Action Rehearsal
On the day of the script reading for White Blood, Amy—who lived on the opposite side of the planet in Canada—stopped dead in front of her locker the moment she arrived at school, hemmed in by a cluster of friends who had swarmed her.
"Amy! Do you know this guy? Is he famous in Korea?"
"Look at this. The ranking's still low, but it's seriously fun."
She shut the lime-green locker door and eyed the tablet PC her friends were thrusting at her.
On the screen was a Korean film that had just received its second-wave distribution on Netflix.
Staring at the page titled Master Plan, she tilted her head.
"Hmm, not sure? Never heard of it. You guys always come looking for me whenever anything Korean comes up, but I don't even speak Korean."
Amy had been adopted into Canada at an age she no longer remembered and had grown up entirely as a Canadian. Every time her friends asked her about Korea, a strange feeling stirred in her chest. She felt no particular patriotism toward the country, so "good" wasn't quite the right word—more like simple curiosity.
"Come to think of it, why are you even asking about a movie?"
"We were just lounging around at Christine's place yesterday, got bored, and put it on. It was way too good."
Judging by the screen, pure entertainment value wasn't the only reason for the fuss. Clearly they had taken an interest in the idol-handsome male lead dominating the main image.
Most of the time when friends came to Amy, the conversation revolved around K-pop content. These days they even stumbled through Korean slang she herself barely understood. It still wasn't mainstream culture, but ever since starting high school she could feel how many more of her friends had suddenly developed an interest in Korea.
"Oh really? Hmm… looking at him now, I feel like I've seen this actor somewhere before."
"Really? The name's written as 'Yeonu Ryu.'"
Hearing the name and seeing the spelling on the screen, a snort of laughter escaped her. Listening to her friends' pronunciation, she couldn't even tell what nationality they thought he was.
"It's probably not 'Ryu' like that—it's Ryu. Yeon-woo Ryu. In Korean order, Ryu Yeon-woo."
"Ryu Yeon-woo?"
Saying the name out loud, she suddenly remembered where she had seen him.
"I saw him in a movie called Sketch. You know how my dad's a total film nerd. He said it won the Golden Bear, so we watched it together."
"Golden Bear? What's that?"
English-speaking countries generally paid little attention to foreign films or festivals, so she had no idea where to begin explaining.
"It's a thing. Roughly like the Academy Awards."
"Wow! Then he's a pretty big actor. I should recommend it to the others too. Subtitles feel a little awkward, but the movie was genuinely great."
Amy herself had been half-forced by her film-obsessed father to watch Sketch, and she had found it surprisingly good. The fact that the protagonist shared her background as an adoptee had definitely played a part.
"Hmm, so the title was Master Plan, right? Maybe I should check it out too…"
Yeon-woo had boldly declared he would take the number-one spot on Netflix through White Blood, yet without his even knowing it, his Netflix foothold was already quietly expanding on the far side of the globe.
The script reading that had stretched late into the previous evening had finished without a hitch.
Director Hwang's eye for actors seemed solid; every supporting cast member who had been chosen possessed outstanding skill.
"Hoo… I feel like I'm working out more now than I did on active duty."
Recalling the day before, Yeon-woo exhaled hard while lifting weights. The small training room he had set up on the duplex floor made body maintenance far more convenient than when he had lived in the officetel.
"All thanks to a house that's ridiculously spacious for one person."
White Blood was packed with action, so he was training more tightly than usual to prepare. In terms of pure volume, the intensity felt higher than his agent days.
Just then the phone rang.
He stopped mid-set and checked the smartphone screen—an unsaved number.
"Yes, speaking."
A young man's voice came through the receiver.
"Ah, Representative Ryu Yeon-woo, hello. This is Mark Choi, East Asia liaison for Innover Weinstein."
Innover Weinstein. The specialized distributor that had handled overseas sales for Sketch.
Being called 'Representative' is a first.
The fact that they had addressed him as representative rather than actor suggested they were calling him in his capacity as an investor.
"Pleasure to meet you. What can I do for you?"
"It's regarding the overseas settlement payments for the film Sketch…"
After a lengthy conversation he set the phone down. The core of the call had simply been to inform him about the dividend from overseas revenue.
Film investment really does pay out enormous sums once you hit even one success.
Neither earned income nor ordinary financial returns—unless you were gambling—could easily produce multiples of the original investment like this. The overseas dividend alone was roughly double the domestic profit he had already received.
Yeon-woo stepped out of the training room and leaned against the railing of the upper floor, surveying the house. It was still a space too large to feel familiar.
I only started this because I wanted to fulfill a dream I never got to chase in my previous life…
Acting turned out to possess far stronger influence than he had expected. Beyond the money, these days he could barely open the internet without seeing articles about himself.
After the surprise lineup revealed at yesterday's script reading, many fans were already buzzing with anticipation for White Blood.
He opened the portal app on his phone, and sure enough, entertainment headlines dominated the front page.
The comment reactions made the public's expectations for Yeon-woo feel almost physical.
