The Headline He Wrote for Them
The fan lowered in one smooth ripple, and then the figure began walking toward them.
Ring-a-ling.
A bell chimed with every single step.
Ring-a-ling. Ring-a-ling.
"S-senior. He's coming. He's coming this way."
"Don't start the engine."
"I'm sorry, what?!"
"If we pull out now, that's fleeing the scene. The picture gets worse. Besides, the public has a right to know — is covering a story a crime?"
Despite his words, the senior reporter was busily sliding his super-telephoto lens down into position.
······How does he know we're here?
It was a distance of about a hundred meters.
They hadn't made a sound, obviously.
Don't tell me······ is there really such a thing as divine power? In this day and age······.
The thought wouldn't go any further.
No other explanation for how they'd been spotted would come to mind.
Meanwhile, in front of the gate.
Han Heedae turned his head, following the shaman's gaze.
A black sedan at the mouth of the alley.
The sense of wrongness he'd felt beyond the curtains for two straight days was parked right there.
"······."
The amusement drained from his face.
The razor edge that was endemic to this industry began to sharpen in his eyes.
Thud—
Han Heedae set off toward the car.
At that moment, the shaman's palm rose in a smooth arc.
A single gesture, made without even looking back.
Han Heedae froze in place.
"D-did you see that? He stopped Han Heedae with one hand······."
"······Shoot it."
"Now of all times?!"
"Ah, damn it. I don't know. If we're going down, fine, but let's at least shoot first."
Click-click-clickety—
Even with the camera trained on him, the shaman didn't hurry in the slightest.
The hem of his white durumagi coat billowed with every stride, and before long only the sound of the bell remained in the alley.
At last, he came to a stop directly in front of the driver's window.
"······."
"······."
Knock, knock.
The two reporters looked at each other.
Getting out was terrifying; sitting tight was even more terrifying.
Vvvvrrm—
The window slid down in the end.
"Have you had your meals."
"······I'm sorry?"
"Eating gimbap two days in a row, you must be sick of it by now."
The reporters' eyes went wide.
"It's been two days, hasn't it."
"······!"
"W-we, well, there's such a thing as freedom of the press······."
"I know."
The shaman answered evenly.
"Which is why I have no intention of stopping you."
"······I'm sorry?"
The senior reporter's mind went white.
He'd braced for threats, for inducements — at the very least, a demand to delete the photos.
"Write it."
"······."
"Exactly as it happened."
The shaman tipped his chin toward the gate where Han Heedae stood.
"The actor requested a consultation for his role as a shaman, and my name is in the production company's credits as well."
"······?"
"One phone call to the production company will confirm it. Their PR team will be delighted to hear from you."
The shaman fixed them with a cool stare.
When a damp feeling suddenly spread at his trousers, he wondered for a moment if the man had wet himself — but thankfully, it was coffee.
He'd apparently knocked it over in his fluster while lowering the window.
Wait, though······ is spilling coffee inside the car really the fortunate outcome here?
It was. Compared to the alternative.
"If you write an article spinning this as some secret rendezvous or whatever nonsense—"
"W-what would happen, exactly······."
A wind swept through the alley.
The bell at his wrist gave a stray jang-ling all on its own.
"You will invite calamity. A very, very large one."
"······."
"······."
The shaman turned and walked away, the bell chiming back up the alley behind him.
"We did······ get an exclusive today, right?"
"······Hard to say. Feels more like we were the ones caught."
The senior reporter looked down at the laptop on his knees.
On the screen glowed the headline he'd been hammering out so gleefully earlier.
······He even matched the headline······.
He glared at the blinking cursor for a long moment, then bore down hard on the backspace key.
Rrrrip—
The letters began deleting from the end.
Whew.
Photos already taken couldn't be stopped.
And if they couldn't be stopped, then the only option was to dictate the headline myself.
For the record, the vision I'd seen in that alley had been a handful of articles painting Han Heedae in a bad light.
