Taking the Real Hits
Byeon Hong-jin’s fist connected squarely with Tae-san’s face. Tae-san touched his cheek with a blank expression.
‘It doesn’t hurt?’
His face looked puzzled, as if he couldn’t understand what was happening.
He experimentally slapped his own cheek hard enough to feel pain. He could sense the contact, but there was no actual sting.
‘Don’t tell me it’s because of that Smile product?’
Before heading to the shoot, he had impulsively bought the skin moisturizer called Uros after seeing it on special discount. The product description had claimed it would “powerfully protect your skin,” but he never imagined the effect would manifest this way.
A grin crept across Tae-san’s lips at the unexpected bonus.
But.
To Byeon Hong-jin and the other staff members who had been anxiously watching him, Tae-san’s behavior looked downright bizarre. A man who had just been accidentally punched and knocked down was now cheerfully slapping his own face and smiling.
Unless he was some kind of masochist, the scene felt straight out of a horror film.
“T-Tae-san, are you all right?”
When director Yoo In-gyu asked again, Tae-san finally sprang to his feet. Grinning brightly, he answered in an upbeat voice.
“I’m fine. Sorry for causing the NG. Let’s just keep filming.”
“Still, we should check your condition first. We brought the first-aid kit, so at least put some ointment on…”
Yet the face that had actually taken the hit looked completely untouched. There was no redness or swelling—just his usual clear, smooth skin.
“See? I’m really fine.”
“No, how is that even possible?”
“I’ve always had pretty good durability. Hehe.”
If there had been visible injuries, they would have needed treatment and makeup to cover the swelling. But Tae-san looked perfectly normal.
“And since this is my getting-hit scene, we don’t need to match the timing. How about we just go for real hits?”
“Real hits… You mean you’ll actually take them?”
“Yeah. It doesn’t hurt, and there won’t be any problems. Wouldn’t it look more realistic if I really get hit?”
“Well, that’s true, but still…”
It was an odd situation—the person being hit was the one insisting on making it more real.
Most actors instinctively protected themselves during action scenes, worried about injuries that could complicate later takes. That reaction was understandable. But Tae-san was different.
“Senior, I’m really okay. Please hit me just like before—full force.”
“Huh? No… even so, this isn’t just one or two hits. You want to keep taking them?”
“Yes! Swing as hard as you can. That way it’ll actually feel like I’m getting hit.”
Of course, there were occasional cases where actors took real blows during physical scenes. Some performers, desperate to deliver authentic emotion, didn’t mind receiving actual slaps.
‘Tae-san is far more serious about acting than I thought. To think he’d dedicate himself this much for the sake of the performance!’
Director Yoo In-gyu felt a surge of emotion watching Tae-san repeatedly reassure the apologetic Byeon Hong-jin and actively offer to take real hits.
The violent scene resumed.
“Whoa, you’re not letting go?”
Thud— Byeon Hong-jin, playing Yeon Seok-jin, drove another punch into Tae-san’s face. This time the blow carried real weight and proper form. The impact sound alone felt far more visceral.
Even the crew watching held their breath at the chilling thud.
Byeon Hong-jin, feeling the sensation of actually striking someone through his fist, seemed to sink deeper into his role. His eyes sharpened with intensity.
“Okay, cut! That was excellent!”
Tae-san’s performance as the one being hit was flawless. Perhaps it was thanks to the lead actor refusing to spare himself and igniting everyone’s commitment.
“Sorry, Tae-san. That one was too hard, wasn’t it?”
“It’s fine. Didn’t hurt at all. Don’t hold back—just hit me as much as you want.”
Byeon Hong-jin bit his lip and resolved to match Tae-san’s dedication. Even if Tae-san claimed it didn’t hurt, no one could take real punches without feeling something. To repay that self-sacrificing spirit, he had to give his absolute best.
As that determination flowed into his acting, Byeon Hong-jin began delivering a higher level of performance than usual. The staff and director Yoo In-gyu noticed it immediately.
Tae-san possessed the rare ability to pull his co-actor into his world and elevate everyone’s immersion. Yoo In-gyu clicked his tongue as he watched Tae-san casually prepare for the next scene.
‘A rookie capable of something like this… No, at this point we should stop calling him a rookie altogether.’
This was the realm of veteran actors who earned the title of “great actor.”
No matter how he looked at it, casting Tae-san—even if it meant trimming the budget—felt like a stroke of genius. Yoo In-gyu smiled warmly at the actors who had just wrapped the scene.
“You all worked incredibly hard. We’ve got a little time before the next scene, so rest up and come back when you’re ready.”
“Thank you for your hard work.”
Having received the director’s satisfied approval, Tae-san bowed to the staff and headed toward the waiting van.
Manager Gong Jin-su, who had expected the scene to take longer, had been reclining comfortably when Tae-san opened the door and climbed in. He quickly straightened up.
“Oh—you’re done already?”
“Yeah, it wrapped earlier than I thought.”
“Do you need anything? Should I grab you a coffee?”
“It’s fine. I just came to look over the script.”
Unlike previous shoots, this time Tae-san was carrying the lead role alone, so there were far more lines to memorize. Memorizing lines themselves wasn’t difficult—he’d handled plenty of customer-service scripts and drink recipes during part-time jobs. But understanding the full emotional context was another matter.
