The Red Line on Claudius

That was when the word rival surfaced in my mind for the first time in this life. Irritated, I pressed Han Jeonghyeon for an answer.

“So are you doing it, or not talking?”

“Huh? I literally just said I would.”

Our supervising teacher, Hong Hyunsang, looked at me in flustered disbelief. Yeah, yeah. Not listening.

“Sorry, I was thinking about something else for a second. Then I guess we're both doing it.”

“Ha! An actor from a Park Kihong film, gracing the stage of a high school graduation performance.”

With the decision made, Hong Hyunsang left the practice room first, and I flopped onto the floor, utterly deflated.

“Ah, you f—ing brat.”

I spat it out, since I could still feel him lingering in the room.

Park Kihong was, comparatively speaking, a prolific director. And even so, he had never once cast me. I'd scrolled through his entire filmography clutching one pure, beautiful hope — that maybe I had appeared in something and simply couldn't remember it. Every single title was familiar. Every one of them I'd watched at least twice. In other words, there was no role of mine lurking in his filmography that I'd forgotten.

Fine. Love is cured by love, as they say — a beloved artist should be cured by a beloved artist. With that thought, I opened the annotated copy of Hamlet Hong Hyunsang had left behind for the graduation performance and began to read.

On my second pass, the text came considerably easier.

“You'll be playing Hamlet, right? You're the lead, and — much as it pains me to say — you're still the better stage actor of the two.”

I asked the question anyway. As for the answer, he could relay it through someone else or whatever. Then I clutched my chest and sank into a chair.

A red line was being drawn across the bound script. He had a pen in his hand, and I could see exactly where it was going.

“I'm going to die of a heart attack.”

Muttering, I looked at what he'd marked. The red line ran through Claudius — the King of Denmark, Hamlet's mortal enemy.

“You're playing Claudius? Why, exactly?”

This time, no answer came back at all. If Woo Woongbae were here, he'd be trembling like a leaf, but at least he'd have relayed it.

And right as I was muttering about that, I spotted Woo Woongbae pacing outside the door. Speak of the tiger, and he shall appear.

But my sulking was still at absolute maximum, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠so I whipped my head away and buried it back in the script. Woo Woongbae, that massive hulk of a body, hesitated so obviously it hurt to watch, then finally stepped into the practice room.

Woo Woongbae had finished the screenplay he would shoot this year — the last year he would spend as a minor. It was still under constant revision, of course, but it was, one way or another, finished.

By the time he'd typed the final page, Lee Heeyoon was too busy to even answer his phone. Whenever Woo Woongbae dropped by Wooheonjeong, he found him asleep on the sofa, every single time. Whatever spare minutes he had went to watching backlogged dramas on TV until sleep took him — to the point that Leader Actors had replaced the thing with an actual bed-shaped sofa he could lie down on properly.

Watching from the outside, Woo Woongbae could see it plainly: as an actor, Lee Heeyoon was grinding his entire life into acting and nothing else. His brakes weren't broken — they had never been installed in the first place. Act, read films and dramas and plays, sleep. No real hobbies, no wide circle of friends.

The only person he saw on his days off was effectively Woo Woongbae himself — that, and one dinner he'd apparently had, separately, with Seo Joongsung, whom he'd grown close to shooting Love in the Moon. But Seo Joongsung was an introvert raising two children besides, so even that wasn't likely to become a regular thing.

Lee Heeyoon was truly living his life devoted to acting. To acting, and to acting alone.

Having seen that, Woo Woongbae looked at his own screenplay and felt, truthfully, how wanting it was. He'd once heard a senior say that writing was never actually finished — you simply ran out of time to keep revising. The words had been true. Revise as he might, the screenplay was still a sorry thing.

He couldn't bring himself to show it. Not to that Lee Heeyoon — the one who had loved the words of countless playwrights, from Shakespeare all the way to Beckett.

Come to think of it, it had been the same when they first got close. Woo Woongbae had never been able to show Lee Heeyoon the scrappy little films he'd made in middle school until Lee Heeyoon asked to see them first.

Because it wouldn't satisfy him.

Because these ridiculous scraps of paper would never become a film.

Because this could never be a good ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠movie.

“Ugh, goddammit….”

Woo Woongbae raked both hands through his hair.

Friendship aside, Lee Heeyoon's eye was terrifying. The most terrifying thing in the world. That was why he hadn't been able to show him anything.

Lee Heeyoon was like a lone star hanging in the evening sky. Sometimes he shone so brightly you forgot he was a planet at all — so bright you'd almost mistake him for something other than an artificial light. That was Lee Heeyoon.

Woo Woongbae was certain that everyone in the industry around Lee Heeyoon felt the same thing he did. Maybe Han Jeonghyeon did too. No — actually, he doubted that one did. Though he supposed that guy shone every bit as fiercely.

Passing by the practice room, Woo Woongbae had caught the rare sight of Lee Heeyoon and Han Jeonghyeon together. Han Jeonghyeon was visibly frustrated, trying to say something and getting nowhere.

He saw Han Jeonghyeon often, naturally. Same school. And to every student except Lee Heeyoon, the guy's presence was impossible to miss.

As far as Woo Woongbae knew, Han Jeonghyeon had a rotten personality. The guy kept it hidden, but anyone perceptive could feel it — a weak moral compass and an emotional flatness underneath.

Left alone like this, he figured the two of them might actually swing at each other. Fighting a blank wall of a man. Heeyoon didn't stand a chance.

“I'll relay it for you.”

