An Emotion That Yields to No One
In the blue window floating before my eyes, comments were flooding in at a frantic pace. It was as if they had just watched my performance.
Actor Gallery?
What kind of community name was that? And then there was the awakening of Director’s Vision. None of it made any sense.
I shook my head lightly to clear my mind, and the blue window had already vanished.
I had no idea what was happening, but I had returned to the past. There must have been some side effect in my brain. Or perhaps it really was some kind of special ability.
For now, focus on what’s in front of you.
The important thing right now was to deliver an audition with no regrets. And to prepare myself to let go of my twenty-year acting career.
When the three of us entered the audition room, the door shut with a heavy thud. To my left and right stood Lee Se-rin and a young male actor.
Just as I thought. Lee Se-rin and Kim Chan-uk.
It was no different from twenty years ago. Neither of them paid any attention to the staff’s stares as they naturally claimed their spots.
That came from years of experience as child actors, walking in and out of filming sets and auditions since they were kids.
“Over here.”
I turned toward the voice without thinking.
He looked a little younger, but the dark stubble and cold, frowning eyes were unmistakable. It was Director Lee Tae-ryun.
“You know what this place is, so I assume we can skip the greetings?”
The director I had revered and respected more than anyone. The man I had desperately wanted to impress even once. And now he stood right in front of me.
I really am back.
The unforgettable moment from twenty years ago was unfolding exactly as I remembered.
If there was one difference, it was the instant Director Lee Tae-ryun’s gaze locked onto me. A faint afterimage shimmered over the real scene before my eyes.
An old canvas kept flickering in my vision.
The scenery visible through the blue window disappeared. All that remained was the faint afterimage of an old canvas, a brush lying on the floor, and air so heavy it felt suffocating.
What the hell was that?
My thoughts froze for a second.
Get it together. This is an audition room.
Director Lee Tae-ryun stood before me. Lee Se-rin and Kim Chan-uk waited on either side. The director had clearly noticed my brief hesitation and was staring straight at me.
Damn…
It was exactly like the past. That cold, dry gaze scanning an extra who would be forgotten the moment he left the room—one who had never been in consideration to begin with.
Eyes that see talent.
I drew in a short breath.
It was fine.
In the past I would have crumbled, but so what? Hadn’t I come here to pour out everything and give up?
Acting in front of the greatest director in Korea and two future ten-million actors.
There was no better stage to end my acting life on.
Oddly enough, that thought calmed my heart a little. Maybe dying once had changed me. The pressure that used to crush me no longer choked the breath from my lungs.
That was when Director Lee Tae-ryun tapped the desk.
“Then there’s no need to waste time.”
A staff member spoke up right after the director.
“We’ll begin with participant Lee Se-rin for scene number three.”
“Understood.”
Lee Se-rin stepped forward, closing the distance between herself and the judges’ table.
Writer Yoon Song-ah, seated among the judges, smiled warmly.
“I’m really looking forward to this. After all, you’re the daughter of the legendary actress Lee Myeong-hwa. I’m a huge fan.”
“Thank you.”
For the briefest moment, Lee Se-rin’s face seemed to twist.
Not the time to worry about someone else.
The play Flowers Fall, which would be born from Director Lee Tae-ryun’s hands, told the bitter story of the protagonist Min-woo. He sacrificed everything chasing the dream of becoming an artist only to slam into the wall of his own limited talent. Obsessed with painting a portrait of his beloved, Ha-rang, he fails to protect her and ultimately faces separation.
It demanded deep loss and sorrow. In other words, intense method acting.
Completely the opposite of me.
So how was I supposed to get through this?
I gave a small nod.
No lucky breaks here.
There was no way some half-baked trick I suddenly remembered would impress Director Lee Tae-ryun now. No point agonizing over it. No matter how talented Kim Chan-uk and Lee Se-rin were, I had twenty years on them. Even if they were only minor roles, I had played dozens—no, hundreds—of parts.
Those twenty years of blood and sweat wouldn’t disappear. I would burn them all in this single moment.
It was right then that Kim Chan-uk spoke.