As the lead, the number of scenes and the range of emotions he needed to portray had both increased. Simple immersion no longer felt enough. Yoo In-gyu’s The World of the Sun contained countless versions of Yang Seon-il scattered throughout the story. To properly convey the pain and experiences Yang Seon-il had endured, Tae-san needed an even deeper grasp of the script.
He opened the script and began reading slowly from the first line.
Scene 1.
[The first thing Do Hoon-jae saw upon waking was the old, dusty tiles he had grown sick of seeing.]
The World of the Sun opens with Do Hoon-jae, a victim of school violence, at his graduation ceremony after enduring a horrific school life. Believing he has finally escaped that terrible place, he opens the auditorium door—only to find an entrance ceremony instead of a graduation. It is the first year of high school, the exact moment the bullying began.
Daily beatings, contempt, and mockery. It was violence beyond what Do Hoon-jae’s mind could endure, then or now. He thought it was over, but the pain started again, and he struggled desperately.
One bitter consolation remained: having traveled back in time, Do Hoon-jae knew exactly how the violence began and when it would end. The suicide of Go Young-seok, who had shared the same torment, finally brought a small measure of relief. Only after losing his only friend did the suffocating violence ease.
In this horrific situation where he had to wait for both the end of the violence and his friend’s death, Do Hoon-jae wondered:
‘Is Go Young-seok’s death truly Do Hoon-jae’s only salvation?’
Tae-san placed the script over his face with a heavy heart and leaned his head back. The more he read, the more suffocating the story felt. Most of the script consisted of beating scenes between Do Hoon-jae and Go Young-seok. At least he had Uros—otherwise this would have been brutal. Nearly half the filming schedule was action scenes, and Do Hoon-jae was always on the receiving end.
Unlike the full series The World of the Sun, The Sun was a single-episode drama with a tight budget. They had to cram as many scenes as possible into each shooting day, which occurred only once a week. The density of those days was intense.
“Excuse me, Tae-san.”
“Yes?”
“The assistant director’s team called. They said they’ll start the next scene soon.”
“Ah, got it. Please tell them I’ll be right there.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, Manager, please rest in the car. I’m the one filming, after all.”
Gong Jin-su had tried to follow and assist, but Tae-san found that kind of formal treatment awkward and burdensome. Thanks to that, Gong Jin-su could relax comfortably in the van, quietly watching Tae-san’s retreating figure through the windshield.
Three years as a manager now. He’d shed his rookie status and had experience handling idols and actresses. He’d seen every type of entertainer—those who treated managers like servants, actors who criticized his lack of “soul” during practice, models who made him wait through drinking sessions he wasn’t invited to, idols who brought girlfriends into the car despite the risk of fans appearing. From his perspective, Tae-san was a rare gem he wouldn’t mind managing for life.
“But this is probably just temporary.”
Gong Jin-su dismissed Tae-san’s humility as typical rookie behavior. He’d seen countless people who, once they tasted success and the glamour of the industry, developed full-blown celebrity syndrome and started looking down on everyone around them.
“Still, for now it’s comfortable and nice.”
About three or four more hours passed. Gong Jin-su received a notification in the production team’s group chat that filming had wrapped. Soon after, Tae-san appeared, rubbing his stiff neck as he walked over.
Thud—
Gong glanced at Tae-san through the rearview mirror as he climbed into the car. Seeing the clear fatigue on his face, he asked carefully.
“Actor, how’s your condition?”
“Ugh, filming from dawn really takes it out of you. You said there’s another schedule today, right?”
Gong started the engine and spoke in a calm voice.
“Yes, I got the address. It’s a café that’s been trending on Starstagram lately. If we leave now, we should just miss rush hour.”
Tae-san pulled an Oranamin F from his eco bag, popped the cap with a satisfying sound, and downed it in one go. The accumulated fatigue melted away almost instantly.
“Phew, this stuff is seriously the best.”
“Huh?”
“Oh, nothing. Your driving is so smooth I couldn’t help admiring it.”
“Ahem, I do get compliments on my cornering sometimes.”
After driving for a while, Tae-san spotted staff vehicles and lighting equipment gathered for today’s schedule.
‘This is no joke either.’
Getting out of the car, he clicked his tongue at the large-scale crew that resembled a full drama set. Today’s shoot was an interview for his younger sister So-yeon, who had advanced to the final round of POA.
‘They said it would just be casual everyday footage…’
Amid at least twenty bustling staff members, a familiar voice called out.
“Oppa!!!”
Kang So-yeon, brimming with excitement, came running toward him.
“What? Oppa, did you go to the shop because you had a shoot today?”
“It wasn’t for this—I got some makeup done this morning for a one-act drama shoot.”
“Oh, now that you mention it, you really do look like an actor.”
“Not ‘like.’ I am one, you know?”
Just as the siblings were catching up, a woman wearing thin horn-rimmed glasses approached and introduced herself as today’s in-charge writer. According to her, the shoot’s purpose was to capture their everyday appearance to showcase the participants’ charm right before the final stage.
“So what should we do today?”
“Just think of it as a date between siblings and act naturally.”
Calling it a date between siblings already felt odd, but the real problem was something else.
“Uh… how exactly do we do a date?”
“It’s just a normal date—going to a nice restaurant for a meal, then to a café for coffee.”
“A nice restaurant?”
“A café?”
Tae-san, whose entire dining experience consisted of places like Kimbap Heaven and vending-machine coffee, shot his sister a desperate look.
‘Hey, what do we do?’
‘I don’t know, Oppa. You figure it out.’
And So-yeon was in almost exactly the same situation.