The Name I Couldn't Hear
December 25, 2047 — before Lee Heeyoon's regression.
At the funeral of Lee Heeyoon, who had died at home, Son Ji-on arrived before Han Do-hyun did.
Knowing her own mental state was on the edge, she took her medication first. Then she turned to Han Do-hyun.
“Do-hyun, don't let me drink. Ever.”
“I won't.”
Son Ji-on drank some water, then looked down at the empty pill bottle still in her hand. She let out a hollow laugh.
“That Lee Heeyoon.”
“Yeah.”
“He was the son of a bitch we needed. Wasn't he?”
“He was.”
“If he weren't that good, who would've locked a nepo baby like you up for ten hours at a stretch?”
Even her gallows humor pulled a dry laugh out of Han Do-hyun. Son Ji-on laughed pointlessly along with him for a moment, then went on.
“Do-hyun.”
“What?”
“He was killed. You know that.”
“……”
“You know it better than anyone. And you know whose work it was.”
At those words, Han Do-hyun sighed and reflexively pulled out a cigarette — then, remembering where he was, slipped it back into the pack.
The portrait photo was the last profile picture Lee Heeyoon had ever taken, shot six years ago now. He looked unbearably young in it. Which made it feel all the more unreal.
Son Ji-on spoke again.
“I'm not going to sit still.”
“……”
“This stopped being a fight between production companies. It's the actors' fight now. So…… which side are you on?”
The Demon didn't speak to me after that, and neither did Han Do-hyun. He glared down at me for a long moment, then got back in his car without a word and drove off.
Well, I'd confirmed he wasn't the one, so I'd gained something. Sure, I'd made an enemy in the process — but when haven't I? Making enemies was practically my daily routine.
Having settled on that cheerful interpretation, I headed back to the company.
That winter passed in a complete blur. The agency was busy reviewing and re-reviewing Son Ji-on, whom I'd recommended, and before I knew it, my school entrance ceremony had come and gone.
School turned out to be surprisingly tolerable — aside from getting hit with the accusation that I'd taken the top spot out of pity for my tragic little life, which, honestly, I received rather a lot more than just occasionally.
I don't understand what's so wrong with being first. I was the best actor there. Shouldn't that be the end of it? Listening to my critics, you'd think I'd stolen someone else's seat. Which was absurd — nobody was even being discussed as a runner-up.
Before the semester started, I'd failed to find the ringleader of Leader Actors' downfall, so I combed through the school again after enrolling. Still, nothing. No answers anywhere.
And whenever that suffocating frustration built up, my mind would drift back to that moment — the way Han Do-hyun's words had suddenly refused to reach my ears. The stifled, trapped feeling was exactly the same.
I'd been racking my brain over it when I spun around to face Woo Woong-bae, who'd come over to hang out. Come to think of it, there was someone quasi-expert in this sort of thing right in front of me.
“Woongie.”
“Quit acting cute.”
“No, your name— no, never mind that.”
I glanced around the room, then lowered my voice.
“My setting is that I made a contract with a demon, right?”
“Respect it.”
“So if there was someone with, like…… a similar setting, have you ever seen one?”
“Seen one where? At school?”
“Yeah, sure. Let's start with school.”
“If it's school, there's plenty.”
“Just pick one.”
“One, huh.”
And just as I'd expected, I couldn't hear the rest of what Woo Woong-bae said.
“Hey, say that again. What did you just say?”
“Again? You know, that guy—”
And once more, Woo Woong-bae's words vanished into nothing.
The dizziness and fear washed over me all over again. Being in my own home helped a little — gave me some faint sense of stability — but the anxiety was real.
I turned to face Woo Woong-bae and spoke with complete seriousness.
“Woongie. Something really…… strange is happening to me right now.”
“What kind of strange?”
“It's like a fog has rolled into one corner of my vision—”
“Then go see an eye doctor.”
“It's a metaphor, you brat.”
After grumbling about that, I tried once more.
“Okay — the parts I couldn't hear. Just keep saying those, over and over.”
“Ah. I get it now. Man, you and your bizarre little worldbuilding.”
Woo Woong-bae caught on fast, as always.
And sure enough, no matter how many times he repeated it, I couldn't hear a word of it.
Woo Woong-bae grew oddly excited, even snorting through his nose, and spread out a sheet of paper. Then he said to me:
“Right. You already know this, but your acting department has two classes. Correct?”
“Yeah, I got that much.”
“Class 1 and Class 2.”
“Mm.”
“Those two classes aren't divided by grades — it's completely random. But…… okay, from here on, you won't hear it.”
And he said something.
Exactly as he predicted, I didn't hear it. I shook my head, and he continued.
“Like this. We'll strip away everything except the part you can't perceive, bit by bit.”
“Okay.”
“Keep going. You know the name of every student in Class 1. Right?”
“I do. We were glued together all break.”
“You know most of the Class 2 students' names too. Right?”
“Yeah. Most of them.”
“Class 1 has you — the top of the class.”
“Then Class 2 would have…… ah, damn it.”
A blinding headache crashed over me out of nowhere.