“Would it be all right if I go first?”
“?”
Both Lee Se-rin and I looked at him with identical question marks hovering over our heads.
“I’m sorry, I have a schedule after this. In return, I’ll show you acting with zero flaws.”
Kim Chan-uk flashed a bright smile at Lee Se-rin. She openly frowned.
“Ugh.”
Director Lee Tae-ryun smacked the table.
“Fine. Order doesn’t matter. Just show us quickly.”
Something stirred in my chest at the sight.
I’m jealous.
For Director Lee Tae-ryun to show such leniency, he must have seen sparkling talent in both Lee Se-rin and Kim Chan-uk. In the end, both of them would land the lead roles in this audition, catch the director’s eye, and become part of his inner circle.
A director who became endlessly soft and benevolent before true talent. That was Lee Tae-ryun.
“Then… participant Kim Chan-uk can show us scene number four.”
At the staff member’s words, Kim Chan-uk smiled brightly with that handsome face of his.
“I’ll begin.”
Scene four was the tragic moment where the male lead, Min-woo, who loved Ha-rang, wailed at her death yet could not put down his brush.
Kim Chan-uk’s cheerful smile vanished instantly, replaced by eyes filled with despair. Tears already glistened in them as he portrayed the moment his love with Ha-rang came to an end.
As expected, even the sprout is different.
I had witnessed it ten years ago, but it was still brilliant. Hard to believe he was an idol actor.
“Why! Why are you taking everything from me! You were my everything! My entire world!”
More than anything, the expression gained terrifying persuasiveness on Kim Chan-uk’s face.
He really was disgustingly handsome, even to another man.
“Urgh… ugh…”
Kim Chan-uk collapsed to his knees. That part was probably an ad-lib based on his own interpretation.
When the performance ended, he returned to his usual self as if nothing had happened.
“Thank you.”
Kim Chan-uk’s bright smile made it clear he had every reason to be confident.
“Wow, such a young age and the acting is already top-tier?”
“That face especially stands out.”
“Is the face that important, Writer?”
At the staff’s playful jab, Director Lee Tae-ryun spoke.
“A good mask is one of an actor’s talents. Keep that in mind if you want to stay under me.”
“Ah, yes.”
The staff kept showering him with praise. It seemed Kim Chan-uk’s looks really were exceptional.
In Director Lee Tae-ryun’s mind, the role of Min-woo is already Kim Chan-uk’s.
But when I glanced at the director, a faint wrinkle had formed between his brows.
Why? It didn’t seem like there was anything to criticize.
With that thought, I turned to Lee Se-rin.
Her expression was deeply dissatisfied, as if she had seen something unpleasant.
Really?
It was at that exact moment.
What the hell is this? I once watched a movie inside my head where dozens of characters lived together. Was this something like that?
Auto upload.
When I looked at the top of the blue window, there really was an auto-upload toggle button just like the comments said.
When I tried to turn it off, a message appeared.
Director’s Vision Penalty: Auto-upload deactivation is not possible.
What was this? Did that mean my acting would keep getting uploaded to that community from now on?
For now, I had to focus on the performance.
I looked at Kim Chan-uk, who had finished acting. Even setting the Actor Gallery aside, that level of skill still hadn’t met Director Lee Tae-ryun and Lee Se-rin’s expectations.
I swallowed hard without realizing it.
Just how high was the standard they were seeing?
No. Get a grip.
I had twenty years. All I had to do was express them properly.
Director Lee Tae-ryun quickly changed his expression and smiled at Kim Chan-uk.
“You did well. Not bad.”
“Thank you. Then I’ll see you at the next rehearsal, Director.”
Kim Chan-uk left the audition room with confident strides.
See you at rehearsal.
His tone made it clear he believed he would be chosen without question.
Director Lee Tae-ryun turned to Lee Se-rin.
“Participant Lee Se-rin, let’s see what you’ve got.”
“Yes.”
It wasn’t visible, but I could feel it. As if determined to set the standard, Lee Se-rin stepped forward with pride.
