The Killer's Gaze
At the audition venue, Kang Tae-san delivered a performance that blended two horrific strains of madness.
There was Yoo Pil-joo, the stalker whose twisted affection had curdled into obsessive frenzy.
And there was Seo Chae-hyuk, the artist and serial killer who dressed his personal desires in the trappings of artistic death.
I hate to admit it because it feels disgusting, but I understood it better than anyone.
The grotesque parade of human nature that poured out was hard to describe. It felt less like acting and more like raw reenactment, something sticky and disturbingly alive.
A primal revulsion at embodying such inhuman behavior still rose in him, yet it was nothing like the gut-wrenching nausea he had once endured.
It’s definitely a good thing I bought that Memorial Box.
Sometimes, he thought, it paid to be bold when the situation demanded it.
While Tae-san mulled this over, he finally noticed how unnaturally silent the room had become.
“……”
“……”
No one inside the audition hall seemed willing to speak. The strange heat and killing intent Tae-san had radiated moments earlier still lingered in the air.
Among them, the person most deeply shaken was the writer, Oh Hyun-soo. Even though the performance had ended, Tae-san’s gaze and voice remained vivid in his mind—an icy chill paired with a violent, seething intensity. If the serial killer character he had created, Joo Chang-mok, were ever to breathe in reality, this was exactly how he would look.
That’s the acting of a complete newcomer with no experience?
A rookie actor silencing an entire room with his very first performance. Oh Hyun-soo had never seen or heard of such a thing.
The silence was broken by Kang Tae-san himself, who had already returned to his usual awkward, ordinary-guy demeanor and asked in a hesitant voice,
“……The script ends here. What should I do now?”
Director Sung Tae-man let out a hollow laugh.
Ha. I’m so stunned I can’t even speak.
He finally understood why Hoon-sik had been making such a fuss. Watching the footage had been one thing, but seeing Kang Tae-san’s performance in person was overwhelming. It was the kind of transcendent acting talent that any film or drama director would covet.
Yet the man standing before them had zero acting credits. Before making any final decision, more verification was needed. They had to determine whether this had been calculated acting or merely a lucky alignment of madness.
“Kang Tae-san-ssi.”
Director Sung called his name. Tae-san, snapping back to attention, approached the panel with hesitant steps. The killer from moments ago had vanished completely; in his place stood a warm, good-natured young man wearing a gentle smile.
“Yes, Director.”
“Your performance just now was truly impressive. I was wondering if you could show us something else. An improvisation, if you would.”
“As I mentioned earlier, I don’t have any acting experience, so I’m not sure how to approach improvisation.”
“It’s exactly what it sounds like. Just show us whatever you like. We simply want to see more of your acting, so the genre doesn’t matter. Feel free to do anything.”
Tae-san, who rarely watched television and knew almost nothing about current chart-topping singers, had come here determined to give his best. Still, he had no desire to pretend he could do something he genuinely couldn’t.
“I’m sorry. I don’t think I can. My preparation was insufficient.”
The director was the one left flustered by Tae-san’s blunt, straightforward refusal.
Insufficient? If the insane performance they had just witnessed was considered insufficient, then who on earth could make a living as an actor?
“You’re saying you truly don’t know how to do improvisation? It’s not that you won’t, but that you can’t?”
“Yes. I can act when I have a script, but without one I still don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
Most newcomers in this situation would at least attempt to bluff their way through, even if they didn’t know what they were doing. Yet this man had flatly admitted his limitation without a trace of hesitation in his eyes.
“Understood.”
Even a single month at an acting academy would have prepared him for the standard request of an improvisation piece. Normally, actors researched their roles thoroughly and treated auditions like exams. But if the man himself said he couldn’t do it, there was nothing more to be done.
“I think we’ve seen enough of Kang Tae-san-ssi’s audition for today.”
“Yes, thank you for your time.”
Tae-san bowed politely and walked out of the room without a single backward glance. Watching his retreating figure, Director Sung Tae-man fell into deep thought.
He’s not an ordinary newcomer. Not an ordinary actor at all.
Every so often, rare talents appeared so suddenly that even the phrase “once in a blue moon” felt inadequate. Suddenly, Sung recalled something his senior, Kim, used to say while rapping him on the head back when he was a rookie.
Don’t try to imitate geniuses. Don’t even try to understand them.
Then what am I supposed to do?
Just leave them be.
Just leave them alone?
Let them do whatever they want and stick right by their side. That’s all you need to do.
Kim had proudly claimed that was exactly how he had climbed to his current position. At the time, Sung had dismissed it as the ramblings of a bitter old man whose passion had died after his divorce. Now the words felt different.
What if Kang Tae-san truly was a born genius, fundamentally different from actors manufactured through systematic training? Rejecting such a talent simply because he refused to perform an improvisation would be the real act of stubborn arrogance.
“It’s a gamble, but maybe I should take it.”
One of the passing assistant directors overheard Sung’s muttered words and asked in surprise,
“Director, are you into gambling these days?”
“Shut it. Are you going to clean up the set or not? You’ve gotten way too comfortable lately.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry.”
