Chapter 49 : White/Hundred (10)

At a Korean BBQ restaurant in Gangnam, Seoul, Lee Huiseok, a middle-aged man in a sharply tailored suit that looked oddly out of place, smiled awkwardly.

“This is… an interesting choice of venue.”
“The person you wanted to meet requested grilled pork belly.”

Dohyung replied curtly, expertly flipping the slices of meat on the grill. This meeting had been arranged at Huiseok’s request; he had wanted to meet Park Saeron.

“This is going to… leave a lasting impression on my suit,” Huiseok commented, wrinkling his nose at the smell of grilling meat.
“It’s what the writer wanted. You know what they say, a thirsty man will dig a well.”
“And that’s why I’m patiently waiting.”

Huiseok poured soju into a glass and offered it to Dohyung, who accepted it without looking up from the grill. Their easy, comfortable interaction spoke volumes about their long-standing relationship.

Saeron arrived, accompanied by a young man. Huiseok looked at them with interest.

“I’m Lee Huiseok. And you are…?” he asked, gesturing towards the young man.
“Someone I’m… mentoring,” Saeron replied, patting the young man on the shoulder.

“Hello, I’m Han Dojun,” the young man said, bowing his head respectfully before sitting down.

‘Han Dojun?’

Huiseok’s eyebrows twitched. The name and the young man’s face seemed… familiar. His excellent memory quickly supplied the missing information.

“Are you… by any chance, actor Han Geunseok’s son?”

Dojun frowned, then quickly composed himself.

“You know my father?”
“Of course. Your parents used to be with our agency. Although, after you were born, we… parted ways.”

A bittersweet memory. Han Geunseok and Ryu Suyeon. Two names that evoked a mix of fondness and regret.

“I heard you’re an aspiring actor. Have you decided to join my company?”
“…You seem to know a lot about me.”
“I’m a good listener.”

After Suyeon’s death, Geunseok, who had been estranged from Huiseok for over a decade, reached out to him. about his son’s dream. Huiseok had been touched by his concern, thinking that a father’s love could overcome even the ghosts of the past.

Or perhaps it had all been an act. Geunseok, after all, was a skilled actor.

Regardless, Dojun had enrolled in Huiseok’s acting academy, a subsidiary of his agency. And Dojun had been a promising student, his name and potential leaving a lasting impression on Huiseok. It was a shame he chose a different path, thought Huiseok, but changing your dreams was a young person’s prerogative.

As we grew older, our dreams solidified, hardened, leaving us with only two choices: to convince ourselves that this was what we had always wanted, or to chip away at the dream itself, diminishing it until it fit the mold of our reality.

Huiseok had chosen the latter. And a diminished dream, a dream stripped of its potential, could never truly satisfy. That was why he “bought time,” hoping to witness the fulfillment of his own dreams through others.

The cooked pork belly was placed on the table. Huiseok ordered a bottle of cider and another soju glass, then turned to Saeron.

“I was… deeply impressed by your film.”

He had watched the final cut of “Hundred.”

The opening scene, with the protagonist calmly eating lunch in front of her mother’s corpse, had been so unsettling that he had paused the film, momentarily repulsed. But then, his initial disgust had morphed into a morbid fascination, and he had watched the rest with rapt attention.

The film’s disturbing imagery, the ambiguous symbolism, Lee Haram’s chillingly convincing performance, and Kim Dohyung’s skilled direction had created a truly… unique piece of cinema.

Saeron took a swig of soju.

“It’s going to be a box office flop.”
“From a business perspective… it’s a disaster.”

“Hundred” would undoubtedly receive an R rating. And an R-rated independent film, especially one that prioritized artistic expression over commercial appeal, had little chance of success in Korea.

“I have a question about the film.”
“What is it?”
“Who are Seol and Jihoon?”
“Yes, I’ve been wondering that myself. Even for an independent film, the writer’s… lack of guidance was frustrating.”

Dohyung chimed in. Saeron chewed thoughtfully on a piece of pork belly, swallowed, and then said,

“They are… whoever you want them to be.”
“Whoever I think?”
“Your thoughts, your questions, your interpretations… that’s the story.”

He grinned.

“The characters aren’t defined. I’ve only provided clues. The only character with a fixed identity is Seol’s mother. Death is static. So, the other characters can be… anything the audience imagines them to be.”
“That’s… a very unconventional approach.”

Huiseok offered his assessment. Saeron’s grin widened.

