Criminal Record (5)
“……Cut!”
Director Sung Tae-man exhaled the breath he had been holding and called cut.
Every actor and staff member on set who had been watching Kang Tae-san’s performance remained frozen in place.
Even Kim Il-guk, the veteran actor with the longest career among them, was no exception. Without realizing it, he had gripped the script resting on his knees so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
“Hah…… Look at that kid.”
Lee Hee-soo, seated in a camping chair reserved for the lead actors, turned to her senior Kim Il-guk, whom she regarded as a mentor.
“Senior, is that kind of acting even possible?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like it either.”
Despite having spent his entire life in the acting world and encountering countless geniuses and eccentrics, Kim Il-guk felt that Tae-san’s performance was fundamentally different from anything he had witnessed before.
To Kim Il-guk, acting was a “skill.” Just as programmers, accountants, and designers honed their expertise through study and practice, actors needed to refine their craft. That was the conclusion he had reached after twenty-eight years in the industry, and he always emphasized a technical approach when mentoring juniors.
But what Kang Tae-san had just shown was something else entirely.
“You’ve said it yourself, senior. An actor and the role they play are two completely different beings.”
“I did. But after seeing that, maybe my perspective was too narrow.”
No matter how skilled an actor was, they could never become more authentic than the real person. An actor’s performance inevitably involved shaping and polishing the role into something suitable for the screen. That was why even the most convincing portrayal of a criminal could never fully capture the raw cruelty and terror of actual convicts serving time.
Yet Kang Tae-san’s performance…… How could he describe it? It carried a visceral, unfiltered intensity, as if he had genuinely taken a life.
‘Where the hell did that monster come from?’
Was he a hidden gem from the independent film scene? Or an actor who had worked in small theaters in Daehak-ro? No—if that were the case, word of such talent would have reached Kim Il-guk, who had his ear to every corner of the industry.
He grabbed a nearby assistant director and asked about Tae-san’s background.
“Kang Tae-san—what’s his story? Independent films? Or is he with some theater troupe?”
The answer was even more shocking.
“He has no background at all. No films, no theater—nothing. His profile is completely blank, senior. He’s a total rookie with zero experience.”
“Zero experience?”
“His résumé is empty. He’s just an ordinary person. I heard he did one audition, but today is his first time actually filming.”
So this was what people meant by “falling from the sky.”
That insane acting ability was pure, untrained talent?
While Kim Il-guk was still reeling, Lee Hee-soo called out to him in a low voice.
“Senior.”
“Yeah.”
“Could you take a look at this script for me?”
“I suppose I should.”
***
The veteran actors appearing in Criminal Record had all gathered in the waiting area. When Director Sung Tae-man heard they were voluntarily running lines together, he made time to visit.
It wasn’t the realistic set of the Criminal Investigation Unit 2, just a tent with tables and chairs, yet the atmosphere felt far more alive than during the table read.
True to their experience, the veterans adjusted their movements, checked their lines, and coordinated their performances like professionals.
“Senior, if I flip through the documents at this desk while delivering my first line, would the eye contact feel more natural?”
“Hmm, good idea. Then I’ll be drinking coffee here and turn around when I hear your voice.”
While Kim Il-guk and Lee Hee-soo skillfully built the scene, the male lead Jung Seung-il lightened the mood with his usual cheerfulness. Script in hand, he strode over to Director Sung Tae-man.
“Director! What if I add a little ad-lib here—sneaking a peek at Officer Han Soo-ji’s report and teasing her? Something like, ‘Hey, rookie. I told you to write a report, not a novel.’ It’ll establish their rivalry right from the start!”
Impressed by the enthusiastic idea, Director Sung nodded with a smile.
“That works. It’ll bring the character to life even more. If anyone else has an ad-lib that comes to mind, feel free to suggest it anytime.”
Just then, the waiting room door opened quietly, and Eun Chae-won, the other lead, stepped inside. Everyone stopped their rehearsal and turned toward her. Normally, she stayed in her car or dressing room and rarely appeared unless called.
“Would it be all right if I joined the rehearsal?”
Jung Seung-il nodded enthusiastically and gestured for her to come over.
“Of course! I just came up with a new ad-lib. Want to hear it, senior?”
Though younger than her, he treated Eun Chae-won with the utmost respect due to her greater acting experience. Watching them, Director Sung smiled warmly.
‘Kang Tae-san’s performance really lit a fire under everyone.’
When he had first assembled the cast, the most important quality he looked for was dedication to acting. Criminal Record was a suspense thriller that deliberately avoided the romance typical of K-dramas. Each episode featured intense criminal cases that demanded the audience’s full attention, with no room for lapses in immersion. Every actor needed to deliver grounded, serious performances. After witnessing Tae-san’s talent, the others were now scrambling to avoid being overshadowed by the monstrous newcomer.
While the actors continued rehearsing, a staff member announced lunch.
“Director, the meal is ready. Please let the actors know they can eat whenever they’re free.”
Jung Seung-il immediately switched back into his role as the mood-maker.
“Everyone, let’s go eat! We need energy for the shoot. Hahaha!”
He approached Eun Chae-won, who was quietly rising from her seat.
“Senior, would you like to eat together……?”
But Eun Chae-won had already gathered her script, offered a brief nod, and walked past him without a word.
“Tsk…… She must not have heard me.”
