Han River Bridge
‘……Am I crazy?’
PD Ji Cheol-geun from SBC Broadcasting Station leaned against the railing of the steel bridge, smoking a cigarette.
‘Lee Tae-gyu.’
He exhaled smoke as he recalled the mistake of turning the teaser video into a tribute for that guy who only appeared three times in Monster City.
Fuu— Too much. Lately, handling all those slick, high-quality videos that stuck like glue had boosted his confidence, leading him to overreach.
‘……’
He’d reached that conclusion long ago.
……Really?
……Is that really all there is to it?
To the voice echoing from deep within since ten minutes ago, he finally shook his head.
‘No.’
In truth, he genuinely believed Lee Tae-gyu was the one who pierced through the entire theme of Monster City more than Han Joo-hyuk ever could.
There were still many scenes left to shoot, but all of them were mere crossroads connecting the early, mid, and ending scenes where Tae-gyu had appeared.
In the end, every human harbors their own madness; living in the city itself is a gamble; what we call “normal” might just be one form among countless abnormalities…… Tae-gyu provided the core driving force linking all those thematic consciousnesses.
The only frustration was that, with filming incomplete, he couldn’t yet show the vividly clear picture in his mind to Section Chief Nam and Director Hwang.
‘……And the visuals came out perfect too.’
Honestly, now that he’d made that teaser, could he even create another video that would spark as much curiosity about Monster City?
Of course.
Deep down, the reason he’d unconsciously filled the teaser with Tae-gyu wasn’t solely for the work itself.
‘The truth is.’
Exhaling cigarette smoke, he pictured Tae-gyu’s face—always blank except when acting.
‘I just wanted to do something for him.’
This conclusion stemmed from rather complex emotions.
Lee Tae-gyu. The one who’d humiliated him during that first bet with Writer Kwak; the one whose phone number and private audition footage he’d sold off when things went south, securing a promise of transfer to DK Entertainment; the one who’d heated up his set more passionately than anyone before vanishing after he came to his senses…… In other words.
Emotions tangled in a whirlwind—embarrassment, irritation, gratitude, guilt—too intertwined to pick just one, all boiling down to a single conclusion.
I want to do something for him too—no.
Let’s be even more honest.
This might not just be about wanting to do something specifically for Tae-gyu.
Fuu.
PD Ji smiled bitterly as he leaned on the bridge railing and exhaled smoke.
‘Damn, even at 40, I’m still making excuses out of habit.’
To be frank.
He wanted to show off his skills.
The skills he’d thought he’d forgotten long ago, the ones he’d started looking elsewhere for, but which he’d finally rediscovered this time, dusting off the buried talent.
Section Chief Nam and Director Hwang. When they said, “But the video itself is brilliant,” he’d smiled in a way he hadn’t in ages.
Even now, thinking back, the corners of his mouth lifted.
Of course, it wasn’t solely his own merit.
‘The raw material was just that good.’
Lee Tae-gyu. That mad actor who unleashed raw madness from his eyes every time the camera rolled—his performance was a sparkling gem that still gave chills on reflection.
‘But my skills holding it all together weren’t half bad either—’
That’s when it happened.
As he tilted his head skyward with a smug expression, something caught his eye descending from the heavens.
Snow.
Not just flurries, but massive flakes pouring down.
As if saying, I’ll blanket away any ugly thoughts in white anytime, so go ahead and indulge in your childish boasting—PD Ji stared at the snowflakes for a long while.
‘……’
How long did he stand there, face upturned to the snow?
Creak.
After replaying the teaser he’d made over and over in his mind, he finally broke into an odd smile and wrapped up his thoughts.
‘……Yeah, it’s too good to waste.’
Even if he made another teaser, he’d have to cherish this one.
Massive snowflakes had been falling relentlessly since midday into the evening.
In the biting January cold that made even long padding coats leave them stamping their feet, Tae-gyu’s stylist and manager—outdoors now—shared the same thought.
‘We have to see this.’
‘No question.’
Today marked the last “official” day for DK actor Lee Tae-gyu on the Hoshi-jeol set.
Only one scene left featuring Yi Bang-gwa.
Not the final scene in the film’s flow, but one Director Gu Jeong-hwan had deliberately scheduled for today.
The clash between Seol A-yoon and Lee Tae-gyu—
Right before the scene where Queen Won-gyeong Min, wife of King Taejong Yi Bang-won (now king), speaks with the retired emperor Yi Bang-gwa, who’s become the Supreme King.
The manager and stylist’s hearts raced.
‘Seol A-yoon versus our actor?’
‘How could we miss this?’
Of course, their presence on set wasn’t just idle curiosity about the showdown.
“You could wait in the car—it’s freezing.”
“Nah.”
“Don’t be like that, seriously.”