“It is. Those who try to understand the film will focus on Seol. She’s a blank slate, a symbol of pure, unadulterated potential. Like any young person, she could have had a happy ending, if only… she had been guided, nurtured. The ending I chose is just… one possibility.”

Saeron paused, his throat dry from talking. They all raised their glasses and took a sip of soju. He continued,

“People see Seol and Jihoon differently. Seol is… almost artificially innocent, while Jihoon is… relatable, ordinary. Someone we might encounter in our daily lives.”
“Ordinary?”
“To the audience, Jihoon can be anyone. A normal art student, or… the psychopath who murdered Seol’s mother. He’s so… familiar, so…real, that we project our own assumptions onto him.”

People often made that mistake. They saw actors and characters on screen as extraordinary, while assuming the people around them, the people in their daily lives, were… ordinary.

“We all have the potential to be… extraordinary. But we don’t believe it. Because life isn’t like a movie. And I… I hate that. Blind faith, unquestioning acceptance of our own limitations, is just as dangerous as pessimism.”

He tapped his empty glass on the table.

“Jihoon blurs the line between reality and fiction. He represents that potential, the possibility of… becoming more than we think we are.”

Huiseok, stroking his chin, considered Saeron’s words, then nodded.

“I have to admit, I was skeptical. Your films are… interesting, but I wasn’t sure if they were… commercially viable. But now… I’m convinced.”

He handed Saeron his business card.

“Writer Park Saeron, I’d like to buy your time. And the rights to your film.”
“That’s… an interesting proposition.”
“Don’t worry about the money. I value talent.”

Saeron knew, from Huiseok’s tone, that money wasn’t a factor. This man didn’t haggle; he saw value and acquired it. He accepted the business card and shook Huiseok’s hand. When opportunity knocks, you answer. They made a verbal agreement. As they were enjoying their meal, Huiseok spoke up.

“When is the wrap party for the film?”
“Probably this weekend. Why?”

Dohyung looked at him, puzzled. Huiseok hummed the tune Seol had sung in the film.

“There’s someone else whose time I’d like to buy.”

I grinned, sidling up to my mother, who was busy preparing dinner.

“Someone’s daughter wants to spend the whole day with her mom.”

My mom, her eyes on the pot on the stove, smiled.

“Aren’t you busy these days, sweetie?”
“Filming wrapped yesterday. You’re in trouble now, Mom. You’ll need a clone to keep up with me.”

Our usual weekend routine: watching dramas and variety shows, chatting endlessly, snacking… simple pleasures.

Lately, I had noticed that we had less to talk about. It made sense; the more you talked, the less you had to say. But somehow, with my mother, the opposite seemed to be true. The more we talked, the more we found to talk about.

It made me realize I had been neglecting her, too focused on acting, on the drama club.

“I’m glad you’re pursuing your dreams, but… be careful. Don’t hurt yourself.”

Her words made me freeze.

“Wh… What do you mean?”
“You think I didn’t notice the mark on your neck? A mother knows these things.”

I smiled awkwardly, mortified. I had thought I was being so careful, hiding it from them, but she had known all along. Perhaps it was impossible to hide anything from your parents.

A parent’s world shrinks, their focus narrowing to their children. They sacrifice their own dreams, their own aspirations, their own desires. Because looking at what they’ve given up, what they can no longer have, is too painful. So they focus on their children, their hopes, their dreams.

I, looking at the future, at the vast possibilities that lay before me, made the mistake of assuming they shared my perspective.

But their gaze was different. They saw only me, their focus so sharp, so intense, that they noticed every flaw, every wound.

I had forgotten this lesson, learned once and then discarded. The realization filled me with a sense of… inadequacy. At least I had learned it again, a little sooner this time.

I stepped outside to buy ice cream, greeted by the cool night air.

“Hmm…”

I hummed absently, enjoying the dry, late-summer air, a peaceful stillness settling over me.

Summer days were long, but the nights were short. I liked summer, its vibrant energy embracing even the quiet of the night.

‘I’m happy.’

I finally allowed myself to feel it, to acknowledge the happiness I had been pushing away, afraid of the inevitable fall.

I had so much to be grateful for: my family, my dreams, the anticipation of tomorrow. I wanted to smile, a genuine smile, not the carefully constructed mask I usually wore, but the expression felt… foreign, unfamiliar.

But the warmth of the summer night had thawed something within me, melting away a small part of the ice around my heart.

My lips twitched upwards, the corners of my eyes crinkling almost imperceptibly. The chirping of crickets, the soft glow of the streetlights…

I smiled. A real smile.