Episode 19: Nightmares and Revelations at the Monster City Script Reading
At the very moment the Monster City script reading was underway.
“Hurk!”
Kim Hwan, who had overslept, bolted upright with a sharp yelp, kicking off the covers. His entire body was drenched in sweat. He wiped the cold sweat from his forehead as he stumbled out of bed and gulped down icy water from the dispenser. But even after wiping the droplets from his mouth, his pounding heart refused to calm. It was because of that nightmare.
No. More precisely, the lingering afterimages of that day’s confrontation were still replaying in his mind.
Lee Tae-gyu—the bastard who’d ruined his terrestrial debut. Kim Hwan clenched his fist at the thought of that damn face, but... gulp. Truth be told, he was still trembling.
That ad-lib showdown on the spot. The impromptu battle to decide who fit the O Dae-bak role better. He’d suffered an overwhelming defeat.
That fucking dog...
Grinding his teeth at the memory of the most crushing loss he’d ever experienced in his life. Truth be told, he hadn’t been able to accept it until yesterday. Who was he? A genius. He was used to rave reviews like, “You’ve never even taken an acting class, right? It’s too good for an idol. Heaven-sent talent. Are you really a rookie?” Even with the qualifier “for a rookie.”
He’d even earned recognition from Han Joo-hyuk, whom he’d met by chance at some drinking party. That sparkling talent was the driving force that let him send his road manager out for smokes, the reason he could tell his stylist to hop on his bandwagon for life, the sole justification for looking down on fans while dismissing all those aspiring actors who seriously prepped as idiots.
...Until last week, when he encountered real talent.
Ji PD and Jang Executive Director had assured him that this Lee Tae-gyu guy hadn’t even graduated from film school, had no theater experience—a total nobody with no pedigree—so he could just lightly step on him with some ad-lib. But even one second felt too long. The moment their eyes met, I knew. I’m the one getting crushed. That day, realizing what a “vicious glare” really looked like, Kim Hwan poured everything into his improv.
The essentials of ad-lib: for a natural emotional flow, he wore the face of a gambling addict, dressed like one, spoke like one. He’d bared his soul like never before, thrashing desperately.
But—
“It’s my money, you son of a bitch! Don’t touch it! I’ll just kill you—”
“Hee-hee.”
That first laugh, spat out like drool, was enough to shatter his will. Ah, so someone who’s given up on life laughs like that. Even so, scraping together his remaining fighting spirit, he’d barked fiercely.
“Who the hell are you smirking at, you punk!”
“Why are you mad?”
“Then don’t eye someone else’s money bag—”
“I’ll double it and bring it back.”
That mutter leaking out like noise from a slack-jawed expression snapped his mind clean in two. Natural despondency. Unlike his own tense O Dae-bak, this guy’s fully relaxed version felt like secretly peeking at a real gambling addict’s raw truth—eerie pleasure laced with despair.
Not from film school, no theater background, not even a single bit part under his belt, and he pulls off acting like this? Compared to his own talent, this guy was the sun to his firefly.
Tang, tang. The irritation surged to the top of his head again. Kim Hwan hurled the plastic cup to the floor.
Whether he’d lost his will or not, Lee Tae-gyu’s ad-lib had kept going, and honestly, its vividness was on another level from his own O Dae-bak.
“Give me a day, I’ll triple it—100% guaranteed.”
“Baccarat? I’ll fill it in an hour, hee-hee.”
“I’ll stake my wrist on it, for real.”
The thick dissonance in his expressions and speech. He was proposing something, but it wasn’t a proposal. Speaking words, but not really words. Eyes fixed on the money bag, rambling like a schizophrenic—that was Lee Tae-gyu’s O Dae-bak. Kim Hwan’s flimsy self-consolation that it must be a real addict crumbled when Lee Tae-gyu greeted him normally afterward, leaving not a shred of hope.
Goddamn it. Unwittingly replaying that absurd improv in his head, unable to contain the rising inferiority, Kim Hwan screamed.
“Argh—!”
Even after practicing alone countless times since that day, he couldn’t replicate the feel that guy had shown.
“What the hell is it! Why! Why can’t I do it?!”
Yanking at his hair, he flung open the cabinet and chugged whiskey straight from the bottle. Gulp, gulp, gulp. He still couldn’t wrap his head around it. Wasn’t he an actor known for his spot-on performances? Lee Tae-gyu. He’d memorized the guy’s gambling addict speech and expressions since that day, performing in front of the camera alone over and over. But no matter what, he couldn’t summon that level of addict from his own face.
This was a first. Unable to endure the unresolved frustration and inferiority, getting drunk again like yesterday, he revisited the question he’d harbored these past few days.
“Lee Tae-gyu, that son of a bitch...”
What if what the guy acted wasn’t just an ordinary gambling addict? Then what the hell had he been—
“...Huh?”
Han Joo-hyuk’s eyes changed. The guy’s ad-lib response to his own felt pretty convincing.
No. More than convincing. He was feeling the life of O Dae-bak starting to take shape in this Lee Tae-gyu’s voice.
