On Inferiority Complexes

The expressions of the Buster members who had come to watch Yoon Jay play were nothing if not varied. The session team, marveling at how the man absorbed everything like a sponge, had shown him one instrument after another — and eventually even the Buster members had joined in, demonstrating their own choreography for him.

And Yoon Jay copied every last bit of it without a hitch. Not a single mistake.

"So overwhelming talent really does exist."

"I know, right?"

"God, I'm jealous."

On the spot, they had admired and envied him in all sincerity. But the moment they returned to the dorm, something about the feeling curdled. That mood lingered for days.

Some of them had only just become adults; the group's average age was early twenties. They were still a long way from emotional maturity.

Then, when Yoon Jay passed the audition and articles about Intermission came flooding out, Ji Yeon-woo was the first to break the silence.

"Yoon Do-jun, how are you so okay with this?"

"Okay with what?"

The Buster members, each sunk in his own thoughts, turned to look at Yoon Do-jun, who was grinning away at his phone. On its screen, someone's sneaky recording of Yoon Jay's performance was playing. Some days those two looked like the closest of brothers; other days it was just nauseating.

"I mean, if your brother's that broken-tier, you'd feel something about it, wouldn't you?"

"Do I look like I'm at an age where I'd compete with Jay-hyung?"

"Well, no, but..."

Yoon Do-jun scoffed at his deflated hyungs. These guys are hopeless.

"He's him, and I'm me."

"Huh?"

"Seriously, what do you gain from living with a complex like that? You're only hurting yourself. Does nursing a grudge make your skills magically better?"

Well... fair point. The members exchanged awkward glances.

"Besides, our hyung's always been gifted."

This was the man who had swept the entire country with a single debut film and gone on to conquer international film festivals. Not that anyone here knew that yet — it was still a secret.

Even Yoon Do-jun, the group's resident mental tank, had carried jealousy once. So that's why Dad opposed my debut because of him. That's how brilliant he must have been. But these days, all he wanted was for that brilliant hyung to acknowledge him.

"And it's not like we bow to anyone either. Right?"

"Th-that's right."

"Still, I don't think feeling that way is wrong."

"Why not?"

"Because it means you want to improve. An inferiority complex or not, underneath it all there's an 'I want to be like that person' — at least, that's how it is for me."

Do I want to be ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠like him? Maybe so...? The members found themselves quietly persuaded.

There was a reason Yoon Do-jun was nicknamed the rabid chihuahua of the group and still doted on by his hyungs. His mentality was no ordinary mentality — it was the kind that could refill the self-esteem of members scraped along the bottom.

"Quit wasting brainpower and go practice."

"Would it kill you to say that nicely?"

"You're the only one I talk to like this, Yeon-woo-hyung."

"Hey. Get over here."

"No thanks?"

It always ended like this. Do-jun poked at the easily riled Yeon-woo until he snapped, and Yeon-woo caught the fleeing Do-jun and locked him in a headlock.

"Come to think of it, we're not the ones who should be jealous of him."

"What's the age gap? The man's lived a whole different life."

Telling themselves he had simply always been gifted made the pill easier to swallow — just as Do-jun had said.

Barely freed from Yeon-woo's headlock, Yoon Do-jun looked at the photo Yoon Do-hwa had sent him and his eyes went wide. It was a shot of Yoon Do-jun and Yoon Do-hwa standing before the mirror of what appeared to be a vocal practice room.

Yoon Do-jun hastily placed a video call. Yoon Do-hwa, as if she had been waiting for exactly this, had her face pressed flat against the screen.

"Hey! Get that ugly mug off my screen!"

Do-hwa's expression and voice took no damage whatsoever from his irritation; they were positively dripping with mischief.

As expected, the only ones who could take down their top-ranked maknae were his own flesh and blood. The Buster members snickered behind him. Go get him, Do-hwa.

