The Red Box
Tae-san, gripping the brush, closed his eyes for a moment.
The emotions of Seo Chae-hyuk stored inside the Memorial Box never contaminated Tae-san's mind during ordinary moments. Yet when he closed his eyes and concentrated like this, the memories sealed away began to rise slowly, floating upward one by one. It felt exactly like reaching for a bookmark tucked inside his heart.
It was one of the useful functions he had discovered through repeated experiments after acquiring the Memorial Box.
The moment he focused his consciousness into the memory orb containing Seo Chae-hyuk's life, the man's entire existence unfolded before him like a sweeping panorama. Tae-san narrowed his attention to the scenes where Seo Chae-hyuk had been working.
Suddenly, he felt his body being pulled somewhere with a soft whoosh.
"……."
The set was unnaturally quiet. Kang Tae-san, seated before the easel, had neither spoken nor moved for nearly a full minute. Director Sung Tae-man swallowed hard, ready to call cut, when Kang Tae-san—or rather Joo Chang-mok—slowly rose to his feet.
Joo Chang-mok transferred the brush from his right hand to his left. With his right hand, he squeezed oil paint straight onto the canvas. A streak of red swept horizontally from right to left. The emptied tube dropped to the floor with a dull thud.
Immediately, he began smearing the paint with his left hand as though crushing it. Top to bottom, bottom to top—neither rushed nor hesitant. Director Sung Tae-man raised one hand the instant he recognized the quality of the performance. The camera director zoomed in tightly on Joo Chang-mok's hand.
The relentless motion grew stronger until it reached the far edge of the easel, completing a single powerful wave that nearly filled the entire canvas. Still unsatisfied, Joo Chang-mok grabbed another tube of red paint. This time he drew from left to right. The small ripple that began on the right side grew into a massive wave by the time it reached the left edge.
No one dared ask what he was doing. Tae-san's face, captured on camera, remained perfectly calm. Blue veins stood out on the back of his left hand as he gripped the brush with crushing force. The intense, repetitive strokes continued until a square resembling a sunset appeared on the canvas.
At a glance it looked like a warmly colored gift box, yet everyone present understood at once.
'This is the message Joo Chang-mok left behind!'
Exactly. The stage direction for scene 32 in the script had read:
- Joo Chang-mok paints on the canvas.
- His madness seems ready to seize the frail victim and dismember them at any moment.
- He is suppressing his murderous intent while painting.
Three simple lines, yet they were anything but simple. The scene was essential to reveal Joo Chang-mok's psychopathic nature. Even veteran actors would struggle to convey madness and killing intent without dialogue, merely through the act of painting. To avoid anything cringeworthy or overdone, Director Sung Tae-man had planned to shoot only a wide shot, possibly using a stand-in.
That had been the plan. It definitely had been…….
'What the hell is this guy?'
Episode 1 had ended with protagonist Han Soo-ji discovering the body. By piecing together the evidence and clues recorded in the criminal files, she finally confronted decisive proof. Inside the red box lay the victim's blood. So the box Joo Chang-mok had just painted on the canvas…… was the very same box from the ending of episode 1.
It looked as though the character Joo Chang-mok had truly existed and created the work himself. At first glance it appeared to be a beautiful painting of a sunset seen through a window. The script had never specified what to paint, yet Joo Chang-mok had just completed his piece.
"Oh—okay. Cut."
Director Sung Tae-man, who had been staring in a daze, hurriedly called cut. Sighs and murmurs erupted across the set at once.
"Holy shit. I got chills."
"What? Is that guy actually a painter?"
"Did he coordinate this with the director? That's the box from the final scene, right?"
The crew, still bewildered by what they had witnessed, could not stop talking about the monster who had dominated the entire set in a single take.
"Kang Tae-san? A moment, please."
"Yes!"
The instant he broke immersion, Seo Chae-hyuk's memories scattered softly away from him. Tae-san stepped off the set and walked straight toward the monitor. Instead of replaying the footage, Director Sung Tae-man guided him to a quiet corner.
"Um…… did you major in fine arts by any chance?"
"No. I only graduated high school."
"Ah."
Realizing he had unintentionally inquired about academic background, the director scratched the back of his head.
"Did you practice that? The box at the end—that's the one filled with the victim's blood in the final scene, right?"
"I didn't practice separately. While I was painting, it just felt like something Joo Chang-mok would create."
Kang Tae-san had heard that the writer revised the script after drawing inspiration from the serial killer Seo Chae-hyuk. Before stepping into the role, he had recalled Seo Chae-hyuk and immersed himself completely. As a result, his hand had moved on its own and finished the painting…….
'He asked if I majored in it. That probably means it looked completely wrong.'
Tae-san glanced back at the canvas he had painted. Since he had no formal training, he had simply let his hand move freely. He also remembered hearing on YouTube that oil paints were extremely expensive. Professional artists used them sparingly, yet he had squeezed out far too much and caused a scene. He was certain he would be scolded.
'Maybe they'll deduct it from my pay? Ha. I should have just pretended to paint. I got carried away for nothing.'
