A Shout That Breaks Focus
It was a shout that shattered his focus. The sound came from right below on the stairs, startling Woojin. What’s that? He cautiously peeked out.
Two silhouettes immediately came into view.
“Why can’t you match the timing?! Did you even practice?”
“…I’m sorry.”
“How on earth did you analyze it that you’re the only one floating out there on your own?”
“…I’ll analyze it again.”
“Aigoo, what’s the use of feedback if you don’t do anything with it? It’s like you have zero intention of changing.”
“…That’s not true.”
“We’ve only got two weeks left. Pull yourself together, alright?!”
The shadow wagged his finger wildly in the air, venting his fury. The other figure kept bowing repeatedly. The first was clearly the senior, the second a lowly junior. From their voices alone, Woojin knew exactly who they were: Bae Gyu-beom sunbaenim and Hwang Dong-hui sunbaenim from B Team.
“……”
Well, this was awkward. Woojin was in a bind. It had happened so suddenly, with no chance to slip away, and now he’d overheard everything unintentionally. But leaving now was too late—it’d make noise and make things even weirder. Staying put felt like eavesdropping, which left a bad taste. Haha, are you guys okay, sunbaenims? He considered butting in like that, but he had no excuse. Caught between a rock and a hard place, he was stuck.
Just stay quiet and plug your ears as best you can. With that, Woojin quietly shifted his gaze back to his script.
That’s when it happened.
“You saw A Team, right? The huge gap between you and Baek Woojin? What are you gonna do come showtime?”
Bae Gyu-beom sunbaenim’s bellow cut through despite Woojin’s efforts to ignore it. A name he couldn’t tune out slipped in—his own.
Hold on, in that case…
This changed things. Woojin peeked out again. His ears, once shut, now perked up.
Bae Gyu-beom sunbaenim stood with his back turned, puffing cigarette smoke. Hwang Dong-hui sunbaenim kept his head down, hands clasped behind him. Bae stubbed out his smoke and continued.
His words made Woojin’s brow furrow.
“You wanna lose to A Team?”
“…No, sunbaenim.”
“Get friendly with Baek Woojin and ask him, or cut sleep to practice—whatever! Match the tone by next rehearsal. Got it?!”
“…Yes, sunbaenim.”
* * *
Over the past two weeks, Woojin had often felt a nagging sense of discomfort.
“A Team takes priority over B Team in every way. That’s just how it is.”
Director Oh Tae-hyeop’s words had started circling in his mind around then.
From Woojin’s perspective, it made no sense. It felt like everyone took it for granted that “A Team is superior to B Team,” so B Team had to accommodate A Team in everything.
For example:
Both teams practiced in their underground rooms, but Director Oh Tae-hyeop and playwright Ma Seol-ah mostly observed A Team. They’d sync blocking in the morning practice room, then run it on the third-floor stage in the afternoon. A Team always went first. No set end time— it continued until Oh gave the okay. Until then, the stage was A Team’s domain. B Team only got it afterward. That’s why B Team always wrapped later.
Plus, when A Team ran stage rehearsals, all staff focused there, leaving B Team’s room with just actors. It was impossible not to feel sidelined.
Of course, no one saw it as odd, so no complaints surfaced. At least not from the long-timers at Actor’s Yard. Woojin, still something of an outsider, struggled to accept it outright.
Hadn’t the competition ended with the internal audition results? The higher scorers went to A Team, earning more shows in better slots. So why drag out unnecessary rivalry?
He strongly endorsed Actor’s Yard’s fair, transparent system as an insider. But why did that competitive mindset linger into prep? Internal auditions made sense—casting was on the line. But with teams, roles, and slots set, what was the point? Nothing would change barring disaster.
Bae Gyu-beom sunbaenim’s words to Hwang Dong-hui sunbaenim rang hollow. Winning or losing wasn’t the issue. There was no game to win.
It implied B Team harbored pointless rivalry toward A Team. Learning this by chance left Woojin uneasy.