Beneath them, the comment sections had been an absolute war zone, too.
In the future, when I'm CEO of O2, this actor is going to be one of my most solid assets. I can't let his image fall off a cliff.
People had been tearing into Han Heedae with remarkable relish.
'Han Heedae's First Genre Role Has Him So Stressed He's Consulting Shamans' — something like that was the title, wasn't it.
When I zoomed in on the photo in that article, it showed the exact moment he and I had stood facing each other in front of the gate — and judging by the angle, it had to have been taken right from that spot.
In other words, everything else had been pure leap of logic; they'd guessed "two days" from a rough read of the car's interior.
The number of gimbap foil wrappers on the dashboard gave it away, for that matter.
Judging by the reaction, my guess had been correct.
"Come in."
At Han Heedae's voice, I looked up.
!
My mouth fell open before I could stop it.
Flanking a stone path that cut straight across the courtyard, the grass lay trimmed to perfect evenness.
Is he chaebol-rich or something?
Inside, the living room's ceiling alone set it apart — the height was on another level.
One entire wall was bookshelves, half of it filled with script volumes.
On the shelf beside them, trophies stood in neat formation.
Except for one slot, dead center.
That one was empty.
I had a fair idea what it was meant for, so I looked away and pretended I hadn't noticed.
Honestly, outside of romance, the man can't act.
That was the verdict from an audience member's point of view.
"Have some tea."
Han Heedae opened the refrigerator.
Cans of ssanghwa tea — a sweet, warming Korean herbal drink — stood lined up in parade formation.
So when he'd said he liked ssanghwa tea, he'd meant it.
Drinking ssanghwa tea by preference, at his age.
Is he a weirdo?
"······I drink it quite well, sir."
The window for correcting the record had long since closed.
By the time I'm running this company, ssanghwa tea will be flowing through my veins.
"Oh, and — speaking of cars. That was quite the flashy ride. The Songhwa, isn't it?"
"That's right."
"You're popular, Mr. Mishin."
Come to think of it, since it came up: that red sports car had a great resale value and an abysmal ride.
The seats are rock-hard, the driver's seat cramped.
On top of that, this outfit was a problem.
The whole drive over, my sleeve got swallowed by the gear lever half a dozen times, and every time I hit the turn signal, my wrist went ring-a-ling.
Still.
The picture of a white-clad shaman stepping out of a red sports car······ well, the reporters liked it, so it served its purpose.
The center of the living room had been cleared in advance.
The sofa and table were pushed against the wall, and a non-slip mat covered the floor.
······Look at this preparation.
And there on the table sat a single cushion, placed with something like reverence.
Arranged neatly upon it were the items I'd handed over in the cloth bundle in front of the gate.
The practice fan, and the bell.
He must have set it all up while I was surveying the house.
"It didn't seem right to leave them just anywhere."
"······."
The thing that had arrived by rocket delivery yesterday was being treated like a sacred object.
The new-product smell hadn't even faded yet, and it was already a well-worn tool.
As I rolled up my sleeves to set things in order, my wrists caught my eye.
Left hand: a watch that resells for 300 million won.
Right hand: one worth 50,000 won, shipping included.
······A grave wealth gap between two wrists.
Ring-a-ling—
The bell rang again, and a stray thought flickered through my head.
······Could it be that wearing these clothes makes the visions come more easily?
The thought came because things had struck my mind with unusual clarity earlier.
And right when I needed it, the exact scene I needed had appeared.
It was only a hypothesis, of course.
Come on. As if you see better just because you dressed up. Wearing a uniform doesn't make you good at baseball.
······Although, would it be so bad if it did?
"I'm ready on my end. What about you, Mr. Mishin?"
"I'm ready as well."
Han Heedae sat down on the sofa and opened his notebook.
It felt like watching the student in the very front row on the first day of cram school.
"······."
I stood at the center of the living room.
Beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass, the sun hung low, laying a long diagonal bar of light across the hardwood.