In the end, Tae-san flashed his signature bright smile, hoping to smooth things over.
"Should we…… try it again?"
"No. The painting is fine as it is. I'll change the camera angle and shoot the painting scene again from the front. We'll go right away. Do you need time to clean up?"
"No, I'm all right."
Tae-san forced himself to appear nonchalant. He did not want to make the situation worse. The director's words meant they should stop before wasting more paint, and that they would only film his face pretending to paint since the actual painting had gone wrong. He knew well that apologizing would only make things worse.
Of course, that was only Tae-san's assumption. Director Sung Tae-man simply wanted to capture the inspiration and excitement Tae-san had given him on camera as quickly as possible. Regardless of what Tae-san thought, the director rushed over to the camera director and began speaking with passionate intensity.
"Wow, damn. Director Sung, what is that kid? I almost missed the cut because I was so mesmerized."
"Senior, how did you even think to capture the veins popping on his forearm in that moment?"
"The red paint reflected in his eyes. Wouldn't that create the perfect contrast?"
"Absolutely. Let's set up right now and shoot."
"Okay. I've already got the crew ready."
The staff moved in perfect coordination once more. Tae-san felt guilty watching so many people reset the entire scene because of him. If only someone would tell him that three takes per scene was standard. No one seemed to believe a complete rookie without even basic filming knowledge could possibly be that kind of genius monster.
***
SBC Studio parking lot.
Eun Chae-won sat in the back seat of the Carnival, rehearsing her lines for scene 45.
"Is this…… the work of the same perpetrator?"
It was the moment when her character, Han Soo-ji, realized the cases recorded in the criminal files matched the incidents her seniors had investigated. Because she had to convey the situation to viewers through monologue, tone control was crucial. Ordinary people rarely spoke to themselves, so the delivery needed to feel natural while still clearly revealing the character's inner thoughts.
The ideal approach would have been to rely on expression and situation alone, yet in television drama—especially the kind housewives played in the background while doing chores—dialogue had to carry the scene. Media acting had developed around that reality. Even today, with audiences far more discerning and genre dramas watched with full attention, precise tone remained essential.
'Naturally…… naturally…….'
"Is this…… the work of the same perpetrator?"
Eun Chae-won repeated the same line dozens of times, adjusting the nuance each time. A soft knock sounded on the window. When she rolled it down, her manager, Park Sang-ho, appeared.
"Chae-won, want something to drink?"
"I'm fine. Isn't it almost time for my scene?"
"Yeah. The previous scene seems to be taking longer than expected. I'll let you know when they're done."
"Okay."
She started to close the window, then paused.
"The previous scene was 32, right? Joo Chang-mok painting."
Even though it was not her scene, she had memorized the entire script so thoroughly that she knew every beat.
"Yeah. They just started shooting it."
"……."
After a brief hesitation, Chae-won decided she might as well observe from a distance and stepped out of the car. Normally introverted and rarely interacting with other actors, Eun Chae-won only left her vehicle during downtime for one reason: to watch skilled performers and learn. She always kept her distance so as not to disturb them.
Clutching her script, she headed toward the studio.
"Hi…… cue!"
And then she saw him.
The psychopathic serial killer and painter Joo Chang-mok, releasing his murderous intent through his brush. Only his back was visible, yet his performance instantly dominated the entire studio. She had heard Director Sung Tae-man personally chose him over established actors.
'As expected, the director's eye is something else.'
Eun Chae-won held her breath, afraid even the smallest movement might interfere, and watched the scene to the very end.
"Oh—okay. Cut."
She was not the only one stunned. The moment the cut was called, murmurs spread across the set.
"Wow. Chae-won. Who is that guy? I heard he was a rookie."
"A rookie? Didn't he come from movies?"
"Ah, maybe I misheard. I only got secondhand info. But with acting like that, he can't be a rookie. Maybe he did films before."
"Do you know his name?"
"No idea. I didn't ask that far……."
A small spark of curiosity moved Chae-won. Just then, the actor who had been summoned by the director stepped down from the set. Hair slicked back with pomade. Gray t-shirt and apron speckled with paint.
"Huh? That person……."
"Why? Do you know him?"
"No, it's not that……."
The vending machine.
Yes—the man who had casually retrieved coins from beneath the machine and bought coffee. The same man who had bought two cups because drinking alone felt awkward and offered one to her. Back then his hair had hung loosely, giving him a plain, unassuming look rather than that of an actor. Now, fully costumed and made up, he looked every inch the performer.
'That man…… played Joo Chang-mok?'
Having worked in the industry for years, Eun Chae-won made a point of remembering actors whose performances stood out. With skill like his, they usually appeared in theater, musicals, or films.
"Chae-won. I asked. His name is Kang Tae-san."
Knowing how rarely she expressed curiosity or asked favors, Park Sang-ho had quickly found out for her.
"……Kang Tae-san."
As though reciting a line from a drama, Eun Chae-won spoke his name in a quiet, measured tone.