This was no ordinary headache — the pain was so severe that my vision cut out for a split second. I didn't want to think about anything. I wanted to just let go, black out, stop. But my overheated brain refused to shut down, marching onward on its own.
Class 1 has me, the top of the class.
So Class 2 has someone, too.
Someone has to be first in Class 2.
And the first of Class 2 should obviously be someone I know.
But who is it?
How can I, who knows nearly all seventy-eight of them, not know the top student of Class 2?
“Hey — hey! Lee Heeyoon!”
Woo Woong-bae's voice grew distant, and laughter rang inside my skull. It was the sound of the Demon laughing.
Damn it all. Keep this up and I really will lose my mind.
Paralyzed with fear at that laughter, I jerked my head up at the ring of the landline. Still in a daze, I picked up the receiver. On the other end came the voice of a devastated Gam Seong-beom.
“Heeyoon-ah.”
“Yes?”
“Can you come to the hospital? My father…… I don't think he'll make it through the week.”
I went numb.
Then I looked down at my own hand. It was trembling.
I stood there frozen for a moment, then hung up and turned to Woo Woong-bae.
“Woong-bae.”
“What?”
“Shoot a movie with me and Grandpa. Come to the hospital with me. And give me money for it.”
“……What is this. A favor?”
“I never got to show Grandpa me getting paid to act.”
“……”
Woo Woong-bae listened to my absurd request and nodded, without a word.
Even after hearing that Gam I-hyun was failing, I didn't go straight to the hospital. Instead, I started preparing a short film with Woo Woong-bae.
Everyone knew how often I'd dropped by the hospital when I had nothing better to do, so nobody rushed me. They seemed to have roughly concluded that I was either badly shaken — or scheming something.
For the first time in my life, I watched a film get made from beginning to end, right at the center of it, and I helped. Woo Woong-bae said he needed two days of prep, and he genuinely spent all forty-eight of those hours without a wink of sleep.
While he worked on the twelve-minute script, I played second fiddle beside him — hunting down reference material, fetching him soda, cracking the caps open so he never had to break focus.
Ridiculously enough, in the middle of making a film over a day and a half, I completely forgot why I was doing it in the first place.
Halfway through, his friends from the film program came swarming in to help. That's when I learned a film can't be made alone.
We had to keep in mind that Gam I-hyun could only be filmed inside the hospital room itself. I promised that whatever he asked for, we could shoot it.
And so, a day and a half later, Woo Woong-bae and I headed for the hospital.
We were both in such a state that we'd probably have ridden the bus clear past our stop to the end of the line, so we bit the bullet and took a taxi.
In the back seat, Woo Woong-bae hugged the camera to his chest and said to me, the one lugging the sound equipment:
“Will you ever again get to shoot a movie with two days of pre-production? In this lifetime?”
“That's what happens when your actor gets cast on the spot. This is how important actors are.”
“Right now, compliment me only. I'm busting my ass here because of you.”
“Depends on what we shoot.”
We traded a few more lines and then, predictably, both crashed asleep. We only woke when the taxi driver shook us at the hospital.
Walking film equipment through a hospital lobby was a truly surreal sight. Fortunately, over those two days Gam Seong-beom had heard our story and personally secured the location permit from the hospital. In return, we were allowed only Gam I-hyun's VIP private room indoors, and only the rooftop outside.
When we reached the room, Park Seon-young was waiting for us. I introduced her to Woo Woong-bae with a small request.
“This is Woong-bae. He's the one who makes films.”
Every relative except Gam Seong-beom and Park Seon-young had opposed the filming. But when the two people who understood Gam I-hyun best approved of it, there was nothing left to say.
“Thank you, Heeyoon-ah. Go on in.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
Woo Woong-bae and I bowed our greetings and entered the room.
Gam I-hyun had grown thinner still in the meantime. But he'd heard we were coming, and there he was, reading on his iPad the scripts we'd been sending him in real time as each page came together.
Woo Woong-bae and I calmly set up the camera, lights, and sound. With only the two of us permitted, every role on set belonged to us.
Physically, it was brutal. But standing one step back and immersing myself in the world of production — really being inside it — meant something to me.
When we finished the setup, Woo Woong-bae and I even went through the motions of a gosa, the traditional rite for a safe shoot. We placed a laughing pig's face on the iPad and bowed to it, and watching us, the corners of Gam I-hyun's eyes creased with laughter.
With the formalities dispatched in brisk fashion, I turned to him.
“Woong-bae has agreed to pay you an appearance fee.”
At my words, Woo Woong-bae hurried over and held out envelopes to Gam I-hyun and to me. Inside each was a single 50,000-won bill — though Gam I-hyun's held two, so I had to speak up.
“Hey, why am I getting half?”
“You're a rookie.”
“I did all the PA work!”
“In indie film, that's all unpaid.”
“Wow. Brutal industry. Just brutal.”
Regardless of my complaining, Woo Woong-bae headed back behind the camera. I turned to Gam I-hyun.
“You got paid, so you'll do it, right?”
“Of course. Two whole big bills — how could I refuse?”
It was a strange kind of magic.
Once the set was ready, Gam I-hyun seemed to recover a measure of his strength — enough to crack jokes. It was as if he had already begun to act.