Chapter 7 : Initiation Ceremony (3)

There once was a confident girl.
She believed that, just like those who shone on stage, she too could naturally shine.

The girl experienced a fall.
The overwhelming difference in talent clipped her wings.
Once broken, the girl never flew again.

She realized it was more comfortable to admire them from afar than to stand beside them.

Perhaps if she had persisted, she might have eventually reached her goal.
Unfortunately, she grew up before that could happen.

Kang Haerin considered herself to have followed an elite path.
Immediately after graduating from Korea University’s Department of Theater and Film, she applied to the Seoul Metropolitan Theatre and, against incredible odds, got accepted.

The fruits of victory were sweet.
The Seoul Metropolitan Theatre, living up to its reputation, gathered a generation’s worth of talent.
Rising stars, lead actors acclaimed for their captivating stage presence at theater festivals, and even actors who occasionally graced the silver screen were all there.

They were the raw gems that would lead the future of Korean theater.
With polishing, they would become jewels, shining brightly. She believed, without a doubt, that she would be one of them.

After five years of auditioning and playing minor roles in the theatre company, Haerin, recognizing the vast difference in talent, left.

Fortunately, there were still places that sought her out.
Her years of systematic training in a prestigious environment became her strength. It allowed her to work as an instructor at a school like this.

During her time at the Metropolitan Theatre, Haerin had witnessed countless talents.
Her experience had given her a discerning eye. She could identify potential just by observing someone’s attitude towards acting.

In that sense, this year’s first-year students were excellent.
Although their performances were amateurish, none of them seemed afraid of the stage.
They were at least competent enough for a school club.

But that wasn’t the issue.
Haerin sighed and furrowed her brow.
There were two unusual students in the mix.

Han Dojun, Lee Haram.
These two names were giving her a headache.
She recalled their performances.

First, Han Dojun.
She knew from the moment he delivered his first line.

This kid was a genius.
A hardworking genius, at that.

“I’m pathetic. So pathetic that I can’t even kill myself.”
His face became visible after the second line. The way he trembled, expressing his sorrow, almost made Haerin cheer. She felt like an explorer who had discovered El Dorado.

Overdoing a crying scene could be off-putting.
Dojun seemed to know this and controlled himself consciously.

That’s how she knew.
That every bit of that performance was a product of his hard work and dedication.

“Do I look happy to you?”

When he delivered his last line with a trembling hand, she was certain.

This kid was a monster.
A monster who would devour ordinary people with his overwhelming talent.
Haerin started formulating plans for how to utilize this gold mine named Han Dojun.

Next, Lee Haram took the stage.
Haerin offered her a silent prayer.
She knew better than anyone the feeling of being blocked by an insurmountable wall.

At the same time, she hoped Haram would deliver a decent performance. The girl had a captivating face and a graceful figure. If she didn’t have stage fright, she could easily play a lead role based on her physical presence alone.

The girl was smiling brightly, as if she found something amusing.
Come to think of it, she had been smiling when they first met in the hallway too.

Being quick to smile wasn’t a bad thing. It showed a richness of emotions. But in this context, where she had to portray a tragic character, it wasn’t a good sign.

‘Can she even get into character like that?’

Even seasoned actors prepared their emotions backstage. And she was still smiling on stage?
Haerin understood that Dojun’s performance might have been discouraging, but giving up before even starting was a different story.

So, she spoke up.
“Haram, aren’t you smiling too much already? Even if Dojun blew everyone away, I won’t forgive a half-hearted performance.”

The girl nodded, but the smile remained on her face. Haerin’s expectations dwindled seeing her ignore the advice.
And then, the performance began.

Lee Haram closed her eyes.
She stood motionless in the center of the stage, eyes closed, expressionless.
Naturally, everyone’s attention focused on her.

Haram’s cheek twitched slightly. She furrowed her brow almost imperceptibly.
Haerin felt it.

Normally, such subtle movements would go unnoticed, but for some reason, she could clearly perceive every single shift in Haram’s expression.

Lee Haram exhaled softly and opened her eyes.
The atmosphere changed instantly.
A strange energy filled the air, making the hairs on Haerin’s arms stand on end.

