Perfect Acting Shakes the Set

I'd have to wait it out. Tremble tremble tremble. My legs were shaking. Shiver shiver shiver. My whole body was vibrating endlessly. 'What the hell did I just see?' Lee Min-ha, the writer of Haidream, had goosebumps prickling across her entire body.

Honestly, she wanted to drop the set and everything and just run to Kim Donghu right then and there. 'Kim Donghu!' When she'd asked him to show her his acting, who knew he'd just straight-up deliver Jay in the flesh.

"P-PD-nim, thank you so much. For real."

Lee Min-ha calmed her trembling heart and barely managed to squeeze out the words one by one.

"Pardon?"

"...Thanks for letting me meet actor Kim Donghu like this."

It was a good thing they'd met at her lowest point. Imagine if she'd encountered that actor in some other project. 'I'd probably lose my mind.' She should've met him first! She could've shown him an even cooler script and drawn out his acting! Kim Youngmo PD, the bucket-hat guy, had saved her from a sleepless night of those thoughts.

"Haha, what did I do? It's all thanks to actor Kim Donghu coming to audition."

Kim Youngmo PD truly believed that. The acting he'd just witnessed wasn't acting at all. It was like he'd hauled an entire lifetime from another person and plopped it right there.

Kids that young usually struggle hard with method acting. They could tap into emotions more raw because of their age, but the blurred line with reality often wrecked their minds. That's why child actors could cry so easily—and why it was so hard for them to shake it off.

But there's not a hint of that here. Despite the thick emotions in his performance, Kim Donghu looked perfectly fine. No inner turmoil, nothing. Having seen countless child actors, Kim Youngmo could tell. That level of emotional control was tough even for veterans with years under their belts.

Kim Youngmo couldn't hold back anymore and sidled up to Kim Donghu. "Donghu, where'd you learn to act like that?" How could he pull off something so incredible?

But the answer that came back was jaw-dropping.

"Nah, I haven't studied it formally anywhere."

"S-self-taught?"

"Yeah."

Jang Geonho, who was looking after Kim Donghu nearby, furrowed his brow at the exchange. Self-taught for real? It had been a joking back-and-forth during script reading, but now it hit different. Did that even make sense? And yet, it somehow did. That's why it's possible. Not from some academy, agency, or studio. Just pure trial and error on his own until it bore fruit. Unbelievable that a fourteen-year-old pulled it off. But the proof was right there in front of them—no denying it.

On the flip side, it was worrying. Sure, for him, the PD, or the writer, great acting ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was pure joy. But...

The rookies are gonna drop like flies. For newbie supporting or lead child actors debuting alongside Kim Donghu, the pressure would be crushing. They'd probably realized it after that first clash. Things were going sideways. If they didn't scramble from the start, they might crash and burn.

And Jang Geonho's hunch was spot on.

"...What was I doing at fourteen?"

"Pardon?"

"Nah, just seeing that kid made me wonder. I think I was buying Apollo candy bars at the corner store."

Jin Su-hyeok, playing Song Cheol-su, the first male lead in Haidream, let out a hollow laugh.

"Heard it was an open audition pick at fourteen, so I totally underestimated him. Figured, how good could a kid that age be?"

But wasn't this overkill? "Honestly, that was an NG on our end—we couldn't even get a line out. Why'd we just roll with it?"

"...Because it felt natural."

"Exactly."

Jin Su-hyeok glanced at the screen looping the recorded scene. There he was, utterly silenced by Jay's presence, not a peep out of him. More natural than any contrived rebuttal. Like a mouse frozen before a cat, staring at the floor. And it wasn't intentional. He'd just been naturally crushed.

Crack. His fist clenched hard. His pride as an actor couldn't stomach this.

Kim Donghu. He'd catch up, no matter what.

And Jin Su-hyeok wasn't alone. Everyone swallowed by Jay—no, Kim Donghu's acting—vowed the same. From day one on set, an unexpected fire for self-improvement blazed.

Our Donghu's turned into a total stimulant, huh? Kim Yuryeon watched with a pleased smile. The tyrant cracks the whip, and the minnows thrash to survive. The natural order of the ecosystem, really.

The first day's shoot wrapped successfully. Thanks to being only fourteen, I skipped the wrap party and headed straight home.

This ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠is intense. The acting, the set—nothing let me relax. Even just standing there drained my stamina. If I hadn't kept up my workouts, I'd have collapsed ages ago.

"Son, you had a shoot today, right?"

The moment I got home, Dad fired up some braised short ribs like he'd been waiting.

"I should've picked you up. Sorry about that."

"It's fine, Dad. You're busy these days anyway."

"Still, sorry."

Dad had been swamped lately. Life's like that—one problem solved, another pops up. Mom's cancer bills were gone, but now visa issues cropped up. Her health was improving, and she'd gotten a clean bill, but it wasn't 100%. Dad wanted her to keep treating in the US long-term, and extending the visa was a hassle.

"Don't stress too much."

"Hearing that helps. Thanks."

"Hehe, dig in."

I patted Dad's back and dove into the steaming ribs. Glancing at the calendar on the wall, I checked the date.

Five more years to go. How could I forget the day I lose my parents in that freak accident? If I just get past that, I can keep feeling this happiness.

Of course, it was Sujin. She was such a kid sometimes.

I replied, Dunno, hard to say. A second later:

I knew her personality well, so I surrendered fast. Anyway. I glanced back at the calendar, running through my schedule. Strictly speaking, Jay wasn't a main or major supporting role. Fewer appearances than expected. Big presence but not frequent screen time—youth dramas didn't want villains popping up too often, after all.

PD said he'd let me know the next shoot. Guess I'd wait.

Around the same time.

"The movie's pretty much locked in."

"Yeah, studio production's nearly done, and we've got all the location sponsorships."

"So just shooting left?"

Aaahhh. The guy stretched with relief. From securing investment to picking distributors and casting actors—making a movie took endless effort. Prep was tougher than the shoot itself, no doubt.

He grumbled, but a smile lingered on his lips.

"Director Kang, straight into filming then?"

"Well, about that, Park rep..."

Director Kang, with his Guan Yu-style long beard, spoke up. Park Geum-gang, the studio rep—not just any guy—felt his mouth twitch ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠nervously.

"Wh-what now? What else to add?"

His tone dripped with exhaustion bordering on nausea. They'd added to the setup like this over ten times already. Not totally unreasonable, but hearing it out always convinced him it boosted the film's quality—no choice but to agree. That subtle persuasion.

"...Our movie's gotta show the horrors of war, right?"

"Sure does."

Director Kang, no stranger to these requests, stood casually and headed to the whiteboard.

Click. The crisp sound of the marker cap popping off launched his "request PPT."

"Even if it's fictional, it's gotta echo some Korean War tragedy! That's what our film's about."

"Got it, got it, Director."

Too well, actually. His ears were calloused from it. He knew what came next.

"The brutal Battle of White Horse Hill! Where ownership flipped endlessly, right?"

"Yes, yes—like Eungari Hill too."

"Exactly! Anagram of Korea, total bloodbath."

Thud, scribble thud. His hand flew across the board, boldly inking one word.

"Just one student soldier role would perfect it."

"We already have young actors, don't we?"

"Those kids... they're a bit older. I want fresh, green ones."

"Pardon?"

"Middle school age."

And they'd better act insanely well. Park barely held back his flare-up at the unspoken addendum. You think great actors just ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠drop from the sky? He bit his tongue. The script was too good—guaranteed hit material.

He glanced at the whiteboard corner's title.

Finding a middle schooler for this brutal war flick? The road ahead looked bleak already.