The Terminally Ill Genius Actor Regressed (1)

※ This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Prologue

I found out how long I had left to live when I was ten years old.

To someone with barely a fortnight more than nine years behind him, seventy-one years felt absurdly, insultingly long.

At the time, I was filming in the mountains in the dead of winter. I was supposed to cry, but the tears wouldn't come. I was in a state where I'd have sold my soul to a demon just to be able to shed them — anything was better than freezing to death.

And then, out of nowhere — a demon actually appeared.

"Improving your acting" was a vague, long-winded way of putting it.

There was only one thing I needed right now.

"If I take the deal, can you make me cry right now?"

Because I really wanted to go home.

The demon answered without a moment's hesitation.

"Then take twenty years."

And after that, the messages just kept rolling in.

From that day on, I could cry whenever I wanted.

Chapter 1

Lee Heeyoon sat in the monitoring room, smoking a cigarette as he read the on-set reviews Manager Gong Seonwoo had shown him. Then he turned to his manager.

"Hey, still. Our parents died in a car accident. Wishing a car accident on someone — that's something I could sue over, right?"

"They're, well… people in the same industry. Suing them would be……"

"Not allowed, huh."

Lee Heeyoon clicked his tongue, then looked back at the manager.

"What if I go find them and beat them up personally?"

"Ah, Heeyoon!"

"What? You said you can't sue people in the same industry. That means they can't sue me either, right?"

Cigarette smoke hung thick in the airless monitoring room. Everyone had begged and pleaded with him to at least smoke like a polite celebrity, in the designated spot — and he'd flat-out ignored them, stubbornly refusing to quit. Well, then again, if cigarettes had been the only problem, the balance of power in today's contract renewal wouldn't have flipped the way it had.

Lee Heeyoon turned to Do Jaeyeon, director of Leader Actors, seated across from him, and cut straight to the point.

"So. How much of a signing bonus are you giving me, noona?"

"Heeyoon."

"Skip the speech. Just give me the number. Hit it and I'll stay."

"I'm truly sorry, but…"

Director Do Jaeyeon let out one long, deep sigh before she continued.

"The company has decided not to renew your contract."

Lee Heeyoon's manager squeezed his eyes shut.

Every company that calls itself family turns out to be a rotten one in the end — and Leader Actors had been family-flavored to an almost obnoxious degree. In an era when the big agencies swallowed up production companies and filled every slot with their own people, the fact that an A-list actor like Heeyoon had stayed with a small outfit like Leader Actors said enough. So did the fact that Gam Soohan, the vice president, had followed his cousin Gam Seongbeom out of sheer trust — and Do Jaeyeon, who'd started as a temp and clawed her way up to director, eventually marrying Soohan along the way. This family company, dragged to today by its fingernails, had bonds that were especially tight.

And now they were casting out Lee Heeyoon — the man who had stood by them faithfully from his first year of high school at seventeen, all the way to the cusp of his thirties.

Do Jaeyeon, the one stuck carrying the burden, looked at Heeyoon staring at her in sheer disbelief and spoke calmly.

"Go somewhere else. Somewhere that actually wants you."

"You're not renewing my contract? Do you have any idea who I am?"

Heeyoon had never once imagined he'd live to spit out such a cliché. But the situation was so absurd that the most hackneyed line in existence came out first.

It made him remember, with a fresh sting, all the garbage he'd spouted at writers over the years — the kind of abuse he'd figured any dog or cat could write better than. Then again, maybe he'd been underselling the dogs and cats.

Director Do Jaeyeon continued, even-voiced.

"Fine. I'll be blunt. You're not the only rude kid in this industry. Sure, almost nobody goes around calling themselves a great actor with their own mouth — we'll file that under the territory of outright megalomania. But strictly on rudeness? There are plenty of bastards worse than you. The difference is, they at least hold back around directors, writers, and fellow actors. They pick fights, but they know where to stop. You don't. You are a fanatically committed, absolutely spiteful egalitarian. Directors refuse to work with you. And — surprise — so do the writers. Oh, right, and the actors say the same thing. Honestly, I want to applaud you. You're a bastard of magnificent, unshakable principle."

Director Do Jaeyeon, whose temper had shown itself from childhood, delivered it all without pausing for breath.

Heeyoon listened to the whole thing slowly, with the face of an angel, then pulled out a fresh cigarette, lit it, and flipped his phone over.

"Recorded that. I'll ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠be filing a claim for emotional distress."

"You? Filing a claim?"

Director Do Jaeyeon snorted.

"Come off it. What damages are you claiming, a bastard who won't even pour his own glass of water? The moment you leave this company, our legal team isn't yours anymore. Your banking, the housekeeper at your place, your manager Seonwoo — from now on, you handle every last bit of it yourself."

Heeyoon listened to her go on for a long while, and then he said:

"If Soohan-hyung were still here, none of this would've happened."