This would be the second time I actually saw Lee Se-rin act. It was bound to be incredible. I could already picture it.
That was what I thought—until she spoke.
“Why.”
That single short word filled the entire room.
“Why won’t you answer me? Why won’t you look at me anymore?”
I swallowed without realizing. How could I have forgotten this?
“I’m not some painting…!”
The room gradually grew darker.
“I hate it… please…!”
Everyone held their breath. Of course they did. Who could possibly speak carelessly in front of a woman dying while crying out for the person she loved?
“If it was going to be like this, why did you give me this flower…?”
As she collapsed, a flower fell from her hand.
“Insane.”
The staff only seemed to regain their senses after the performance ended and immediately began talking about Lee Se-rin.
“That girl really is Ha-rang.”
“As expected of Lee Se-rin. The daughter of a genius.”
“Right, Lee Myeong-hwa’s daughter. She was famous as a genius child actor.”
Writer Yoon Song-ah spoke with clear excitement.
“Incredible! She’s exactly the Ha-rang I imagined!”
Lee Se-rin’s presence completely dominated the room. No one could interrupt her.
The blue window’s reaction was the same.
There was clearly no stage setup, no lighting, no sound. Yet I could see it. I could hear it.
“Ha… Haha.”
A hollow laugh escaped me.
I had gotten excited for a moment at the thought of returning twenty years into the past. Did I really believe I could stand on the same stage as this? Had I actually fooled myself into thinking twenty years of effort could close this gap?
—Clap, clap… clap clap clap.
I was standing and clapping before I realized it.
“What…?”
Lee Se-rin looked at me with momentary confusion, but soon accepted it as pure praise.
“Thanks, but we’re still in the middle of the audition.”
I looked at Director Lee Tae-ryun. His eyes were burning with intense light. His face was flushed in a way I had never seen before.
No, I did see it once—twenty years ago. I just hadn’t wanted to remember.
I already knew. What had left me powerless wasn’t the director’s interview or the sense of deprivation from standing still while others advanced. It was the overwhelming difference in talent I felt that day.
That’s why he couldn’t be satisfied with Kim Chan-uk’s acting.
Both before and after my regression, my presence in this room was still nonexistent.
“Then let’s finish after watching the last participant, Kim Doyun.”
The staff member’s dry voice rang out.
“Ah, right. There was one more.”
Director Lee Tae-ryun answered absentmindedly, as if his thoughts were elsewhere.
It was fine.
That’s how it’s always been anyway.
...
I gritted my teeth.
Jealousy surged up. Envy and longing tangled together, making my chest burn.
I wanted to stand on that stage too. I wanted to live inside the lives of Ha-rang and Min-woo.
At that moment, an intense sensation crashed over me.
What… what is this?
A landscape far clearer and more vivid than before completely took over my field of vision.
When I looked around, I saw a torn canvas in front of me and a brush lying on the floor.
This is…
The cold texture of the floor where Min-woo had knelt. The heavy air pressing down on everything. Even the faint background sound. The entire scene was unfolding before my eyes.
This was the perfect direction for scene four itself. The overwhelming flood of information nearly took my breath away.
I see.
This was the scene Director Lee Tae-ryun was seeing. A hollow laugh escaped me.
No wonder people called him a genius.
And I stood at the center of that direction.
It’s dark here. I can’t see what’s ahead.
Emotion surged from deep inside my chest. The sense of loss that came when you lost everything.
No—it was something that went beyond even that.
What was its true identity? Was it a realm a mere ordinary person like me could never reach?
Another comment floated up on the blue window.
Damn it, don’t interfere right now…!
At that exact moment, a reply appeared.
That single comment cleared my head completely.
The frustration I had endured for twenty years. The regret of sending my mother away. The deep deficiency at the very bottom of my heart narrowed into one emotion.
Fear.
It was an emotion far too familiar to me.
So this was it.
I understood. Min-woo was afraid. Afraid of a shining talent he could never reach no matter how hard he tried.
In this landscape, I was being told to act out this emotion.
If that was the case, then at least for this emotion—
I would not yield to anyone.