Taking the Shot (2)
“They’re filming a drama over there right now? Seo Ji-joon’s in it—Seo Ji-joon!”
“Who? Who’s there?”
“Seo Ji-joon, and that girl—what’s her name, the one with the acting controversy. Oh, Lee Songha!”
“Should we swing by and look?”
Late morning. People who had been walking the cherry-blossom path—nothing left on it now but bare, spindly branches—drifted one by one down toward the Han River embankment. A decent crowd had already gathered at the shoot. About half were women who’d come to see Seo Ji-joon; the rest had shown up curious after hearing that Lee Songha, the girl at the center of the acting-skill controversy, was there.
From the middle of them, one woman craned her neck out.
She belonged to the first group. The moment word reached her that Seo Ji-joon had appeared by the Han River, she’d slipped out of the office on the excuse of bank business. Other people might find Lee Songha’s acting a matter of serious interest, but for her there wasn’t even enough time just to look at Seo Ji-joon.
She’d meant to keep her eyes wide and drink in as much of him as she could before she left.
That had been the plan. The woman tilted her head, puzzled.
Why am I doing this?
As if something had her under a spell, her gaze kept being pulled somewhere else.
Not to Seo Ji-joon. To Lee Songha.
She couldn’t tell what they were filming, but she could tell Songha was imitating a cat. And that she was doing it extraordinarily well. Every small gesture, every shift of her body, made her look like a person truly possessed by a cat.
What was moving right in front of her was unmistakably human, and yet ears pricked upright and a tail seemed to flicker at the edge of sight, like a hallucination.
I have to film that.
The woman filled her phone gallery with photos of Lee Songha instead of Seo Ji-joon.
Beside her, men with bicycles tucked under their arms kept bursting out in admiration.
“They’ve been losing their minds online, but she’s actually good?”
“Man, mess that up and it would’ve been painfully cringe, but she sells it so naturally. She really looks like a cat. I wish our cat at home would turn out like that. I’d wait on her hand and foot like royalty.”
“Don’t even think about it, you lunatic.”
“Acting aside, though—how does a person even look like that?”
“Right? Are all actresses like that? That’s pure CGI.”
The reaction to Lee Songha was mostly positive. Someone brought up Jang Yoon-ok’s interview and fussed that they’d known she’d be good; someone else, who’d been certain it was a hundred-percent package deal, went sheepish at the reversal.
In the middle of it all, a man who’d been staring at Songha in a daze muttered.
“Should I post this? Lee Songha’s still catching a lot of hate.”
The fever of public condemnation had settled into a lull after Jang Yoon-ok’s interview, but plenty of people were still condemning her out of hand. Some even insisted Jang Yoon-ok had only given a sugar-coated interview for the drama’s sake.
“Yeah, post it. Post it.”
Egged on by his friend, the man put a post up on his socials.
He scowled at the reply that landed almost at once.
“For crying out loud.”
Rolling up his sleeves, the man filmed Songha mid-performance. He posted the video thinking that surely they’d believe him now—and the replies came pouring in. A few people were taking it positively, but what caught his eye more were the malicious ones: prove those lying eyes, and junk of that sort.
“Unreal. What’s their problem? I tell them I’m watching it with my own eyes and they still don’t believe me?”
“Means they didn’t see it with their own eyes. That’s all.”
The man fought the faceless people online for a while, then threw his hands up. Too many of them were gnashing out vicious comments for him to handle alone. Clicking his tongue, he screenshotted the worst of them.
“Why are you screenshotting those?”
“Once this airs, all that talk about Songha’s acting is going to vanish, right?”
“Probably?”
“I’m keeping them. Evidence, for then.”
The shoot that had started at dawn still wasn’t finished even as the sun slid west. All they’d done was move from the Han River to an outdoor set.
Whether she was in front of the camera or not, Lee Songha spent the whole time wandering around as if Jeong Haewon had taken possession of her. She’d said that was how she stayed immersed, and that the camera ate it up, so I’d left her to it—but there was a serious problem.
The kid wasn’t eating.
Lee Songha. Wasn’t eating.
Because of the Next K-Star taping she hadn’t managed much yesterday either, and overnight she’d only put away the snacks LJ had slipped her. In the morning the staff had brought lunch boxes that looked expensive at a glance, and she’d barely touched those, either.
God help me. Barely touched it—in Lee Songha’s dictionary.
I was fretting over what to do when a box truck rolled onto the set.
“Please take good care of Ji-joon oppa! Fighting, Cat Guardian Spirit!”
Right—Seo Ji-joon’s fans were supposed to come today.
So that was it: a snack truck, letting off a smell that made the mouth water. The menu written across the banner was basically a deluxe assortment. For Lee Songha.
I dragged Songha, still dazed, over in front of it.
“Songha, look. Fish cakes, tteokbokki, chicken skewers, fried shrimp……”
“Yes?”