I drew a breath.
A body I'd been drilling in the practice room for days now.
The ache in my lower abdomen still hadn't faded.
"Then."
I raised the fan.
"Let's begin."
Shwaaak—
The instant the fan splayed open, the air changed.
Han Heedae sat with his pen resting on the notebook.
He'd written one word on the first line: [Breath].
That······ turned out to be his last entry.
The shaman's toes grazed the hardwood, tracing a circle.
Sssuuuh—
His white sleeves billowed loose, and his long, unbound hair followed the arc of their path.
Ring-a-ling—
The bell rang.
······!
Awe washed over Han Heedae's eyes.
The sound had a rhythm to it.
Silent on the inhale; it sang only on the exhale.
He couldn't believe it was a sound that could be coaxed out by a flick of the wrist alone.
From shoulder to elbow, from elbow to wrist — it sounded like something the entire body had to resonate like a wave to produce.
The fan carved through the air.
Swak— shwaaak—
Three distinct textures of motion cut clean lines: cutting, sweeping, and enfolding.
The same fanning motion, and yet one was a blade, one was a broom, and one was a blanket.
······It's the stage directions, word for word.
Lines he'd only ever read as text were unfolding before his eyes, made real.
The spin quickened.
The coat flared wide with the centrifugal force, and the sunset pooled on the floor went sweeping along its hem.
Ring-a-ling, ring-a-ling—
And then.
Bzzt—
The living room light flickered once.
······?
Goosebumps crawled up his forearms.
Why is the light suddenly flickering? That has never happened in this house.
By the time he forced his gaze back, the shaman already seemed like a different person.
His eyes had gone deep and still.
His gaze always arrived before his hands.
He couldn't tell what he was looking at, but it was unmistakably the eyes of someone looking at something.
······So those are the eyes.
The eyes that needed to be captured on camera.
The phone on the table buzzed and shuddered.
Han Heedae flipped it face-down without even checking the screen.
At the end of the final rotation, the shaman's body came to a stop, upright and unyielding.
The tip of the fan pointed past the glass, toward the courtyard where dusk was settling.
Ring······.
The aftertone sank in long and slow.
"······."
Han Heedae looked down at his notebook.
[Breath]
Those two letters were still all it held.
"······Mr. Mishin. Just now."
Lee Mishin turned, breathing hard.
Han Heedae went on.
"What was it that came and went. ······The light."
"······."
Lee Mishin glanced up at the ceiling fixture and thought.
······Came and went, my foot. The bulb's just reached the end of its life.
"Now you try."
Han Heedae rose and took the practice fan.
He copied the first motion.
Stiff as a plank, naturally.
"Exhale first. The hands follow after."
"······Breath first."
"And don't try to shake the bell. When your body resonates, the bell rings on its own."
Han Heedae closed his eyes, then opened them.
He breathed out long and slow, loosening his wrist.
Ring-a-ling—
The bell rang at the very end of his exhale.
"······!"
That same goosebump-prickling sensation washed over him again.
"······So this is what it was."
From then on, two fans turned together in the living room.
The shaman demonstrated, the actor followed, and when the actor went astray, the shaman added a quiet correction.
"Your gaze lags. The eyes must arrive first — only then do the hands know where to go."
"Lower your knees. The god descends from above; if the person stays stiff and tall, there is no place for them to meet."
Scratch, scratch—
The notebook filled itself in every pause for breath.
Han Heedae took a sip of ssanghwa tea and asked.
"One more question, if I may. What does a shaman······ do when the god won't show?"
A very actorly question.
He was probably thinking of the scenes where the drama's shaman goes through her days empty-handed.
"You wait."
"······."
"Coming is the god's work. Waiting is the human's."
Scratch-scratch — the pen went busy again.
······That was a load of nonsense, of course.
I'd simply made it up because it sounded plausible.
Once the sun had fully set, the two of them popped their cans of ssanghwa tea side by side.