Shin Ji-won, director of Intermission, was poring over the profiles of the two final picks, Kang Hajun and Yoon Jae-i.

Kang Hajun as Yoo Tae-hyuk?

The 'Yoo Tae-hyuk' of Intermission was a fallen genius. A violin prodigy whose name had once shaken the classical world — but music is an expensive pursuit. The costs an ordinary household could hardly bear, and skills that only kept slipping, had broken Yoo Tae-hyuk.

"You spent most of your childhood as an idol trainee, I understand?"

"Well... things at home weren't exactly easy."

It was, perhaps, quietly similar to Kang Hajun's own story. Shin Ji-won replayed what the young man had laid bare during his interview. Kang Hajun had started as a trainee in his early teens, entered a major agency, and for a time drawn some attention. The road to debut had looked like a smooth highway — until he was cut from the debut lineup, and the agency he transferred to abruptly shut down its entertainment business altogether. Debut kept drifting further out of reach. Luck, he said, had simply never been on his side.

Then Yoon Jae-i as Jung Yi-hyun...

The character of 'Jung Yi-hyun' was the true genius who provoked such a Yoo Tae-hyuk — the object of his longing and his ideal, and the presence who dragged his ugly inferiority into the light.

Given the jaw-dropping musicianship Yoon Jae-i had shown at the audition, Yi-hyun would suit him perfectly. He could probably carry it off without breaking a sweat.

No. The feeling won't come alive.

But the director's instinct urged him to swap the two men. Shin Ji-won switched the positions of their profiles. Something told him the picture would come out better this way.

"What, you switched them?"

"Yeah."

"Why? You said this arrangement was perfect."

Choi Su-jin, his classmate and closest friend, knew Shin Ji-won's past in far more detail than any article could offer. She knew exactly what he had poured into creating Jung Yi-hyun and Yoo Tae-hyuk — which was why his casting decision baffled her.

"Yoon Jae-i's better looking."

"I'm sorry, what?"

She stared at him in sheer disbelief.

And so, after all that agonizing, the roles were decided, and the production company's promotional articles came pouring out. But not everyone was willing to accept the result.

Voice of discontent rose from the applicants and their agencies alike. Only when, under quiet pressure, the production released the footage of the blind auditions did the storm finally subside.

The fandom, naturally, did nothing but post screeds about how godly their actor was and how absurd his talent was. Meanwhile, famous music critics, performers, and plenty of others who watched his playing heaped praise upon it.

To be sure, some evaluated him in good faith — but most were simply riding Yoon Jae-i's popularity, tossing out flattering words to make a name for themselves and siphon traffic from his fandom. The so-called 'Yoon Jae Coin.'

Besides, in the rock community — where everyone who matters knows everything — people went so far as to analyze Yoon Jae-i's bass playing and conclude it was identical to that of a legendary rock band's bassist.

And in truth, the analysis was spot on. He had watched that man play, and copied him.

"How's the vocal practice coming along?"

"Well enough. Would you like to see for yourself?"

Once the casting was finalized, Yoon Jay had met with the director, and he now showed him a video of himself singing — footage Yoon Do-hwa had shot.

"Oh? However did you come to practice toward such a husky tone?"

"My younger sister suggested it."

"Your sister?"

"Do-hwa. My little sister."

"It's a good direction, I'd say?"

Shin Ji-won had, in fact, planned to supervise everything relating to the songs himself and hand the vocals over to a professional coach.

"It suits Yoo Tae-hyuk's image, too."

"It happens to be comfortable for me to sing, as well."

"Is that so? What a relief. Sounds like you found yourself a good teacher."

But seeing a man this well-prepared, he decided to leave the vocals entirely to Jay's own judgment.

At hearing his little sister praised, the expression on Yoon Jay's face softened. The siblings get along well. Not like me. His chest gave a faint, familiar ache, and Shin Ji-won steered straight into business.

"That 'real music' you mentioned before. I catch the vaguest outline of it, but I don't understand."

