The Moment of Explosion
Among the Hollywood films he'd seen back at the academy, there was one called Limitless. The premise was unique: "Humans use only 10% of their brains on average over a lifetime. But what if they could use 100%?"
The reason that movie stuck with him was the finale—the "explosion of power." The protagonist, who evolved each time his brain usage increased, vanished from the world the instant he hit 100%. He'd become knowledge itself, encompassing all truths. In that scene, Woojin had felt all the energy built up throughout the film burst out in a single "Boom!"
A fleeting curiosity arose: "In that split-second when densely condensed power explodes, what did the protagonist feel?" At minimum, indifference; at maximum, ecstasy? Or sorrow? Or something else entirely. What was it like?
Well, it was in the realm of imagination and conjecture, impossible to know for sure. Personally, Woojin had guessed it was something akin to the emotion often called catharsis.
And now, he was swept up in a similar feeling.
Just like the film's hero undergoing sequential evolutions as his brain usage rose, Woojin had gradually deepened his understanding of his father's life as a firefighter through accumulating experience points from that world. 99% and 100% were worlds apart. Only after wrapping the climax scene did true, complete understanding crystallize.
The second the "Cut!" rang out, catharsis flooded in—the everyday kind, a shiver down the spine.
Strength drained from his body like an ebbing tide. As the goosebump-inducing monodrama ended, cheers and applause filled the chroma key studio to the brim, but none of it reached his ears. Only the inner voice murmuring 'Father...' echoed in his mind, and for some reason, his vision grew blurrier.
Was it tears clouding his eyes? Or consciousness fading? He couldn't even tell anymore; the daze stretched on.
"Woojina!"
Song Jun-an, who had watched from off-camera with thrilled intensity, sensed something off when Woojin collapsed face-down without stirring. He bolted over at once. Director Ra Ho-chan and the staff followed suit.
"You okay? Come on, snap out of it!"
"......"
Jun-an cried out in stunned alarm, but Woojin, drenched in sweat and tears, said nothing. Jun-an and the surrounding staff stripped off his fire-resistant suit.
"Excuse us. Sorry about this!"
Crackle.
With Woojin on his back, Jun-an hurried out of the studio.
"Aigoo, I'm not long for this world!"
That was the first thing he heard upon opening eyes he didn't remember closing. There stood Jun-an in an apron, looking every bit the big brother.
"Hyung, what happened to me?"
"You passed out, man!"
Passed out? Heh heh, first time for everything—disorienting yet fascinating. Woojin slowly sat up. Jun-an handed him a bowl of porridge from beside the bed.
"How long was I out?"
"Four hours."
He placed a spoon in Woojin's hand. "Don't think about anything else—just eat this first. You skipped a whole meal today."
"You made it yourself?"
"Yeah! I mean... just eat. We'll talk after. Whew...."
Jun-an, his face etched with Mount Tai-like worry, hung his head and sighed deeply. Ah, feels like he's handing me the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil instead of porridge. The second I finish, a storm of nagging's gonna hit—that ominous(?) vibe.
"Thanks, hyung."
Woojin polished off the heartfelt bowl in no time. Jun-an, hawk-eyed through it all, spoke calmly. "You good now?"
"Totally. Guess I got too immersed earlier."
"Seeing you collapse scared the hell outta me! Aish!"
"Oh! What about the set?"
"Even now...? I give up, I really do."
Jun-an stuck out his tongue at the question. "Director said he'd handle it. He told you to rest up since he'd wrap the rest and come straight here."
"Phew, that's a relief...."
Woojin was flustered too—this was uncharted territory. If he had to pick the most emotionally draining moment purely by exhaustion, it'd been playing King Yeonsan sobbing while embracing Kim Cheo-seon in Red Petals. He'd powered through that fine, so what was this?
"Woojina. Others might not get it, but I do. It's actually weirder you hadn't collapsed sooner today."
Jun-an continued softly. "Responsibility and passion as an actor—great, but take care of your health. I seriously can't sleep worrying about you once you dive into a project."
Being Jun-an hyung felt like walking on thin ice every day. The murderous schedule of pre-production rehearsals and routes. Four straight months of grueling principal photography, with Woojin fixated on the script all day. Call it passion or self-sacrifice—it was grinding his body to dust.
Moreover, Woojin was effectively tackling two projects. The same Lee Geon-woo, but his emotional arc in Burnt and Hidden Marks differed vastly. Meaning the details were worlds apart.
Why else would Woojin stake his life on script analysis each time? A lead actor's tiniest details ripple through the entire work. Even if they pass unnoticed or seem trivial, an actor must own them and weave them in. That was Woojin's fundamental mindset and creed.
