Defend Against What?
Defend against what?
He had pulled out the fragments of his past that the news had buried away, only to find no aftershocks waiting for him. If anything, he felt good. Was it because he now knew Jayden was alive? But while Jayden had indeed been his closest friend, he still had no idea whether the others had survived or died.
Or was it because the supreme leader of LIS was finally dead? Yoon Jay had never come face to face with the man himself, yet he had hated him all the same for the atrocities he had orchestrated.
“Jay, how are you feeling today?”
“Good. Because of the news.”
“Ah... they say the States is in full festival mode. Is it really true?”
“I'd imagine so.”
In the beginning, it had been nothing more than a flight — he'd run because his footing in the world seemed to have dissolved beneath him. But when you cross the line between life and death together, your comrades become family, and the target who commits unspeakable cruelty becomes the final goal of your life: the one you swear you will kill. He had barely reached adulthood when he went, and he'd spent a decade of his life there. It meant something different to him than it could ever mean to anyone else.
“Let's get started.”
At the director's word, Yoon Jay stepped in front of the camera.
“We need to collect the sample.”
“Hurry up. We don't have time.”
The researchers who had come to Antarctica in search of the vaccine's trail were played by Kwon Min-jae and Baek Da-eun — and of course, they were no simple characters either. The Seoul faction split into two: the vested interests who welcomed the sudden virus outbreak as a means of cementing their own regime, and the people genuinely trying to solve it. Then a researcher bought off by the establishment joined the Antarctic team. Which of the two — Kwon Min-jae or Baek Da-eun — was secretly colluding with Seoul to sabotage the vaccine? Their roles existed to seed that guessing game and keep a steady undercurrent of tension running through the story.
“The safety of the entire nation rests in our hands.”
“The hell does that matter.”
“Excuse me?”
Jin Yeong-do, by contrast, was the simpler creature. Tortured by PTSD, there were moments when he could no longer tell friend from foe — and yet he was the dependable guardian who always pulled the others back from danger. And he was the first to learn the identity of the bought researcher.
“Isn't living exhausting?”
“I'm sorry?”
“What did Seoul tell you to do? Dispose of the samples?”
“......”
“Quit walking the tightrope. The moment you die, it's all over anyway.”
Yoon Jay understood the heart of Jin Yeong-do, the man he was playing, all too well. Perhaps better even than the director who had written the script.
Jin Yeong-do had lost his family, and even his attempts to end his own life had failed again and again. So what was he now? If anything, he might be grateful to still be breathing. There was no sense of duty about saving the people of Korea. Protecting the researchers came second. All that remained was hatred — a burning need to hunt down and destroy the enemy who had killed his family. All he wanted was to meet his end on the battlefield.
“What is that sound...?”
“It's here.”
And so, Jin Yeong-do prepared for his final battle.
(Grrrr...)
The monster closing in looked different now. The hissing, serpentine sound brought someone to mind — someone who had once filled Yoon Jay with terror the same way. Yoon Jay steadied his grip on the rifle.
“Run!”
Yoon Jay did not move along the prescribed blocking. The action choreography, too, hadn't been pre-planned — movements drilled into him like habits from another life slipped out before he knew it.
But the director didn't call cut. Neither did the director of photography. Both of them, swept up in filming an actor lost deep in the zone, hauled the heavy camera themselves and ran this way and that.
He's incredible...
The Wings Company bodyguards stole glances at their old comrade mid-performance. It was an empty room with nothing but a green chroma key — the monster Jin Yeong-do was fighting wasn't a monster at all, just a green felt puppet that looked like an oversized earthworm.
How did anyone immerse themselves in that? Actors really were a remarkable breed. And their friend belonged to that remarkable breed.
From a distance it should have been comical, but there was nothing funny about it at all. The strange thing was, the longer they watched Yoon Jay act, the more they started to hallucinate that something was really there.
“Captain Jin!”
“Go, now!”
The moment the green felt puppet came within arm's reach, Jin Yeong-do shouted urgently at the two researchers. Then, having loaded both of them onto the escape vehicle, he left behind a single line like a last will and testament.
“Survive. To the very end.”
Was that line meant for the two researchers — or for Yoon Jay himself? He didn't know. What he did know was that he could finally let go of the old method: the way he'd forced the past to slot into place, scene by scene, like pieces of a puzzle jammed together.
The space around him snapped back from somewhere in Syria to a film set. But the immersion didn't break.
The grotesque green felt puppet was no longer the man who had tortured him — it had become the monster from the concept art. Cruder in its finish, yes, and somehow that made it easier to sink into.
Bang! Bang-bang!
The cheap, tinny sound effects playing for the actor's benefit transformed in his ears into something with real, visceral presence. With the researchers he was meant to protect gone, Jin Yeong-do fought like a man being dragged to hell. And then he fell.
“Cut!”
Watching the take he'd just performed on the monitor, Yoon Jay belatedly realized he'd made a mistake.
“Ah... I'm sorry.”
“It happens when you're that deep in. Let's take it once more.”
“Yes, sir.”
Even having moved like that, Yoon Jay didn't look tired in the slightest. They touched up his makeup a little, and he was back in front of the camera. The director frowned at the sight of Yoon Jay doing exactly — and only — what was asked of him.
The earlier take looked better, though...
