How to Become a Monster Rookie (3)
The stage lights suddenly cut to black. It was supposed to be nothing more than the first appearance of Sang-cheol, a minor supporting character with barely any presence. Yet both the audience in the theater and the live broadcast viewers were equally bewildered.
“What’s going on?”
“Why isn’t anything showing up?”
The magnificent set that the Masterpiece Theater was so proud of, along with all the props, was nowhere to be seen.
“What the hell? There’s nothing here.”
“Isn’t this the part-time job scene?”
That was when a single actor appeared on the completely empty stage.
“What is this?”
“Is this a broadcast accident? There’s no set at all.”
The internet bulletin boards were in chaos, and even the broadcasting staff were shaking their heads.
“Director Lee Tae-ryun. Just because he’s had a few successful productions, he’s acting all high and mighty. Looks like he has zero sense when it comes to theater.”
“People who only know how to work with cameras always get exposed in theater like this, sunbae.”
“I knew it would turn out this way.”
Inside the KBC Drama Department, Lee Tae-ryun was not well-regarded among the other directors because of his radical growth and unparalleled path.
Go Yun-hui, the head manager at Cheongram Entertainment, was also shaking her head.
She sat in her office chair and let out a deep sigh.
“I only tuned in because Se-rin was in it.”
After her mother passed away, Lee Se-rin had become extremely averse to contact with others. This was the very play that Se-rin herself had begged to be allowed to see, saying there was an actor she wanted to watch.
What is this, Se-rin?
In the entertainment industry, the more money you poured in, the better the results. That was an unwritten rule.
This was the play that the actress Lee Se-rin had clung to, even clearing her entire schedule for it.
And yet it turned out to be this pathetic.
“Just wasted my time.”
Go Yun-hui reached for the remote to turn off the TV, then paused and sank back into the sofa.
“Still… it’s Se-rin’s request.”
Meanwhile, behind the stage, writer Yun Song-i asked with a worried expression.
“Will this be okay, Director?”
“We’ll just have to watch.”
Lee Tae-ryun swallowed hard.
Asking an actor to perform in an empty space was a reckless gamble. Of course, there were actors who could emote against a chroma key screen, but this wasn’t a film set. The pressure of performing on stage was beyond imagination.
There was a reason people said that films were made by directors, but plays were made by actors.
No matter how veteran an actor was, this wasn’t something that could be done easily.
“If he freezes up from nerves…”
At that moment, Kim Doyun began his performance on the empty stage.
“Welcome! How many in your party!”
With practiced movements, he wiped down the grill and greeted the customers.
“How would you like it prepared?”
“I’ll bring it right out!”
There were no people, no set, no tables, no grill. Yet Kim Doyun’s acting alone made the stage feel utterly convincing.
He leaned lightly against an invisible table as if exhausted. The weight of the iron plate he was supposedly holding made his arm droop slightly.
The corner of Kim Doyun’s eye was fixed on the door where customers would enter. The group coming in now was four people. They would definitely want a window seat. He moved with that thought in mind.
The stage clearly held nothing and no one but Kim Doyun. And yet he—no, Sang-cheol—filled the entire stage.
“How is he…”
The place was packed with people, so busy you could barely breathe. It was unmistakably a barbecue restaurant at peak hour.
Even though none of it was visible, his acting made the situation feel completely real.
“He’s better than I expected?”
“Anyone can tell it’s a meat restaurant.”
“Where on earth does Director Lee Tae-ryun keep finding actors like this?”
It wasn’t just the staff who were impressed by Kim Doyun’s performance. The internet reactions were also overwhelmingly positive toward the fresh direction.
At that moment, the minor actor playing the restaurant owner shouted from the side. A faint light shone on him compared to Kim Doyun.
“Pay attention! How many times has that customer asked for more side dishes?!”
“I-I’m sorry!”
The owner’s scolding continued. Kim Doyun kept bowing his head in response.
Writer Yun Song-i nodded with a smile.
“He’s really good. Actually, this version might be even better…”
Lee Tae-ryun shook his head.
“The real problem starts now.”
The next scene was Sang-cheol’s solo moment. Immediately after, Sang-cheol would return to his workshop and begin sculpting.
Originally, they had planned to use an actual stone sculpture. But after changing the direction, Kim Doyun had suggested it would be better to have no sculpture at all.
He’s not wrong.
Expressing Sang-cheol’s inner world without any props. It was undoubtedly a more refined approach.
Only…
I never thought I’d end up gambling on Kim Doyun.
