Casting (2)
Ask who the greatest actress in South Korea was, and there had always been only one answer.
Ju Yeongwol.
She was Park Seonghun’s mother, and the wife of Park Taejin, the current director of WBS Drama Department.
She’d reached a 50 percent rating with three consecutive dramas.
She had starred in the drama that still held the highest viewership rating in history, 63 percent.
She was the only Korean actress to have led five films that drew ten million viewers each.
She had so many awards piled up that you could practically play chess with her Best Actress trophies.
From the days when entertainers were dismissed as mere showbiz riffraff, all the way to a future farther off than the present—past the era when K-pop would conquer the world—there had never been a single moment since her debut when the summit of Korean actresses had belonged to anyone else.
But just because it had been that way until now didn’t mean it would stay that way forever.
And in all that history, was it really true that no one had ever threatened Ju Yeongwol’s throne?
There had been challengers. Countless people had set their sights on her place.
Ryu Cheong-ah was one of them.
No—more precisely, she was the only one among them who had ever truly been qualified to take the throne.
[Actress Ryu Cheong-ah achieves a royal road to success the moment she debuts!]
[The star of the Baeksang Arts Awards is a second-year rookie actress.]
[It’s Ryu Cheong-ah again this year. She sweeps the Blue Dragon Film Awards.]
There are people born to become stars.
Even if they try their hardest to remain humble, fate lifts them up and decorates the sky with them.
People who catch everyone’s eye just by walking down the street.
When they speak, the world falls silent to listen.
When they step onto a stage, everything but them drains to black and white.
People so naturally exalted that everyone has no choice but to look up at them.
That was Ryu Cheong-ah in her prime.
The era itself was called Ryu Cheong-ah, and the endless spotlight belonged entirely to her.
That was still true even when I had already suffered two failures and was beginning to sink into distrust of people.
“You’re telling me Ryu Cheong-ah said she’d do my project?”
“That’s right. She pointed right at this one and said she wanted it. Han, looks like your filmography’s finally about to breathe.”
“Hah, ha ha…”
Back then, I’d shut myself away for quite a while.
I’d convinced myself that the failures weren’t my fault, that I’d only fallen short in effort, and that all I had to do was write better.
The result of that effort was Sword-Bound Gentleman, and Ryu Cheong-ah had chosen it.
I thought my hard work had finally paid off.
I even let myself believe I might be done with failure at last.
That belief was sealed the moment I met her in person.
“Hello, writer. I read the script so well!”
Ryu Cheong-ah had an unusually clear, bright energy about her.
She looked like something pure that had never once been touched by malice.
Like someone who had lived only on love and therefore knew nothing of negativity.
I remember thinking, without really thinking at all, that this woman wouldn’t pull the same kind of bullshit those two bastards had.
That she’d live up to that uprightness and become my lifeline.
And at first, it really did start wonderfully.
“The work was incredible. I truly… truly thought I wanted to act in it before my life ended.”
She praised the script lavishly and showed real enthusiasm.
“This line here—my interpretation is like this…”
She never stopped trying to understand the character.
“Ah, thank you! How am I supposed to repay you for this…? Ah! No, that’s not right! Of course I’ll repay you! I’ll make sure the project turns out properly and treat you to a meal, at least…”
She never gave up on being moral, on being clean.
She seemed dependable because of that.
By the time the drama finally aired, my anxiety from the earlier failures had faded enough that I even felt genuine excitement.
The first week’s ratings for that broadcast came in at 19 percent.
People who’d gathered on the strength of Ryu Cheong-ah’s name praised my work and shouted that the future would be nothing but smooth sailing.
As long as it didn’t crash and burn, the expected ceiling was roughly a 30 percent rise in ratings, and in the industry that was an indicator reserved for S-class writers.
There was no way it would fail.
I was confident in my writing, and even more confident in the casting.
“You really worked hard. If we wrap this up properly through the finale, I’ll even get you a gift…”
“Couldn’t you just get me a meal instead of a gift?”
“Pardon?”
“I’d rather have dinner.”
“If that’s okay with you… yes, let’s do that.”
“It’s a promise!?”
“Did something good happen?”
“Hehe, I’ll tell you later.”
I was honestly happy.
I thought that day was the one where I’d finally be repaid for all my suffering.
That was how I felt right up until that moment.
“…I’m sorry, writer.”
What shattered everything I had was that one short phone call.
Something had felt off that day.
I just couldn’t calm down, and then that call came at the worst possible time. She only said that one sentence before hanging up.
A strange, inexplicable sense of unease crawled over me—something like instinct, something I couldn’t name—and I went looking for Ryu Cheong-ah immediately.
I prayed with all my heart that nothing had happened.
And yet.