Tsss—
They even toasted, cordially enough.
"The table read is in three days. Honestly, I was worried when I first got the script."
A sip.
"Now I find myself looking forward to Wednesday."
"Just do it the way you did today."
"······."
Han Heedae broke into a grin.
"There's plenty of ssanghwa tea over there. Take some with you."
"······That's quite all right, sir."
He saw me out as far as the entryway.
I'd just bent down and risen after putting on my shoes when Han Heedae extended his hand.
"I learned a great deal today."
It was the moment our eyes met over the offered handshake.
Ring-a-ling—
The sound of a bell.
The bell at my wrist was silent.
The sound had come from inside my ear.
Uh······.
My vision bloomed outward.
Two arms were wrapped tightly around my back.
A rich, expensive fragrance — the cologne I'd been catching off Han Heedae all day.
—······Thank you, Mr. Mishin.
A voice gone thick with tears.
It was the sensation of a whisper pressed to my ear, his breath curling around the rim of it.
Before long, we were face to face.
Han Heedae's face, inches from mine.
Drop.
The world snapped back.
The entryway.
The hand extended for a handshake.
Han Heedae, right in front of my nose.
Wh-what was that just now.
I was embracing him.
Me.
Han Heedae.
······Pfft, no way.
Couldn't be.
It can't be.
Men hugging is perfectly normal.
During the World Cup, grown men tackle-hug total strangers.
Right — I must have helped him in some big way.
Then a hug is only natural.
Obviously he'd hug me.
······But why was there breath on my ear······.
"Mr. Mishin."
Han Heedae was looking at me with genuine concern.
"······You saw something again, didn't you."
Hiik—!
"I've been wondering since a while ago."
His voice dropped low.
"If you keep seeing things like that······ can a person endure it?"
"······."
"It can't be easy."
On any ordinary day, the words would have sounded like simple kindness.
But thanks to what I'd just seen, they sent a chill down my spine.
And then, in that instant, Han Heedae's hand rose toward my shoulder.
"U-uh······."
My feet were already backing up.
Crack.
My heel came down dead center on the threshold.
"The threshold······!"
Han Heedae cried out in alarm, but Lee Mishin was already sprinting across the courtyard, one foot planted squarely on the crown of that house's god.
Vroooooom—
The red sports car vanished over the hill.
"······."
Left alone, Han Heedae looked down at the trampled threshold.
This was the man who had told him never to step over it without pausing at the door.
The man who'd told him to greet the house god first, always.
And that man had forgotten even his greeting and fled, trampling the god's head on his way out.
Which meant he'd seen something urgent enough to justify it.
"······What on earth did you see."
The News Patch newsroom.
"Let's see here."
The department head, freshly arrived, planted himself behind the monitor.
As his eyes ran down the draft article, his eyebrows climbed steadily higher.
"······Where did the secret rendezvous go?"
"Killed it."
"You'd already written the headline. You texted it to me, didn't you?"
"······I changed my mind."
The senior reporter pulled up one image on the screen.
The shaman in his white durumagi coat, facing Han Heedae head-on.
"······You nailed that one photo, I'll give you that."
"Right?"
"But listen."
The department head jerked his chin at the draft.
"Why is the tone so heartwarming? You didn't take anything from him, did you?"
"I did receive something."
The senior reporter let the silence stretch, then added:
"······A prophecy. That I'd invite calamity."
"······."
"······."
"You lunatic."
The next day, at seven in the morning, sharp.
A breaking story hung at the very top of the portal's entertainment section.
The thrust of the News Patch article was, unusually, favorable.
That an actor on the eve of his first occult thriller had personally sought counsel from a practicing shaman as part of his role study.
That the production company had officially confirmed it, calling him "an actor more earnest than anyone in his preparation."
And at the bottom of the article, beneath the photo of the two men facing each other at the gate, ran this caption:
On subway cars, in lecture halls, in classrooms, in front of office monitors.
Countless people began zooming in on that photo.