No props, no set, no direction. It meant placing everything on the actor’s performance alone.
At that moment the stage went dark again, and the scene changed.
Then it happened. A single beam of light dropped onto the center of the stage. Kim Doyun stood beneath it.
The directing was painfully monotonous.
Even Director Lee Tae-ryun squeezed his eyes shut.
Maybe I really should have used props for this part after all.
Just as that thought crossed his mind—
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
It was a sound that shouldn’t have been audible. The sound of striking stone.
Director Lee Tae-ryun doubted his own ears.
It was a sound that couldn’t possibly exist.
Following the concept of inner imagery, the sound effects had definitely been removed.
“Who did this? Why is there sound—!”
Lee Tae-ryun urgently reached for his walkie-talkie, but all he received in return was silence from the staff.
Only then did Director Lee Tae-ryun realize.
It wasn’t that there was actual sound.
The visual stimulus Kim Doyun was creating was hammering auditory hallucinations straight into their eardrums.
Everyone, including Lee Tae-ryun, came to the same understanding, and the same image formed in their minds.
Sang-cheol was carving stone.
Delicately. Sometimes boldly.
“This is ridiculous.”
Shoulders pressed down by the weight of the stone. The subtle recoil of his body with every strike. The instinctive squint of his eyes as dust flew up.
Every movement and every ounce of passion felt overwhelmingly real.
He made them hear a sound that couldn’t exist. He made them see a sculpture that wasn’t there.
Kim Doyun’s acting had fooled Lee Tae-ryun.
“Hah.”
Could it be that Kim Doyun could see it too?
The brilliant direction that only he had ever seen, visible only through Director Lee Tae-ryun’s eyes.
Humans can never perfectly understand one another.
A long time ago—long enough that he had almost forgotten—he had realized that truth. After that, instead of obsessing over his own brilliant direction, Director Lee Tae-ryun had become obsessed with actors’ overwhelming talent.
If he couldn’t reproduce his direction one hundred percent, he would blind the audience’s eyes with shining talent to cover the gap.
That was what he had believed. Yet now he was sharing that same sensory experience with Kim Doyun.
Director Lee Tae-ryun swallowed hard.
Was it a coincidence?
Or…
Can he really see it?
There wasn’t supposed to be any deep meaning in this scene. It wasn’t unimportant, but it was merely a scene meant to delicately build the narrative that Sang-cheol was a poor student working his way through school. Nothing more.
Yet even so, meaning was visible.
Sang-cheol’s passion. His artistic soul. His tenacity. His obsession.
Things that couldn’t be understood even if explained. Things that even he couldn’t put into words—an ideal that existed only inside Director Lee Tae-ryun’s head.
Kim Doyun’s acting had given meaning to what should have been an ordinary scene. This one moment was dyed with the ideal that Director Lee Tae-ryun had long forgotten.
Writer Yun Song-i stammered with wide eyes.
“D-Director…”
“Ah, yes.”
The stage went dark once more.
A brief silence.
Then, accompanied by a soft sigh, thunderous applause erupted from the audience seats.
Yun Song-i shook the shoulder of Director Lee Tae-ryun, who still couldn’t tear his eyes from the stage.
“Director! Did you see that?! Kim Doyun’s acting!”
Director Lee Tae-ryun, looking utterly dazed, couldn’t look away from the deep black that stole the gaze of everyone on stage. He muttered under his breath.
“That guy’s a crazy bastard.”
“Haa… haa…”
I let out ragged breaths. Only after setting down the chisel and hammer I’d been gripping did the numb sensation slowly return to my hands.
Sang-cheol’s first appearance scene. And my first solo scene in this life. It was over.
Working to death inside Director’s Vision, carving stone. There was no hardship like it.
I wonder what the reaction was like.
I tried to calm my pounding heart and slowly turned my head toward the audience seats.
“…”
The audience was quiet, as if nothing special had happened.
That’s disappointing.
Should I call it my best performance in this life? That was the feeling I’d had.
Well, it was just one supporting actor’s scene. Expecting any special reaction would be stranger.
Thinking that, I turned around to prepare for the next scene.
That was when it happened.
As if the brief silence had been a lie, thunderous applause crashed against my ears.
“Ah…”
My body froze.
A sound I had never heard once in twenty years of living. Without realizing it, my eyes grew hot.
There are no small actors, only small roles.
This was the first time I truly understood that phrase with all my heart.
“It’s making me tear up for no reason.”
I took a deep breath.
I can’t cry after getting all this makeup done.
The real broadcast is only just beginning.