“…”
What waited where I arrived was the most horrible future imaginable.
Ryu Cheong-ah was dead.
Not from an accident, not from anyone else’s hand, but in a way that could only be called self-inflicted.
Just when she’d finally been about to become something, she died.
[Actress Ryu Cheong-ah…]
For a long while after that, if you opened a portal site, all you saw were news articles about Ryu Cheong-ah’s suicide.
The drama? Naturally, it was canceled.
There was no way they could keep airing a series that put the face of an actress who had killed herself—and whose reasons for doing so still hadn’t been properly explained—right out there in front of everyone.
Why had she died?
Everyone must have wondered, but no one wondered more than I did.
How could I not?
Why had someone who’d seemed fine even yesterday suddenly done that today?
Why had the woman who’d been talking about what would happen after the finale decided to give up on that laughably ordinary tomorrow with her own hands?
What possible story could there have been?
What the hell kind of spectacular reason could there have been for her to betray all those people who had come running on the strength of that drama’s success?
For the people who’d been looking forward to it?
For me?
I knew it was ugly of me, but I couldn’t shake it.
It felt as though something sticky and foul had taken root inside my chest.
She killed herself?
Of course I was sad.
Knowing what kind of person Ryu Cheong-ah was only made it more heartbreaking.
And me—the one who had waited more than anyone for that pitiful tomorrow she’d promised?
Me, who should have been rotting alone in a room with no one in it even as the whole world mourned her?
Me, who’d just lost the last lifeline in my life?
Who was there to comfort the one who was still alive and hurting?
Who was there to pity me, to mourn me?
The third failure was a vicious curse that made the first two look like nothing at all.
That incident seemed to be saying it outright:
This is what the rest of your life will look like too.
So I couldn’t accept it unless I found the reason.
I felt like I could only stand back up if I knew why Ryu Cheong-ah had died.
One year.
Another year passed before I finally decided to dig into the truth of her death just to relieve myself of that rotten pressure.
I investigated everything I could, tracing the path of her life, but it was useless.
All I learned was that I hadn’t known Ryu Cheong-ah at all.
Countless tangled interests were squeezing her throat.
I found endless reasons to suspect something, but nothing I found could fully explain it, so I kept digging.
But at some point, the case crossed into territory I could no longer reach.
The helplessness I felt then was strong enough to crush my shoulders flat.
What happened after that was obvious.
A life that couldn’t shake off its curse followed exactly the path of failure, and at the end of it, I chose surgery that was little different from suicide.
Then time rewound, and I was given a second chance.
If I had any choice at all, it was never to get tangled up with Ryu Cheong-ah again.
And yet here I was.
Without meaning to, I found myself asking:
“Then let’s begin!”
Was fate trying to shove me back beside misfortune no matter how much resistance I put up?
Did it mean to say that Han Jaekyung belonged in a hole like this?
If so, it would have to be a message close to an insult.
Wasn’t it ridiculous?
I had hated this woman so much.
“I can’t just ignore someone collapsed in the street. Quit dawdling and eat.”
And yet, when I saw her playing Hyang-dan like that.
“What’s the big deal? Eating, sleeping, and then dying old is my dream. I’ll sit there eavesdropping on the peddlers’ stories and cackle to myself.”
When I watched her recreate what she’d done in a history that no longer existed, with a face younger than it had been back then.
“D-don’t include me! I’m just letting you use the room, that’s all, so when the masters come you handle it yourselves!”
I felt the resentment that had been crushing my insides twist and fold in on itself.
That single presence, the power to captivate others so effortlessly, was what did it.
It was shameless, really.
The tyranny of the talented.
Ryu Cheong-ah’s acting still had the power to erase every other element in the world and leave only her behind, then fill the surrounding space with whatever background matched her words.
The empty audition room had already become the porch of a tavern the moment Ryu Cheong-ah began playing Hyang-dan.
Beside her, Yeong-ho—whose role hadn’t even been decided yet—would be sitting there with a sullen expression, and nearby, the rest of Yeong-ho’s faction would be chuckling in a rough, easy way. It was all easy to imagine.
There were quite a few people who had been shocked by that impact.
“O-okay! That’s enough!”
Go Yeongchan said hurriedly.
I could feel his emotions shifting from the panic in his voice.
“Good work. Head out carefully!”
“Ah, ahhh…”
“We’ll notify you of the result by text later! You haven’t failed yet, so don’t go getting all down in the dumps!”
“Ah! O-okay! Yes, sir!”
Go Yeongchan said in a satisfied tone.
Ryu Cheong-ah looked crestfallen, then quickly broke into a bright smile and bowed deeply.
Was it because she was a rookie?
The way she got flustered and fidgety was almost comical.
Who could look at that and see the fierce Hyang-dan from just now?