Sure enough, Jeong Haewon left and Lee Songha popped out. When the truck opened like a transforming robot and the snacks piled generously inside came into view, Songha’s face went hazy the way a child’s does in front of an unbelievable toy.
“I want it. I wish we could take it back to the dorm.”
“No. Give it up.”
As if she’d decided that, since she couldn’t haul the snack truck home, she’d haul it in her stomach instead, Songha stacked food on her plate like a mountain. An actual mountain. The staff stared, eyes round.
Fair enough. She’d been possessed by the role since dawn, so the Lee Songha they’d seen was the cold, grown-up image of Jeong Haewon.
Deciding it made a good shot, the behind-the-scenes team even came over to film it.
“Wow, Songha, you’re full of surprises. You’re going to eat all of that? Where does it even go?”
“Hey, lay off someone who’s been out here working hard since dawn. Eat up!”
While she was possessed by Jeong Haewon, the staff had only stolen glances from a distance, faces full of things they wanted to say. Now they sidled up and dropped a word as they passed.
We made a circuit of the set ourselves, telling Director Shin Tae-gyun, the other actors, and the crew to eat well.
At last we sat down and picked up our chopsticks.
“Fortune-Kicker, Songha, eat plenty…… oh. You already are. Raid the snack truck?”
Chief Lee Bong-joon, herding Seo Ji-joon’s fans over in a cluster, stared at Songha’s plate in disbelief.
“Songha hasn’t had much since yesterday.”
Of course she would’ve piled it that high even if she hadn’t been starving. Still, after the excuse, I turned to Ji-joon’s fans. There was a woman who looked about my age, and a bare-faced kid who looked like she’d only just graduated.
“Thank you. We’ll enjoy it.”
When I greeted them, Songha bowed too, half a fried shrimp still in her mouth.
“It’s really good. Thank you for the food.”
“Ah…… eat a lot, unnie!”
The fans who’d been staring blankly at Songha waved them off. A few had been sneaking sharper looks until a moment ago; whether it had been prejudice or not, the moment they got Songha’s greeting they melted. Calling them proof shots, several fans snapped photos of her eating show and held a plump paper bag out to me.
“Please take this. And please look after Ji-joon oppa from now on.”
“Ah, yes. I’ll do my best, too.”
The bag was full of things that would come in handy on a winter set. Hand warmers, hand cream, candy, even a lap blanket. Seo Ji-joon’s name and the fan club’s were printed in the corner of the blanket.
I’d known all about celebrity fan support and the tribute culture, but seeing it in person, it really was devotion itself. There was even a handwritten note inside, asking us to look after Seo Ji-joon. Get a gift like that and you’d have no choice but to pay him extra attention.
Maybe I ought to send something back in Songha’s name.
“But aren’t you kids overdoing it? The show hasn’t even premiered and you’ve already got a snack truck and gifts. That must’ve cost a lot.”
At Chief Lee Bong-joon’s words, the woman who looked a bit older answered warmly.
“Given the situation, we got it ready early so he could keep his spirits up. And the second we opened the account, the ammo piled up in a flash. When the controversy blew up and people started jabbing from every direction, we closed ranks too.”
“Yeah. We’ve been fighting so hard lately we’re all max-level.”
“We’ve been collecting the haters’ comments. We’ll send those to the PR team.”
Watching them, I felt a little envious.
That there were fans who rolled up both sleeves and helped like that.
“All right. If the drama does well, let’s try to push a small fan meeting.”
“Once it actually airs, casual fans will come in too, so we’ll bring a meal truck and a coffee truck again then.”
“We’re grateful, but don’t overdo it.”
Soon Seo Ji-joon, finished talking with the director, walked over. The fans swarmed to his side. The same ones who’d fought the haters tooth and nail only shuffled their feet in front of him, faces flushed.
Ji-joon, for his part, opened his arms without hesitation. A light hug, a hand held. For a few whose faces he knew, he even called their names. The fans whose names were called looked ready to burst.
He’s incredibly good at fan service, Seo Ji-joon.
The youngest-looking fan chattered away.
“There’s a poll on the portal for the most anticipated drama early next year, and Cat Guardian Spirit is in second right now, oppa! We’ve been spreading it all over social and gathering a ton of votes!”
“We’re second? What’s first?”
At Ji-joon’s question the fans looked disappointed.
“The Mermaid Princess Who Came Ashore. Those original fans’ firepower is insane!”
“We fought with everything we had and still got steamrolled, oppa.”
Wherever that poll is, I ought to throw in a vote too.
“It must be hard, with the internet so loud these days.”
When a fan looked at him with pity, Seo Ji-joon clicked his tongue. Then he glanced at Lee Songha.
“If anyone’s having a hard time, it’s her. Plenty of people still think she got cast as a set with me. Truth is, she was in the project first and I came in late. You saw her acting—spread the word a little.”
“Yes!”
The fans nodded like mad.
The short meal ended and filming resumed at once. Songha had the mask of Jeong Haewon on again and was waiting. I was watching her when her name kept drifting into my ear.