While Yeon-woo was still scrolling through the articles and comments, an incoming call screen lit up his phone.
"Yes, Min-su hyung. Just changing clothes and heading down."
"Yep. We've still got time, so take it easy."
He hung up, went downstairs, and quickly changed into training clothes.
Is it already that late?
After a brief preparation he climbed into the car, where Kim Min-su handed him a coffee.
"Iced Americano, as usual."
"Thanks."
He had rushed down straight from his workout and was parched; one sip of coffee brought a little life back into him.
"The stunt coordinator said today's rehearsal is going to be pretty intense."
"Is that so?"
"He asked about your condition."
"I'm always fine. The stunt coordinator is…?"
Before principal photography began in earnest, they had decided to lock down the action for the first sequence that needed to be shot.
"It's Do Gwang-uk, the same coordinator who handled Star Beyond the River last time."
"Ah, it'll be good to see him again after so long."
Director Hwang Min-gwon's excited face—boasting that he would hire only the absolute best in the industry—floated into Yeon-woo's mind.
Coordinator Do really is the best in the business.
Their previous collaboration on the historical drama Star Beyond the River had also earned high praise online for its top-tier action direction. Back then, though, no one had felt the need to check his condition. The difficulty this time must be considerably higher.
They arrived at the Paju set and entered Building C, where today's rehearsal and practice would take place. Staff were still bustling about.
"Director."
"Oh! Actor Ryu!"
Director Hwang, who had been directing various things in the middle of the set, greeted Yeon-woo warmly the moment he approached. At their first meeting he had seemed like a flustered third-rate director, but now that he was helming his own project, he carried a proper director's presence.
"We're finally getting started. Ehehehe."
…Or maybe not quite. That foolish grin was exactly the same as the first time they had met. Still, there was no doubt that his passion for the work was second to none.
"Wait, where did Coordinator Do go?"
"Ah, here he comes."
Yeon-woo spotted Coordinator Do walking toward them from a distance.
"Oh! Yeon-woo. It's been a while."
"It has. Already over a year, right?"
The action filming for Star Beyond the River had wrapped the previous summer.
Time really flew.
As he offered a handshake, Coordinator Do grumbled with genuine regret.
"By the way, you should've dropped by sometime during your break after filming. A light sparring session would've been nice."
Seeing the sincere disappointment on the coordinator's face, Yeon-woo scratched his head.
"I know. I was pretty busy. Right after the movie wrapped I went straight back to school…"
"Belated congratulations on the awards."
"Thank you. So is the action today really tough enough that you needed to ask about my condition?"
At the question, the stunt coordinator shot a troubled glance toward Director Hwang Min-gwon.
"The level the director is demanding is so high that when we choreographed to match it…"
"Ahem, ahem…"
Director Hwang hurriedly looked elsewhere and pretended not to hear. Watching him, Yeon-woo smiled faintly.
"It's fine. I'm pretty confident with action myself."
Coordinator Do Gwang-uk nodded. Having worked with him the previous summer, he knew it was neither empty boasting nor youthful bravado.
"Then I'll demonstrate and explain right away."
White lines crisscrossed the green chroma-key set like a spiderweb. Coordinator Do moved through them at a frantic pace, explaining while performing the action.
"Here! Hup. Move to point three, then again… Ha!"
He rolled sideways, sprang up, swung a sword, knocked away an incoming grayish-white cylindrical rod with his arm, and immediately tore off in another direction. Every object inside the chroma-key stage would later be covered by CG, so the critical point was hitting the exact marks at the exact times while executing the moves.
After demonstrating the sequence for a long stretch, Do Gwang-uk finally stopped, breathing hard.
"Hoo… that's one full scene. Ideally we'd shoot it in a single continuous one-take without cuts."
He hesitated, then continued.
"…Honestly that seems impossible, but the fewer cuts we make, the more stylish the sequence will look."
Even the stunt coordinator himself thought digesting such a complex path in a short time was unrealistic. Watching the demonstration, Yeon-woo's expression turned peculiar—mildly incredulous.
Seeing that face, Do Gwang-uk silently cursed Director Hwang.
I knew it was too much… Sigh. Sure, it would look cool, but we have to think about reality. Why does Director Hwang insist on this level of difficulty?
Yeon-woo, however, was incredulous for an entirely different reason.
This is straight-up CQC tactical training.
CQC—Close Quarters Combat—was a tactical system developed to combine situational judgment, weapons techniques, and close-range shooting for engagements within thirty meters. CQC tactical training was one of the drills agents received most frequently, covering everything from VIP protection to countless urban combat scenarios. To raise survival rates and mission success through rapid decision-making under fire, they practiced executing complex movement paths to precise positions and timings.
And in his previous life, while working the domestic division, Yeon-woo had even served as an instructor for that very training.
That was why he wore such an absurd expression. Scratching his head, Coordinator Do Gwang-uk spoke.
"It's a bit too intense, right? I did prepare a simplified version…"
"No."
Yeon-woo grinned.
"This is going to be fun after so long."