Plus, the Central Firefighting School cooperation was set to end by late February. Time was tight, and many scenes could only be shot there. So every day after Burnt wrapped, Woojin had no choice but to transform straight into Hidden Marks' Lee Geon-woo. One shoot for others was two for him.
Endless worry and fretting, but Jun-an could only pace anxiously. He knew what this project meant to Woojin. And today, it finally boiled over.
"Sorry, hyung."
Whatever the reason, he felt bad for stressing the person closest to him. Jun-an patted his shoulder quietly.
Knock knock.
Right then, Jun-an opened the door at the knock, and in rushed Director Ra, panting.
"Woojin-ssi, you alright?!"
Sweat beaded on his forehead, broadcasting his worry. After Woojin was carried out on Jun-an's back, they'd perfectly shot the survivor evacuation using the U-rope, rescue seat, triangular safety belt, and aerial stretcher, he said. The director had handed off to the assistant and sprinted here from the studio the moment they wrapped.
"I'm fine. Sorry for worrying you."
"Aigoo, no no. Thank goodness. My bad—I should've scheduled more slack...."
Ra let out a massive sigh of relief.
The conversation that followed: The director apologizing for not looking after his most dedicated actor despite all the accommodations already made; Woojin sorry for failing basic condition management as a lead and causing concern.
The brief silence at the end was broken by Jun-an. "Ahem! Gotta take a call—be right back."
Once he stepped out, Ra spoke slowly. "Bit awkward to say this out of the blue, but that acting earlier? Top-tier."
It was what he'd wanted to tell Woojin on set if he hadn't collapsed.
"Haha, thank you."
"Watching it, I felt it—irreplaceable acting. Never to be repeated."
It happens sometimes. You just know: "That performance won't come twice." The scene demands so much emotion and stamina from the actor that as director, you hesitate to call repeats—ideally, nail it in one. In those shoots, staring at the monitor, you silently pray dozens, hundreds of times: 'Please, please!' Hyper-vigilant against any extraneous NG.
And capturing the actor and character in perfect unity, peaking at unsurpassable heights? Pure thrill. Today, Ra had his first such moment as director, through Woojin.
"Couldn't monitor on set, so I brought it. Take a look."
He pulled out his phone, showing a rough edit. Thoughtful of him to bring it so soon.
"Looks even better than I thought."
"Add CG to this, and I believe we'll hit my goal."
"Goal?"
"Yeah. Remember that climax in Red Petals? King Yeonsan sobbing in Kim Cheo-seon's arms. My aim's an equal sob scene. Haha!"
Ra laughed heartily. Woojin smiled too. Actors forever chase surpassing their past peaks. The director's ambition was Woojin's own.
Same vein? Then Red Petals over Wanted, and Burnt over Red Petals—better reviews all around, naturally.
"Also, I asked Fire Chief Ma Young-jae to extend the schedule. Max three more days—kinda bummed it's not longer."
"Why suddenly...?"
Just one day left for Burnt. And not a prep-heavy scene like today: Morning sun, the three leads and supports rushing to site with smiles, brimming with hope. Easy to shoot—why delay?
To Woojin's puzzled look: "Rest."
"Pardon?"
"Take three days off."
"If it's for me, no need to push it. I'm really fine."
"Nope. Non-negotiable. Director's prerogative."
Ra said firmly, smiling. Woojin nodded.
"One last thing—and sorry to bring up work after today...."
Ra proceeded cautiously. "Struck me watching your acting."
"Say it freely."
"What if we change the protagonist's name in Hidden Marks from Lee Geon-woo... to your real name, Woojin-ssi?"
Using the actor's real name for the character—common in sitcoms, leaning heavy on the actor's real traits over the role's.
"If you agree, I'd shoot the rest handheld." (Handheld: camera in hand for raw, on-site vitality.)
In short: Fake-doc style plus real name plus handheld for hyper-reality. Handheld from protagonist's POV means Woojin vanishes from frame. So, depict what a fifth-year firefighter—who's also a bereaved family member of a fallen comrade—would do, in first-person.
What would I most want to do...? If I were Baek Woojin, who truly followed his late father into firefighting.
Woojin pondered Ra's proposal, then—......! Something flashed powerfully through his mind. His eyes widened.
"Director...."
"Yes, Woojin-ssi."
"If changing the name, could we use something other than Baek Woojin?"
"Other name? Like...?"
"Seong-ho. Baek... Seong-ho."
He added, "Baek Seong-ho... my father's name."
The instant Woojin finished, Ra caught the intent and hugged his arms. Goosebumps everywhere.