Han Joo-hyuk dribbled into the emotions Kang Hyuk was supposed to have in the script.
“Back off. You’ll regret touching this.”
“Ooh~”
He felt a chill. O Dae-bak was the first character to make Kang Hyuk, the lead of Monster City, confront the city’s madness head-on.
“Such intensity~”
Even just reading the script, every word from the guy stabbed into his ears, soaked in thick madness. And the beats matched perfectly. Their improvised lines didn’t overlap once, meaning—in this unscripted moment—their interpretations of how the dialogue should flow most “naturally” aligned exactly.
Han Joo-hyuk felt a thrill.
Thump! True masters could gauge each other’s skill in the first clash.
Above my level!
He could tell just from the distant expression. As a method actor who’d dissected Method acting to the bone, Han Joo-hyuk had experienced damn near everything to study life’s trajectories. That lip-smacking earlier was just a fraction. He’d even talked to gambling addicts. Five years ago, he’d played one himself.
[Report details implied in memory]
He’d gambled for real at casinos, drunk with countless addicts, even paid chips for interviews to prep the role.
[Award speech highlight]
Having won supporting actor for it, Han Joo-hyuk now recalled the “real” addicts he’d buried in memory. Acting was like that. Separate from public acclaim, an actor always knows how close they got to the ideal form.
How did he capture that emotion?
Even after praise for nailing the addict role back then, he’d always felt shame. Now, he’d spotted a master at a higher realm embodying a gambling addict.
A human whose screws had come loose beyond the pale—something even he, who’d fired thousands of takes at that target, had missed. This monster wielded it effortlessly. What was the difference?
Wait a sec.
As myriad thoughts swirled, a mad cackle worthy of O Dae-bak burst from the opponent’s mouth!
“Pfft, but what if I double this for you?”
“!”
Han Joo-hyuk realized something. The elusive flaw in his past role crystallized in his mind.
“...!”
“...!”
“...!”
Dreamlike disconnects bloomed everywhere. In the SBC conference room, gone graveyard-still after a few fleeting clashes between masters.
Yes, this is it.
Kwak In-ho, the writer, was first to grin. Han Joo-hyuk’s performance, venting the rage of a lifetime office drone, met by Lee Tae-gyu’s response—like a machine broken beyond lines of sanity. The descending master had cleaved them all with one stroke. A triumphant debut into the acting world.
Scanning the actors frozen like they’d been stabbed, Kwak In-ho beamed with pride—his eyes still sharp, and satisfaction at boldly unearthing this hidden master.
Ji Cheol-geun PD smiled next.
Good, keep it up like this.
He was leaving SBC after this anyway, but not just from losing the bet’s embarrassment. DK Entertainment’s scout was confirmed—last night, CEO Do Yoon-seop had called, quoting specifics he hadn’t before, tying the Monster City direction to a DK jump.
Lee Tae-gyu. Whatever happened between them, Ji PD even felt subtle anticipation for expanding his screentime, per the call.
Anyway.
Finally getting out.
For Ji PD, who’d always wanted pricier clothes without worry, Lee Tae-gyu—who opened a successful transfer path despite dropping Kim Hwan—was a savior.
All thanks to Lee Tae-gyu reaching acting nirvana. Predictable, in a way.
But.
What the...?
Director of Photography Choi Sung-chul was different. Jaw agape, he retracted his earlier judgment. Minimum 9.1 points—the highest visual score in this reading room had shifted from Han Joo-hyuk to that forgettable-name actor.
And this was just script reading. With makeup, lighting, editing on set—what then?
His heart raced belatedly. But pulling that expression with no prep, makeup, or visible action? How had he missed such a photogenic canvas earlier?
Amid the questions.
What’s his name again?
Like Choi Sung-chul suddenly curious about the O Dae-bak actor’s name.
Who’s that guy?
A bit part? That’s a bit part?
Who the hell is he?
What’s his name?
Lee... something?
The other actors, mouths hanging open, began speculating wildly about his identity.
“Kkeek.”
With O Dae-bak’s dying screech on exit, Scene [#33] reading ended.
No one moved to start Scene [#34].
“........”
“........”
“........”
In the dead silence, Han Joo-hyuk, staring blankly at Lee Tae-gyu’s face, slowly nodded.
Amateurs can’t even gauge the gap with a master, but those at a certain level can precisely measure it.
Two moves above me.
Recalling the walls he’d broken through in acting, he realized.
I get it now.
What he’d missed in his old gambling addict role. What mattered most when playing those beyond human bounds.
Lee Tae-gyu. He’d shown it flawlessly.
You can’t set the acting target as just a gambling addict.
The one desperately conversing, screws loose but “trying” to steal Kang Hyuk’s money bag.
Twist it one more time...
Goosebumps prickled Han Joo-hyuk’s arms. It was clearly “acting the actor acting.”
In other words.
In that ad-lib, this master hadn’t targeted a mere gambling addict.
What he showed was.
A gambling addict acting human—