DK actor Lee Tae-gyu. Unlike Kim Hwan, he never treated them dismissively, and the more time passed, the more they liked him.
“You must be cold yourself, actor.”
Not content with the hot packs from the car, they’d wrapped their own in towels to warm both his hands.
“I’m fine.”
“Fine my foot—we saw your hands shaking just now.”
“……Thanks.”
“You’re seriously cool.”
Affection made even his looks seem better than Kim Hwan’s. The aged makeup, crafted over three hours by the Hoshi-jeol art team and pros, suited him perfectly, and the blue Azure Dragon robe of the Supreme King lent him real dignity.
“Whoa, bro! That Azure Dragon robe looks killer. Let’s take a pic for SNS—”
“Hold on.”
“Hold on.”
“Tch.”
Subtly blocking Cheon Yoo-seong’s persistent attempts to snap a photo for social media was a voluntary act from the two.
On a day with such a crucial showdown, they couldn’t let anyone disrupt their actor’s focus.
‘Our actor?’
Suddenly realizing they’d thought the same thing, the manager and stylist met eyes.
Pfft.
They both chuckled.
Come to think of it, they’d never once thought “our actor” while handling Kim Hwan.
But this actor, who appreciated their care, might just be worth it.
Just as they harbored that thought—
—Alright, everyone looks ready. Let’s go.
Director Gu’s voice echoed across the set.
Red lights flickered on one by one across the dozen waterproofed cameras.
“Fighting!”
“Show ’em!”
In a set where taking sides openly was tricky, these officially “teammates” cheered with genuine heart.
—Scene number 114! Rolling!
Lee Tae-gyu stepped forward.
Within the vast palace grounds walled by earthen ramparts.
Crunch, crunch.
Listening to the snow piled softly on the stone pavement, Tae-gyu reviewed the scene’s context once more.
‘Now called the Supreme King after yielding the throne to Taejong.’
This was the latter half of Hoshi-jeol.
Relations between King Taejong Yi Bang-won and Queen Won-gyeong Min had soured from some point, unlike before.
With Taejong officially establishing the Office of Ceremonial Colors for concubines, Queen Min seeks out the now-Supreme King Yi Bang-gwa privately to beg him to cancel it.
‘Not in the actual records, but…’
The Annals of the Joseon Dynasty only noted Yi Bang-gwa telling Taejong to abolish it, considering his four wives.
In other words.
The scene Tae-gyu was about to perform wasn’t in the annals—an unknown tale that might or might not have happened.
But.
‘……I know.’
Tae-gyu nodded slowly.
At least he fully understood, intellectually, how Hoshi-jeol’s Yi Bang-gwa would act in such a situation.
Thanks to reading all relevant historical records beyond Director Gu’s script and character setup to deepen his grasp of Yi Bang-gwa.
The prehistory of Hoshi-jeol’s Yi Bang-gwa—understanding the man enabled 100% immersion, building an emotional line that exploded his dokkaebi fire more fiercely than reality.
‘……Fun.’
And it still amazed him.
A solid script built a strong emotional line, which then granted freedom unbound by the script.
He became the emotion itself.
His speaking lips, gestures, gaze, every action became a cannon firing the blazing emotion.
This joyful freedom—what others called “ad-lib”—was, for Tae-gyu, the ultimate pleasure of acting expressed.
This time too.
Smiling faintly at the anticipated thrill, Tae-gyu halted at his mark.
Stood tall.
Warm lights pouring down, reflectors, clusters of cameras at every angle, staff exhaling white breath in preparation.
All of it.
The familiar filming site stretched out.
Crunch, crunch.
His fully made-up co-star approached over the snow.
Seol A-yoon.
Superstar hailed as the best actress her age, but worldly praise meant nothing to Tae-gyu now.
Just.
Focus on himself.
These dokkaebi fires, painting vivid strokes on his colorless days, were his only true companions.
—Standby!
As always.
‘This time……’
As he moved to mask his face with the dokkaebi fire flickering in his left hand—
Then.
A fierce winter gust—
Scattering.
The pure white snowflakes.
Fluttering.
The hem of Queen Won-gyeong’s red ceremonial robe.
Right in the cinematic heart of reality.
Amid the snow-laden wind whipping between them, Seol A-yoon’s gaze shone unyielding.
That’s when.
Tae-gyu’s eyes caught something uncanny on her faintly visible face through the flurry.
In less than a second.
The split instant she transformed into the queen, he glimpsed the subtle slackening in Seol A-yoon’s expression.
Suddenly.
Seized by intense curiosity.
In that moment his rational leash snapped under indescribable intrigue.
‘………………!’
Fleeting, but he saw it.
Atop the face of the acclaimed top actress her age.
Whoosh—
A dokkaebi fire of a true “actor,” radiating a brilliance he’d never witnessed before.
……Thump!