Right after practice ended, in the car, he casually mentioned it to Lee Kang-sik sunbaenim.
Lee nodded. “I was gonna talk to you about it anyway.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I felt the same.”
Same page. What he saw wasn’t just in his head.
“One reason I always dreamed of theater was the fun of grinding together day and night, united.”
“Haha, exactly. Those emotions and memories when tearing down the set after a killer show we all built—that’s theater’s charm.”
“But this feels so different from what I imagined… it’s disappointing.”
“I get you.”
Lee Kang-sik sunbaenim nodded.
“It’s got clear pros and cons. Jeong Jae-min hyungnim built a fair system everyone accepts.”
“True.”
“But like you said, there are downsides. Creates subtle, invisible hierarchies. Side effects like that.”
Yes. Invisible hierarchy. Lee’s words nailed it.
Aside from Oh Tae-hyeop and Ma Seol-ah, everyone in Saw the Pheasant? was an actor. They auditioned equally; results assigned roles. Those not in A or B became staff. Naturally, staff ranked below actors, B below A.
No rules dictated this—it formed from perception. Staff actors thought, Next time, I’ll make the cast! B Team: A Team next time! Great motivation, but no system satisfies all.
Downside: A Team looked down on B, B on staff. Over three months, I act better than them festered subconsciously. Double casting, but not really. Teammates for success still saw rivals.
No wonder Woojin and Lee felt off.
“Tough issue.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s been ages since I returned to stage, so it’s tricky for me too. Culture formed without me.”
“Same. Sunbaenims have been here longer; can’t just upend their unspoken rules.”
“You saw—I don’t even touch acting notes with juniors, let alone yell.”
Woojin nodded.
Lee spoke softly. “Simple reason. One word from me undermines the director’s authority. Juniors’d heed me over Tae-hyeop.”
“Makes sense, with your position.”
“You, me—we get special looks just existing.”
True. Dozens of envious glances daily.
“So we tread carefully. Our words carry more weight than his to them.”
“Right.”
“If most adapted and no big gripes show, why should just us be uncomfortable? That’s my take. You?”
“I agree. I should adapt to sunbaenims’ ways.”
“Yeah. Don’t overthink. You handled Justice fine.”
“Huh?”
“Ahn Jong-hoon or whatever. Made you uneasy, but you brushed it off.”
Haha, that name after ages. No time to dwell before, but hearing it now felt oddly nostalgic? Time flies.
“If it bugs you that much, swing by B Team’s rehearsal day after tomorrow.”
“Can I?”
“Huh?”
Lee’s eyes widened. Woojin feigned ignorance.
“You didn’t know?”
“Know what?”
“B Team watches our rehearsals every time.”
“What? Really?”
He’d been clueless. Lee roared with laughter, shaking his head.
Woojin’s hyper-focus—ignoring surroundings for character immersion, like during Justice—still hadn’t changed. Amazing.
“Pay attention to people! Haha!”
On set or rehearsal, Woojin tuned out everything but his inner world. That’s why.
Per Lee, all B Team—including Bae Gyu-beom and Hwang Dong-hui—watched regularly. He’d been buried in script even on breaks. Vowed not to over-immerse, but failed. Every acting moment screamed not enough time.
Making another’s life his own—every minute counted. A lapse dropped perfection from 100% to 99, 98…
Never crossed his mind to watch B Team. Didn’t like seeing others in his role—might mimic good bits. But Lee’s words shifted that.
How was Hwang Dong-hui sunbaenim’s young man that Bae compared to him?
There’s Woojin’s young man, Hwang’s. Why benchmark against Woojin?
Curious.
“Now I wanna see B Team. How they differ from us.”
“Go check. They watch us; fair’s fair.”
“Yes, sunbaenim. I’ll peek during their first run Monday.”
“Okay.”
Lee nodded, pleased. They reached his place.
“Drive safe.”
“Yes, sunbaenim. Get some rest!”
Dropped him off, turned homeward.
I wonder… what’ll B Team’s acting be like?
His heart thumped with excitement.