How am I supposed to edit this? It's a scene I can't just throw away... The director sank into thought.
“That's a wrap! Great work, everyone!”
“Thank you for your hard work!”
And with that, the Antarctic team's shoot came to an end. Jin Yeong-do ceased to exist, and Yoon Jay's filming was finished.
It wasn't the same feeling as back then.
He didn't feel the liberation he'd known on Daldongne. And yet something in him felt unburdened. What was this sensation, exactly?
Piling a mask over your face was, in the end, no different from performing the act of being fine, over and over. He took on a work, and within it, played only a fraction of the character. Just as he could never truly know the role's innermost heart, or its story from birth to end — there were times he didn't know himself all that well either.
“Hyung. One second.”
“What is it?”
Han Jin-woo and the other agency staff had popped open the trunk of the car. Inside sat a small banner congratulating him on the safe completion of his first film, along with flower decorations.
“...What is all this?”
So that's why so many people from the agency showed up today... The stylist emerged carrying a bouquet and a custom-made cake.
“It didn't take long to set up.”
“Exactly. It's your first movie, hyung. It wrapped safely, so we had to celebrate.”
It wasn't technically his first film, but back then, this kind of culture simply hadn't existed. Yoon Jay accepted what they held out to him with a dazed expression.
“You didn't go to all this trouble for nothing, did you?”
“Hyung, at a moment like this you're just supposed to say thank you.”
“Thank you.”
Nobody had ordered it — the staff had planned it all on their own. Yoon Jay knew how to take care of his people, and it showed in his actions, which was why everyone liked him. Seeing him genuinely delighted, the staff broke into grins.
“So hyung does have a human side after all.”
“Right?”
Was I really that lacking in human warmth? When Yoon Jay tilted his head, laughter burst out around him.
“Sure, you're way better now, but in the beginning...”
“Total mystery man, that's what you were.”
That was why, whenever a moment like this surfaced — him being purely, openly happy — they felt as if one more layer of Yoon Jay's wall had been peeled away, and it made them glad.
“Whoa, is this that trunk party thing?”
“Heading home?”
“Yeah. Our work's done too.”
“Go on, then.”
The Wings Company bodyguards withdrew as well, and Yoon Jay was set to take a short rest before preparing his next project. Han Jin-woo stole a glance at Yoon Jay's face in the vanity mirror, then spoke with a sudden, grim resolve.
“Hyung.”
“Hm?”
“Would you... have a drink with me?”
What's gotten into him? Yoon Jay nodded for now.
Lee Da-hyun, Astra's marketing team leader, finished the day's work and did what she always did: dove into the internet. She'd been a community addict from way back, and it was precisely that habit which let her respond to rumors and malicious comments with such speed.
The roster of actors under the agency had grown a lot lately, and it was only going to grow further. But there was exactly one person who required that hair-trigger, hyper-vigilant management: Yoon Jay. The other actors were already top-tier veterans; Yoon Jay was a newcomer still climbing. And his fandom behaved differently from theirs, too.
Everyone's talking about the same thing.
Her expression was bored, but she clicked into article after article, reading each one slowly and carefully.
Up until a decade ago, South Korea had been a country with almost no threat of terrorism. Then LIS's attacks had landed like a hammer blow. Europe had been left reeling by terrorists disguised as refugees, and even East Asia — considered comparatively safe — hadn't escaped unscathed. Korea included.
A disaster on the scale of mass casualties, averted before it could spread — and national prestige soared for it. Interest in terrorists and special forces spiked as a result, and military survival variety shows became the rage. That popularity never faded, carrying all the way through to Soldiers K: Assembly, the show Yoon Jay had appeared on.
Which was why Yoon Jay had a sizable male fanbase on top of his female one. She'd heard the director of Soldiers K: Assembly had become a Yoon Jay fan after shooting the variety show with him and had gone back to review his entire — admittedly short — filmography. Da-hyun, still unaware of this fact, slipped into a Yoon Jay fan community with practiced ease.
Perhaps because of the veritable syndrome he'd caused last year, posts kept appearing steadily even though nothing new had been released yet.
A gossip channel? What about it? Defend against what? What on earth had happened now? Her eyes went sharp, and her fingers flew across the keyboard.
“Now what is this?”
Lee Da-hyun frowned.
In Korea, the news had dominated headlines for days on end, with memorial processions stretching on and on. But what about the United States — the country that had suffered the most?
There, it was festival season. The long, grinding war against terror was finally over. Families prayed desperately for their deployed loved ones to come home, and famous producers were already tripping over themselves vowing to make films and dramas about it.
For the American military, however, the joy of eliminating LIS's supreme leader was set aside for the moment. They were in the thick of a decade-spanning review — a full accounting of the ten years since war had been declared on LIS.
“Moving on... we now come to Operation Lion's Shadow, 2016.”
“Ten, again.”
The minister receiving the briefing fixed his attention on a single name. It was a callsign that had appeared again and again in the reports over the years — the mark of a man who had distinguished himself so conspicuously after enlisting that his file practically glowed.
Walking in alone to rescue hostages and extract his fellow operatives — it was the kind of feat that belonged in a novel. Frankly, it amounted to more than what Jayden Knight had done in shooting the supreme leader of LIS.
“Who is this Ten?”