Saying that, Woo Woongbae sat down between them at last. While Lee Heeyoon pointedly pretended to read his script, Han Jeonghyeon spoke up.

“So what'd you two fight about?”

“We didn't fight.”

“Cut the crap.”

“…I wouldn't show him my graduation-film screenplay, and I cast Ki Ian as the lead.”

“Good call. Not up to his standards anyway.”

“…You f—ing brat.”

“My father was a bastard, technically. I keep finding myself saying that a lot lately.”

Up close, it was even clearer.

Han Jeonghyeon was a sociopath.

At a glance he sometimes seemed similar to Lee Heeyoon, but the longer you looked, the more completely different the two became. As different as a bat and a bird — one a mammal, the other a creature of the sky.

Lee Heeyoon ignored him, then finally turned to Woo Woongbae.

“What did Han Jeonghyeon say?”

“Says you hit the nail right on the head.”

“Ugh — I mean, what did he say?”

“Relay it, and we make up.”

“No.”

“Your screenplay. He said since it's below your standards anyway, you were right not to show him.”

At that, Lee Heeyoon froze for a beat. Then he muttered, “That s—bag bastard.” Impossible to tell who it was aimed at. The sociopath, probably.

Anyway, having cursed and feeling marginally better, Lee Heeyoon spoke.

“Bind it up nice and clean and bring it to Wooheonjeong. I won't say a word about it.”

“So does that mean you forgive me?”

“It means I'm letting it go. That's not the same as making up.”

Since he had felt guilty, Woo Woongbae nodded at that, then asked Han Jeonghyeon:

“And what do you want relayed?”

“That I'm playing Claudius.”

“Why? You're not doing Hamlet?”

“And tell him not to ask questions about it. I'm not answering.”

Han Jeonghyeon rose to his feet, and on his way out — entirely on purpose — kicked the bound script Lee Heeyoon had set down moments before. When Lee Heeyoon discovered the footprint smeared across it, he let the curses fly.

“If he's this much of an a—hole when I can't even see him, how bad is he when I can?”

“He's a seriously problematic guy.”

“What are you still doing here? Go bind your script.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Woo Woongbae got up to leave, then paused and turned back.

“So — you two are really doing Hamlet?”

“Yeah.”

“That performance from the other day. I get to see the whole thing. Man, I got chills just imagining it.”

Getting to see a performance in full meant that someone had to perform it in full.

And Lee Heeyoon, who almost never smiled, couldn't stop the corner of his mouth from curling up on its own. He must have been delighted by the fact. This, right here, was what made him a different species from Han Jeonghyeon. Lee Heeyoon didn't smile often — but when he did, it was real.

The day the final episode of Love in the Moon aired.

I'd already picked the place to watch it: the community hall of the farming village I'd visited for that variety show shoot.

When word got out that I was coming, the Leader Actors staff tagged along too. Insisting he couldn't show up empty-handed, CEO Gam Seongbeom grumbled the whole ride over, his car loaded down with tray after tray of braised short ribs from some famous restaurant.

“Why are you going around doing nice things, you punk.”

“I want to see how people react! And why are you buying galbijjim? Doesn't the company have money?”

“We only just barely survived going under. Barely.”

Apparently wanting to drive home the just barely, he stretched the word out into absurdity.

Anyway, I walked into the community hall, and everyone welcomed me even more fervently than they had with the cameras rolling. For a moment I wondered whether they'd have been cold to me without the cameras — but that was what I'd thought back when I had no idea how much these elders adored Moon Gyeowul.

I went and sat next to the grandmother who had silently held my hand last time. And the final episode began.

Miracle might sound like a tired word. But miracles are always rare things — and no matter how threadbare the word becomes, a miracle is always, still, miraculous.

Thankfully, Moon Gyeowul hadn't died. And she'd gotten into medical school, too.

It was a joyful scene, and the villagers were sobbing.

“Oh thank heavens, thank heavens….”

“Look at our Gyeowul, the little rascal — what are we going to do with her.”

They'd been crying steadily from the moment the doctor said miracle right up to now. They really did look at me as if I were their own child, their own grandchild. Apparently I'd acted well again. Well — I always did.

And then, the final family dinner. Into the gathering where everyone sat trading warm, easy conversation, Moon Gyeowul walked over and took a seat.

Then, starting with the grandfather — the first to lose the battle with his own face — the family members begin piling onto her one by one. The whole clan smothers her in hugs and blown kisses, and Moon Gyeowul, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠finally at ease, breaks into laughter.

The family strolls down a lane of cherry blossoms in full bloom, making a giddy fuss about hanging a Congratulations on College Acceptance banner; the lead couple walks hand in hand at the very back, then quietly calls out to their son skipping ahead. And there is Gyeowul, slipping in between the two of them, taking a parent's hand in each of hers as they walk.

And then, the closing caption.

“…….”

For the first time in my life, that corny line that closes out so many dramas — I meant it. Completely.

I didn't understand why it had taken me this long to realize. But to the viewers who had followed fifty episodes to the very end, it was a farewell you simply had to say.

“Good. That's how it should be.”

Moon Gyeowul had needed to live, after all.

After the episode ended, the villagers came up to me one by one, eyes brimming with tears, telling me they were so glad I'd survived.

And that — the sight of people being happy — was what the Demon couldn't stand.

Good thing I'd taken that cameo in Exorcism Investigator. At least I'd get to watch this demon brat squirm.

And even while he was busy needling me, some genuinely good news was on its way. The final episode's ratings had just arrived at our company — delivered, no less, by a phone call the head of the drama department had placed personally.