The Gaze of a War-Torn Soul

The first meeting between Kim Suha, played by Han Taekon in the indie film, and the student soldier I portrayed. Watching that scene, the other actors' mouths went bone-dry.

Just fourteen years old. He clearly wasn't from a generation that had lived through war, yet the look in his eyes was anything but ordinary. 'Second time around at life or something?'

When Director Kang had explained why a student soldier needed to appear, the actors had wondered how on earth a kid could pull that off. A boy who loses his sister in the war, consumed by her final words, surviving solely on the will to live. Emptiness and longing, expressed simultaneously—an impossible task. Not the kind of thing a child could draw from experience.

Yet there he ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was, pulling it off effortlessly. What the hell was that?

"Give him a few more years, and he'll be leading the film."

"Yeah."

The actors playing supporting roles, Go Chang-sik and Seo Ming-woo, were stunned for entirely different reasons.

"Presence like that doesn't come easy."

"And innate talent? Even rarer."

Having earned the title of "premium supporting actors" by propping up countless leads, they knew. Being a lead was something you were born for. It wasn't just about the script positioning you there or having great looks. It was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the power to carry an entire drama on your shoulders. The ability to devour the camera all by yourself. That was the defining trait of a lead.

"This film's gonna cause a storm when it releases."

"Chungmuro's always thirsty for fresh faces."

Actors with proven box-office draw guaranteed hits, sure—but their fees kept skyrocketing. Shoot one smash hit together, and suddenly the next project's budget couldn't handle both their rates. That's why new leads were always welcome.

And besides...

"Imagine how much more handsome he'll get when he grows up."

"My own son couldn't hold a candle to him."

"Hey now, don't even go there—not the time for that talk."

Comparing looks like that didn't even make sense. The two actors slowly watched the ridiculously handsome kid wrap up his scene. Absurdly good-looking, and a killer actor to boot. Where the hell did this guy come from?

After wrapping the student soldier scenes, the shoot concluded smoothly and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠swiftly.

"You worked really hard today."

"No, sir—it was the great script that made it possible."

"Heh heh, our Donghu really knows how to talk pretty, huh?"

Even empty flattery felt nice. Director Kang, already buzzing about editing the footage he'd shot, stroked his Guan Yu mustache as he saw me off.

I'd heard the other actors were staying in Gangwon Province for group rehearsals.

'Guess I got out early 'cause I'm a kid.'

Graduating high school was non-negotiable, after all. College was iffy, but at least high school—I wanted that diploma.

And besides.

I already had someone intensely invested in my high school path.

'First person more gung-ho about my education than Mom.'

Usually parents handled this stuff. Here I was, getting admissions info straight from the principal of one of Korea's top arts high schools. He'd even suggested I seriously pursue piano and become a maestro. Thinking of the kind, fun guy made me smile.

"Donghu, great work today."

Smiling like that, I headed to the van, and Seokho hyung opened the door right on cue.

"Thanks."

"Thanks? Come on, it's the least I can do for my star actor-slash-landlord."

As he said that and I climbed in, Seokho hyung piled several scripts on the seat next to me.

"What's this?"

"I got to thinking—your current roles are impressive, but the screen time's limited, right?"

They could leave a strong impression on viewers, but not carry a whole story. I nodded at his follow-up.

He wasn't wrong. But I couldn't just snag a lead or major supporting role willy-nilly—I was a rookie.

So he'd shifted perspective.

"Just shoot an indie film!"

"An indie?"

"Yeah, and I'll invest to scale it up."

With an indie, I could lead the whole thing and even aim for festival awards.

"Our goal: snipe the 2011 Newcomer Award."

Newcomer Award. In some ways, rarer than grand prizes. You had to be the shiniest gem among floods of rookies.

Seokho hyung laid out the scripts one by one as he continued.

"I filtered the good ones—about five."

"You read them all?"

"Uh? Yeah."

That's when Seokho hyung's face hit me anew. Sunken eyes, different from before. Exaggerating a bit, he looked like he could befriend a panda or jump rope with his dark circles.

Scripts poured in by the hundreds or thousands yearly, and he'd read them all.

"These five are my A-grades. B-grades are about twenty—check 'em all, let me know if any seem iffy."

With that, he dashed to the driver's seat.

'He's putting in so much effort.'

Gratitude swelled, but so did one worry.

'I suck at judging scripts, though.'

For Hide Room and Endless Frontline, I'd leveraged past-life knowledge for box-office potential. But indies? Total blind spot.

'Why stay quiet now? Shouldn't you clue me in on the highway to success?'

The moment that thought crossed my mind—like it was waiting—

The barrage was clear enough.

'Box-office ratings? Nice.'

Script grades—what did that mean? Curious, I grabbed a random one.

'What's B-tier look like?'

I pulled out Endless Frontline for specifics.

'Rising? That complicates things.'

I knew Endless Frontline hadn't been a mega-hit—just a solid, enjoyable film. Not blockbuster numbers. So why rising now? Only one difference between past life and now.

'Me.'

My presence was meaningfully boosting its grade.

'Even low grades now, I can pull them up.'

I checked two more—both C.

'Indie limits, probably.'

At least one B would be nice. With that thought, I eyed the last script.

Simple title, hoped-for grade.

'Can't expect a feast on the first sip.'

Debuting with a 10-million-ticket smash would be ideal, but I preferred building solid foundations from the ground up.

'Successful folks always had rock-solid basics.'

Either way, a B-grade indie script was gold.

And moreover.

As I touched ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it—Hero, B (Upgrade Expected).

No better fit for me right now.

'Thanks, Seokho hyung.'

Sending silent thanks to my round-the-clock manager.

'Immerse.'

I dove straight into the script.

The first thing I stabbed to death was a feral dog lunging at me.

Quiet slum alleys always had strays. Couldn't get into the apartments across the way, so they holed up in empty houses.

Those dogs were objects of terror.

And I was the hero who stabbed one dead.

Or so I thought.

Drip. Drip.

Blood drops fell.

"Waaahhh!"

The kids fled. I'd beaten the villain, skewered the mutt with my blade of justice—why were they scared of me?

"Hey, why're you running?"

I didn't get it. Why? I was the hero.

The one who brutally slays the villain and triumphs in the end. A hero.