At that, the face of Director Do Jaeyeon — who'd been nothing but irritated the entire meeting — turned murderous for a moment, then settled back into plain annoyance. She'd remembered that for Heeyoon as much as for her, former vice president Gam Soohan had been family in everything but blood.

When Heeyoon rose to leave the monitoring room, Manager Gong Seonwoo stood to see him home — but Director Do Jaeyeon waved him back into his seat.

Once Heeyoon was gone, Do Jaeyeon leaned back in her chair, drained by a negotiation that had gone far more smoothly than she'd expected. Manager Gong Seonwoo asked her quietly.

"Will you be all right?"

"No, I won't. But what can I do? If I hadn't gone this far, that kid would never have left."

Still grumbling, she finally couldn't take it anymore. She pulled out a cigarette in the smoke-choked meeting room — what did it matter now — and said,

"Just make sure you get him a taxi. With the way he is, I can't help worrying about where he'll pick a fight next."

"Of course."

Manager Gong Seonwoo answered and hurried out after Heeyoon.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Chasing him down, Gong Seonwoo fussed over him, checking his belongings again and again.

"Your wallet's here, and this is your ID. Passport's in this pocket."

"Do you think I'm a moron? I can keep track of my own things."

"Why do you have to put it like that? I'm just worried about you."

Wearing a look of pure disbelief, Heeyoon accepted the passport and ID in front of the agency building.

Gong Seonwoo hailed a taxi, then offered Heeyoon his hand.

"It's been an honor working with you, Actor Lee."

"Cut the crap."

Heeyoon smacked the hand away and got in the taxi.

Watching the car pull away, Gong Seonwoo scrubbed his face roughly with both hands. Then he looked back at the company building with an anxious expression.

With Lee Heeyoon gone, the last lifeline of Leader Actors had just been severed.

That was how I came home.

The moment I walked in, I reached for the phone to call Vice President Gam Soohan and pour out my grievances — then stopped. It had been more than half a year since Soohan died, and I still hadn't adjusted to the fact that the man no longer existed in this world. When, exactly, does a person get used to something like this?

The demon — in other words, the system window — that had sporadically told me my remaining lifespan for the past twenty-three years flickered back into view.

The kid whose one wish had been to cry on command was now a middle-aged man who couldn't function without alcohol and cigarettes.

Almost thirty years left, huh.

I'd handed over twenty for the sake of acting, and I still had this much. Why did I live so long? Was it because I had money?

The last thirty years had been tedious enough; I had no idea what I was supposed to do with the next thirty.

I hadn't renewed, but my contract still had a month left on it, so Manager Gong Seonwoo dropped by now and then, teaching me how to live without an agency. Director Do Jaeyeon — who'd raised me from her rookie-manager days and thrown her whole body between me and my uncle's family whenever they came sniffing around — was a face I would never see again.

My remaining assets weren't as much as I'd expected. Around 4.7 billion won, give or take. Then again, the fact that this much survived despite everything my uncle had skimmed off over the years meant I must have earned a hell of a lot. Which meant that household should be rolling in wealth by now — though I had no idea whether they were actually living well.

Anyway. That was the day my life as an actor ended.

Not by my choice. Offers kept coming in — roles clearly written with me in mind — and at least once, I'd actually liked the part and said yes.

But every single time, the production company withdrew the offer.

The reason was always the same: other actors were threatening to walk off the project because of my personality.

It was like a mirage.

After that happened enough times, I stopped answering casting offers altogether.

So much…… time.

Right up until then, I'd believed I hated acting. As a kid, I did it crying, because if I didn't, I got beaten. As an adult, I did it because it was the only thing I knew how to do. If I were ever born again, I used to think, I wouldn't act.

So it was only after I'd finally started living something like a normal human life, after I'd finished moving out of the old place —

sitting on my brand-new sofa with a cigarette between my lips, I heard myself say something even I couldn't understand.

"I want to act."

I frowned at my own words. Why had I said that?

I clicked my tongue and flopped fully onto the sofa. My home, where no one ever came anyway, filled up with cigarette smoke and brooding.

"……"

After a long stretch of thinking, I arrived at one conclusion.

I loved acting.

Far, far more than I had ever let myself believe.

Not long after, I moved again. I couldn't bear to stay a day longer in the house that Vice President Gam Soohan had dragged me around to find — the one he'd picked out with his own two feet despite my complaining, telling me, It puts my mind at ease, knowing you have a place of your own.

I threw away everything I owned, and I'd been thrown away by people. And yet, living on alone, I found myself learning to handle, one by one, all those ordinary things a person is supposed to know by that age — things I'd never learned.

And then there was Leader Actors — Leaders, as we called it.

I was, perhaps, that company's only source of bad luck. The moment I left, that luck split into a dozen tributaries and flooded the place.

And then, for the first time in a long while, I had somewhere I absolutely had to be.