reaction and asked again, as if speaking to himself.
“Kim Doyun. I'm asking if you'll take on the role of Min-woo.”