Haram slowly scanned the audience.
When her empty gaze finally met Haerin’s…

Haerin’s breath hitched.
A strange dryness filled her mouth. An unfamiliar thirst consumed her.

She felt like they were the only two people in the room.
Haram stared right at her. The intensity of her gaze, the raw emotion behind it, was unsettling.

Haram inhaled, a raspy, metallic sound mixing with her breath.

She looked up, her empty eyes fixed on nothing.
And then, she spoke.

“If you loved me that much, why didn’t you tell me?”

The moment she heard those words, a wave of intense discomfort washed over Haerin, making her wince.

Anger, tenderness, despair, happiness, hatred, affection…
Conflicting emotions intertwined, assaulting her heart.

Haerin snapped back to reality. Haram’s face wore the same cheerful smile as before.

An unsettling performance.
Was it even acting?
It was so unlike anything Haerin had ever seen that she couldn’t readily categorize it.
Lost for words, she responded with a question.

“…What *are* you?”

Back in the present, Haerin clutched her head. Her usual approach was to have second-years play the lead roles, first-years the supporting roles, and third-years as extras. This ensured a minimum level of quality in the ever-changing high school drama club. Even then, some roles were fluid, depending on acting skills and appearance.

But the desire to cast these two unusual students together was giving her a headache.

***

The instructor gathered the first-year students and gave them a chance to explain their performances.
This was crucial for building rapport within the group and improving their acting skills.

We sat around a table and began our explanations.
Once again, Yang Jaehoon from the Hotel Culinary Department started.

“My character was a businessman who went bankrupt. My dad always said that the higher you climb, the harder you fall. I thought it would be truly tragic for a wealthy person to lose everything in an instant, so I chose that.”
“The setup sounds good. Honestly, I couldn’t really tell what you were doing up there.”
“I… I was really nervous.”

Having a shared topic made it easy to start a conversation.
I smiled and joined in.

“You’re a good speaker, Jaehoon. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Oh… um…”

He blushed and turned away.

‘Is he upset because I called him cute earlier?’

Being called cute by a girl probably wasn’t pleasant for a boy.
Knowing this, I felt a pang of guilt.

The explanations continued. A girl who introduced herself as Min Chaerin from the Design Department explained her portrayal of everyday tragedy.

“Honestly, I’m very competitive. So, I imagined losing to a rival in an exam. I stomped my feet and yelled to express my frustration.”

Next was Kim Junseok. I couldn’t resist teasing him. He started to speak, then looked at me with a pitiful expression.

“Mr. Kim Hamlet, what is the problem?”
“The temporary president of our class *is* the problem. Aren’t you done teasing me yet?”
“To be or not to be, can you do that one more time?”
“Oh, come on.”

Laughter rippled through the group. Only Junseok himself looked miserable. His portrayal of Hamlet was truly unforgettable.

Dojun stood up. He scratched his head and said,

“I was going to portray a sad person, but once I was on stage, I thought it would be more interesting to mix in some laughter, so I did.”

It was hard to believe the performance he delivered on stage was improvised. The other students looked stunned.

It was my turn. I stood up and began my explanation.

“I imagined a lonely 34-year-old man. His father died in an accident when he was young, and his mother passed away when he became an adult. He has no family to contact. It’s the perfect environment for breeding loneliness.”
“You planned it out in detail.”
Dojun frowned, intrigued. I smirked.

“I have a vivid imagination. To elaborate, the tragedy I wanted to portray was pain. The pain of a man forced to live in solitude.”

I looked around at the listening students and continued.

“The man has no one to lean on. He’s completely alone. So, he doesn’t express his pain. He doesn’t expect anyone to notice. He just silently endures it. No reaction. That’s how he deals with pain. That’s why I minimized my dialogue and maintained a blank expression.”

Hyelin raised her hand. She seemed to have a question.

“H… Haram, I have a question.”
“What is it?”
“Why did you… add that last line?”
“Hmm, let me show you.”

I pinched Hyelin’s arm. She tilted her head at first, then yelped and surrendered as I applied more pressure. Smiling, I answered her question.

“That line is the scream of a man facing unbearable pain.”