Then Ryu Cheong-ah lifted her head and our eyes met.
I maintained my blank expression to the very end.
For a moment—an instant that felt very long—nothing moved.
Only then did Ryu Cheong-ah walk out.
Silence.
After that, the two of them spoke excitedly.
“W-wow… She isn’t an unknown actress, is she? Her expression, her voice, everything…”
“I don’t recognize the agency name. Is it a family agency? It looks like she only just started acting, but the presence she has is…”
Not a surprising reaction.
She’d been a monster from the moment she first started acting.
No matter where she’d begun, that would have been true.
“Han writer! Isn’t that incredible, even if you just look at it, Han writer!?”
What could I even say to that?
“…”
“For now, we should see more. There may be someone even better.”
Even as I said it, I knew.
“That’s it for Hyang-dan! Let’s stop here for today!”
“Thank you for your hard work! Chief!”
“…Thank you for your hard work.”
There hadn’t been a single actor in today’s audition room who was better than Ryu Cheong-ah.
Not one who performed at her level, either.
It was like looking at fireflies in front of the sun and mistaking them for dust.
* * *
After leaving the audition room, Cheong-ah let out a breath with a whoosh.
Wow, I was nervous.
Maybe I could have done even better.
Still, I hadn’t made any mistakes, so maybe it was okay to relax?
Just then, one person’s face flashed through her mind.
Writer… was it?
With that narrow frame and sharp, angular features, he had looked like the kind of person whose whole presence would feel irritable, but once she faced him, he somehow gave off a strange sense of stability.
She couldn’t explain why.
It was hard to put into words something she’d felt only as intuition; Cheong-ah’s powers of expression weren’t that rich.
Still…
Should she say it was thanks to him?
…I was more focused than usual.
She knew something from being used to other people’s gazes.
That writer with the pointed face had been watching her act more earnestly than anyone else in the room.
It had felt as if he were paying attention to every last detail—her breathing, her hand movements, even the shift of her gaze.
Did I do well? I hope I did…
At first, she hadn’t thought much of it, but once she realized he was watching so closely, she started hoping she’d looked good.
If that person said she’d done well, it felt like the sort of thing that would make her very happy…
…Huh? Happy?
She was surprised all at once.
She had never thought of acting as fun.
In fact, she had never even thought she wanted to become an actress.
She’d only ever been told, You can do well if you try. You have to do it. So she had focused only on doing her best.
Why was this time different?
Hmm. Ah! Right, maybe it’s because he wrote Hyang-dan.
She had read the script from start to finish in preparation for the audition.
As she studied Hyang-dan so she could bring the role to life better, she’d gradually become so immersed that she had practically fallen into it.
She’d grown attached to the character.
More than anything, there was something about Hyang-dan that made affection inevitable.
That’s the nice thing about Hyang-dan. It feels like she’s slowly being filled in. Like she’s finding people to lean on.
Starting out alone, her relationships expanding, then learning happiness through the people she met within those widening bonds, and coming to understand what they meant to her—that process was beautiful.
Yes, that had to be it.
If the person who made Hyang-dan recognizes me, then of course I’d be happy.
A small laugh escaped her.
By the time she left the building, her parents were waiting for her.
Their faces were tight with anxiety.
“Cheong-ah. Did you do well? You didn’t make any mistakes, did you?”
“How did the judges react? Hm?”
“I didn’t make any mistakes! And their reactions were… um, I think they were okay?”
“Really? Do you think you can get in this time?”
“I’m not sure about that… Ah! But you know, the writer was actually much more…”
“That isn’t what matters, is it? You know you have another audition next week, right?”
In an instant, her words stopped dead.
Cheong-ah hurriedly forced a smile.
That was strange.
…Haha, right. That’s true.
“Where’s your head at, hmm?”
For some reason, her stomach felt queasy.
“Ah! And eat this! You’ve been starving yourself the whole time because of the audition! Mom made you some misugaru.”
“Mm…”
“You need to drink this and get your strength back.”
Just a moment ago, she’d been so exhilarated. Why had it suddenly changed?
“Oh, my. How did we end up with such a precious daughter? Right, honey?”
“Exactly. There’s no one like our Cheong-ah! Not a soul!”
The eagerness in their eyes.
The sticky tenderness in their concern.
The desperate pressure in the way they held her hand.
Our daughter, you know you’re the hope of this family, right?
Why did it feel strange today?
“You’re right, honey. When has Cheong-ah ever disappointed us?”
“Well, that’s true, isn’t it? Hoho!”
Because she shouldn’t let herself think otherwise.
So Cheong-ah smiled.
“What’s there to say? Just trust me, okay?”
She took the misugaru and drank it.
It was definitely sweet, but the swallow felt strangely dry.