A glance showed Seo Ji-joon’s fans huddled in a circle, peering at something.
“Wow. The trolls are swarming. Nothing better to do after a meal?”
“This person must have a personal grudge against Lee Songha.”
I stepped closer and gathered that one of them had posted a proof shot of Songha eating. I pulled out my phone and checked: a photo of her mid-mukbang. I was in it too, in the chair across from her.
The photo was fine. The comments strung underneath were a piece of work.
“These crazy—”
It slipped out before I could stop it. The fans looking at their phones startled and turned to me.
“Ah, sorry. It just hit me for a second.”
I said it while showing them the page, and the girl with the ponytail tried to comfort me.
“So you saw it. The internet’s full of actual lunatics.”
“For celebrities it’s a fandom war. If the fandom’s big, it doesn’t get this ugly.”
“Right. There are plenty of people shielding her even now, but they’re all just tossing in a line as they pass by. There aren’t many fans who’ll grab a hater by the collar and go, you looking to die? Do that, and they just bite harder.”
Once a few of them opened the floodgates, voices came from all over.
“But does Neptune not have a fandom at all? Their name’s up a little these days.”
“It’s growing bit by bit because of Next K-Star, but the cohesion is weak. Even among Neptune fans, some of them think badly of Lee Songha. If that splits into group fans versus solo fans fighting inside the group, it’ll be a total shitshow.”
Neptune fans thought badly of Songha?
Next K-Star viewer voting had Neptune’s rank creeping up, and I’d been feeling proud that fans were starting to form.
“Is that really true?”
When I asked seriously, the woman with the bob flinched and answered.
“I side-stan another girl group, so I’ve heard some things. They think Songha’s the only one who isn’t working hard.”
“But you can kind of see why they’d think that.”
The other fans added, carefully.
“I’ve watched everything of Next K-Star that’s aired so far, and she gets called out more than the other members, so I did wonder a little. Maybe she’s the only one slacking. Half-assing it.”
“You know how idol groups sometimes have a member like that. No interest in the team, coasts through group work, only looks after her own schedule. She could get stamped as exactly that type.”
A member who worked hard on her own and phoned it in for the team. That was about as far from Lee Songha as you could get. Thinking there might be a lot of people looking at her through that lens made my throat close up with frustration.
On the other hand, I could see how people who only knew her from TV might feel that way.
Next K-Star was a sixty-minute show an episode, with dozens of celebrities on it. Songha got more screen time than most, but even that was only fragments. From those, you couldn’t tell at all what kind of person she was, or how hard she worked.
“It’s frustrating. She’s practicing for the stage every bit as insanely hard as she practices acting.”
I clicked my tongue as I muttered it, and the fans rushed to answer.
“It doesn’t show. That’s the thing—it doesn’t show.”
“We don’t know the story behind it. We just see the bait and start playing prophet.”
“Honestly, give people one decent piece of bait and a fandom can lock together fast. Right?”
“Bait?”
The ponytail girl scratched her cheek.
“You know. Videos, GIFs. Something you can take around and pitch—look, this kid works hard.”
Something usable as bait. Songha, working hard.
“We’ve filmed a lot of her practicing in the practice room.”
“That feels too staged. The second the agency’s involved it just looks like media spin, and that’d do more harm than not posting it at all.”
“Hasn’t anyone uploaded a fancam?”
The fans tapped busily at their phones.
“Nothing much. Wasn’t there some broadcast all the members were on together?”
I dug back through my memory.
“Knet’s music show, the network music shows, Next K-Star, and that TBS sharing-campaign live broadcast last time…… oh. That one never aired.”
The memory of that day made my face tighten on reflex.
The day a downpour had come down in sheets.
The day Lee Songha had danced on a rain-soaked stage, fallen, and then taped Next K-Star on an injured ankle. She hadn’t even shown her face on the live broadcast—only the rehearsal. Thinking about it again, it was still absurd.
“Oh.”
The girl who’d had her face buried in her phone since earlier tilted her head. Then she held the screen out to me.
“Isn’t this it?”
The screen showed some civil servant’s personal blog.
Whoever it was had been at the sharing-campaign site; a short write-up sat alongside photos taken that day.
In the middle of them was a single video.
The Girl Group Webtoon Who Braved the Rain
“Webtoon?”
The moment the video played, the heavy sound of falling rain came through. And the girls, dancing onstage in nothing but their own bodies. In under a minute they were soaked from head to toe, and the high-definition footage showed it clear as anything.
“What’s going on—why’s the stage like that? Somebody’s going to get hurt.”
The second someone muttered it, Songha on the screen staggered and went straight down. Two or three people sucked in a sharp breath. Fallen, she sprang back up like a roly-poly in a matter of seconds. Then she picked the choreography right back up.
When the video ended, the screen flooded black.
The fans who’d been staring at it lifted their heads one by one and looked at me.
Ponytail said it.
“Found it. The bait.”