"Ah, yes. The truth is..."

Yoon Jay told Shin Ji-won about the talent that had left the session team and Buster speechless.

"That's... possible?"

"It is."

"Good lord..."

Shin Ji-won let out a hollow laugh of pure disbelief. Yoon Jay let the reaction wash over him, unbothered — he was used to it. It was no different from anyone else who had ever brushed past him.

"So that's why you say it isn't 'real music.'"

"Yes. My playing is just... an imitation of someone, nothing more."

"Then I take it the same goes for any other instrument — you need only watch someone play it? The violin, for instance..."

"Yes. I only need to see it."

Yoon Jay did not miss that the director had singled out the violin.

"I could imitate you as well, Director. Perfectly."

Yoon Jay's gaze, sharp enough to see straight through a man, came to rest on Shin Ji-won. The looks that crossed between them carried a great many meanings.

"So you did find out. Well, given the family I come from, a search engine turns up everything."

Shin Ji-won — the black sheep of a long and storied line of musicians. He, too, had been called a prodigy as a boy. But steadily declining skill, and attention increasingly swallowed by an even more brilliant younger brother, had driven him out of the music world. Then he had reappeared out of nowhere with his debut film Adagio and carved his name into the independent film scene.

"As you've probably guessed, Intermission is my autobiographical film."

"So Yoo Tae-hyuk is modeled on you, Director."

"He is."

"Then Jung Yi-hyun..."

Yoon Jay asked carefully. Shin Ji-won took off his glasses and pressed firmly at his eyes.

"I didn't mean to wander into anything this personal..."

"If it's all right with you, Director, I'd like to hear it."

After a moment's hesitation, Shin Ji-won spoke. If it would help an ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠actor's immersion, then by all means.

"Jung Yi-hyun is modeled on my younger brother. Shin Joo-won."

Shin Joo-won — a name known not only in Korea but around the world, a man they called the genius of the century. A violinist who, even now, swept through one celebrated orchestra after another.

"An insufferable bastard, honestly."

"That's candid of you."

"You strike me as being from the same faculty, Mr. Jay. Good heavens — a talent that can copy anything it merely lays eyes on..."

"Mm... I won't deny it."

Yoon Jay raised both palms in a gesture of surrender.

"Then however did you come to debut as a film director?"

"Rebellion against a house of old fossils."

Something complicated clouded Shin Ji-won's eyes. His grandparents, who had warned him never to let go of being a musician even as his gift slipped away — and his parents — rose before him.

"Then I'm curious what you felt as you made Intermission."

"Well... through this work, I'm sending my past self off. Call it abandoning the violinist who was once a prodigy, and facing the man I've become as a director."

Yoon Jay swallowed a quiet breath. Sending off the self of the past and facing the self of the present — the weight of those words struck him deeply. The way the man sought resolution for his past through his work resembled him, too.

"And you, Mr. Jay? A search turns up no shortage of history on you."

"...There's plenty."

Yoon Jae-hee had his past. So did the enigmatic rookie in the Navy. Ten of Delta, and firefighter Jay Jenkins alike. His history was filled with knots left to untie.

"You must have felt I resembled Jung Yi-hyun, Director..."

"Until recently, I did. I agonized a great deal over this casting."

"Well... Tae-hyuk and I have things in common as well."

Yoon Jae-hee — the genius ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠child actor who had stood out from the very moment of his debut, who, like Yoo Tae-hyuk, had run away and struck out into a different field.

In terms of raw talent, Yoon Jay had, in truth, been the Jung Yi-hyun type all along.

The faces of everyone who had ever learned of his gift flashed through his mind one by one. Yoon Jay, playing Yoo Tae-hyuk, would now have to stand on the other side — in their shoes. He had wondered whether the immersion would truly come... but these days, he understood Tae-hyuk better and better.

"I'll give it everything ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I have."

And somehow, he had a feeling he and this director would be on the same wavelength.