Sung Tae-man, thirty-eight years old, had lost lovers, friends, and hair while working in the drama industry. Only now could he truly appreciate Kim’s advice. With that kind of insight, it was no wonder Kim had become a department head.
A faint smile tugged at Sung’s lips as he recalled the face of the rookie actor who had already vanished from the set.
“If anyone asks why I cast him later…… I’ll just say I followed the department head’s instructions.”
***
The moment he stepped out of the audition room, Kang Tae-san let out the breath he had been holding.
The role had seemed so perfectly suited to the experiences he had absorbed that he had rushed in without thinking. That had been his mistake.
With all the part-time job interviews under his belt, Tae-san was certain of one thing.
I completely blew it.
Thinking about it, earning two million won a week had never been part of his destiny anyway. Still, there was no need to feel discouraged. Cleaning jobs sometimes forced him to endure disgusting experiences and weren’t easy, but they paid enough for him to support himself and his younger sister. Tae-san had always been the type to feel grateful for what he had rather than resent what he lacked.
Life never goes the way you want it to anyway!
Starting tomorrow, he would set aside these pointless dreams and focus on honest, sweaty work. That was all there was to it.
With that thought, he turned to leave the broadcasting station corridor when a coffee vending machine caught his eye.
Guess some of these old machines are still hanging around stations.
The machine looked outdated and poorly maintained, covered in grime, but Tae-san had always been fond of these kinds of vending machines. Even with the rise of cheap franchise cafés, he still preferred the three-hundred-won vending machine coffee for its value.
He had no coins in his pocket, but that was fine. Tae-san was a humble citizen who knew how to lower himself when necessary.
“Ahem. Ahem. Ahem.”
After glancing around, he quickly dropped to his knees and flattened himself against the floor. He slipped his fingers into the narrow gap beneath the machine and fished around until he felt the welcome clink of metal.
“Nice!”
His dust-covered hand emerged holding one five-hundred-won coin and one hundred-won coin, sitting side by side like old friends.
In the very moment he secured this small happiness—
“……!”
Tae-san slowly turned his head toward the sudden presence on the other side of the machine.
A woman he had never seen before stood there, quietly watching him. She wore a blue baseball cap pulled low, so her face wasn’t fully visible, but she possessed the kind of striking beauty that would make anyone on the street turn around for a second look.
Tae-san spoke in a cautious voice.
“Are you…… with the broadcasting station?”
“……”
The woman remained silent, simply staring at him.
Silence means yes. She must be a station employee. I was careless.
Even someone with limited education like him knew that scavenging coins from under a station vending machine could be problematic.
“I just dropped some coins earlier. Haha.”
“……”
“Good thing I found my six hundred won. I was worried I’d lost them. Haha.”
“……”
“Haha. Ha. Ha……”
His rambling excuses met only continued silence. With a resigned sigh, Tae-san inserted all six hundred won into the machine and dispensed two cups of three-hundred-won mix coffee. He took a sip from one, then offered the other to the silent woman.
“Here. Drink this.”
She accepted the paper cup almost unconsciously.
“Since you took it…… we’re accomplices now.”
With that cryptic remark, Tae-san turned and hurried away, leaving only the coffee and his strange words behind.
The woman watched his retreating figure until he disappeared down the corridor, then quietly looked down at the cup in her hand. After a brief hesitation, she brought the warm mix coffee to her lips. The sweet, creamy taste of sugar and creamer filled her mouth, and her previously calm eyes sparkled like sunlight on water.
“……It’s good.”
Just then, a voice calling her name echoed from the direction Tae-san had gone.
“Chae-won-ah!”
A large man with a bear-like, gentle face and an imposing build approached. It was Park Sang-ho, the manager who had been handling top star Eun Chae-won of Kidari Entertainment for seven years.
“Here. I got you an iced americano from the café you always go to.”
“Thank you.”
Eun Chae-won enjoyed iced americanos even in winter.
“Whew, I meant to get back quickly, but the line was longer than I expected. Huh? What’s that in your hand, Chae-won?”
“Coffee.”
“Coffee?”
Park glanced at the old vending machine beside her and tilted his head. As an actress, Chae-won was always careful with her blood sugar and never touched mix coffee.
“What’s gotten into you? Drinking vending machine coffee all of a sudden.”
“Someone gave it to me.”
“Who?”
“……Someone I don’t know.”
Park’s expression crumpled as he jumped to his own conclusion.
“Those broadcasting station guys were pestering you to appear on their show again, weren’t they? Who was it this time? Don’t tell me it was that Choi PD again.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Good. I trust you handled it well.”
Seeing Chae-won smile faintly and nod, Park’s shoulders, which had been tense with anger, relaxed.
She was quiet and shy around strangers, but having worked as an actress since childhood, she knew how to protect herself from disadvantageous situations.
“Anyway, today’s the first script reading. How are you feeling? Nervous?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“I checked the cast list. There are quite a few actors you’ve worked with before, so you don’t have to be too tense.”
“Okay.”
“Alright, let’s go. Everyone’s waiting.”
Eun Chae-won was the flagship top star of Kidari Entertainment, one of the top five agencies in the country.
She was also the lead actress cast in the project for which Kang Tae-san had just auditioned for the role of the serial killer Joo Chang-mok.