Leaving his disappointment behind, Jung Seung-il and the rest of the cast headed to the dining area where the food truck and tables were set up. Inside the steaming food truck were freshly cooked white rice, spicy stir-fried pork, and an abundant spread of Korean side dishes.
Jung Seung-il, Kim Il-guk, and Lee Hee-soo sat together at one table. Noticing Jung’s slightly dejected expression over Eun Chae-won’s absence, Kim Il-guk gave him a light pat on the shoulder.
“Don’t take it too personally. Chae-won’s just very introverted and shy around new people. She doesn’t mean any harm.”
“Still, I really wanted to get closer during this project. Is it going to be difficult?”
“It will be. It took me years just to get comfortable enough to greet her casually.”
Jung Seung-il’s interest wasn’t romantic. He genuinely admired Eun Chae-won’s filmography and her serious approach to acting, and he hoped to build a connection that would allow them to exchange insights on performance.
Just then, Eun Chae-won appeared in the food truck line. Everyone had assumed she would be eating alone in her car.
“Huh? Senior Chae-won!”
Jung Seung-il waved brightly and motioned for her to join them. But after filling her tray, she walked straight past their table toward the farthest corner of the dining area—where Kang Tae-san sat alone with a mountain of food piled on his plate.
“……”
Tae-san looked up with an awkward expression at the woman standing before him.
“Is this seat taken?”
“It is, but there are plenty of empty seats behind me……”
Tae-san instinctively pulled his overflowing tray closer and mumbled. The tables were generously set up compared to the number of staff, leaving several empty spots right behind him. His words were a polite attempt to suggest she sit elsewhere.
“Excuse me.”
Eun Chae-won sat down across from him anyway, her face expressionless, as if she had intended to join him from the start. They were at the table closest to the food truck. Tae-san had already served himself two heaping portions of spicy stir-fried pork, japchae, and kimchi bean sprout soup with rice—twice—because going back for seconds felt awkward and time-consuming.
“Enjoy your meal.”
“……”
In the painfully awkward silence, Tae-san forced himself to keep eating. He recalled what his sister So-yeon had told him before filming.
‘The entertainment industry isn’t easy, oppa. It might be tougher than the military. One wrong greeting and you’re done for. Bow as deeply as you can. No matter how uncomfortable it gets, don’t show even a single grain of rice’s worth of displeasure, got it?’
He had brushed it off at the time, thinking, What would she know? She’s never been in the army. But now that he was in the situation, he felt suffocated.
‘Even dogs don’t bother you while you’re eating……’
Drawing on years of part-time job experience, Tae-san plastered on his best customer-service smile and spoke first.
“Senior, I’m really sorry I didn’t recognize you at the broadcasting station last time. I don’t watch TV at all…… I was rude.”
He hadn’t known who she was when they met by the vending machine, but later he had seen her face plastered on posters all over the set and realized she was the top star Eun Chae-won, known to everyone. Remembering how he had boldly handed her coffee and called her a “partner in crime,” a chill ran down his spine.
Whether she knew his thoughts or not, Eun Chae-won simply sat in silence. Tae-san’s mind raced with worst-case scenarios. Why would such a successful top star sit at a meal with a mere extra like him?
‘She’s here to pick a fight, isn’t she?’
Now that he thought about it, the lead actors’ table had been glancing their way for a while. Maybe the seniors had sent the youngest among them to put the new guy in his place.
‘No, she might have come on her own to enforce discipline.’
It had to be because of what happened at the vending machine. ‘She even took my coffee back then…… That’s the kind of personality she has. Tsk tsk. This is what happens when people with everything get even more.’
Of course, Eun Chae-won herself had never asked for coffee and had no intention of scolding him over a few coins, but Tae-san had already branded her as a veteran who had clawed her way up through years of set experience.
While Tae-san counted grains of rice and waged a silent battle of nerves, Eun Chae-won quietly stared at her own tray. Eventually, she set down her spoon and spoke.
“Kang Tae-san.”
“Y-yes, senior!”
“What kind of person is Ju Chang-mok?”
“Pardon?”
Eun Chae-won was playing Detective Han Soo-ji, the character most directly opposed to the serial killer Ju Chang-mok in this drama. To fully understand her role, she needed to delve into the essence of her counterpart.
Tae-san’s performance today had been so perfect it felt as if he had brought the real Ju Chang-mok to life. So she had no choice but to ask directly.
“Why do you ask about Ju Chang-mok?”
“There are parts I can’t understand from the script alone. After watching your acting, it seemed like you understood the character completely, so I wanted to ask.”
Eun Chae-won was genuinely curious. What kind of backstory could produce such pure evil? And how had this man constructed that character’s history?
“The writer didn’t give a clear explanation of Ju Chang-mok’s past either, and the scripts we’ve received so far don’t reveal those details. That’s why I’m asking.”
Tae-san hesitated for a moment. Before answering, he recalled the life of Seo Chae-hyuk stored in his Memorial Box—the child who felt no guilt after killing a rabbit, the boy who found awe in his dying mother’s eyes, the artist who felt alive only through murder. Nowhere in those horrific memories was there any backstory that could justify his evil deeds. He had simply been that kind of being from the moment he was born.
“Backstory?”
The customer-service smile Tae-san had been maintaining turned cold.
“Someone like Ju Chang-mok doesn’t have a backstory.”