Chapter 1 Part 2: The Color of Despair is Beautiful

Hyehwa Station, Exit 2.

If you come out of the subway and go straight, you reach Marronnier Park.

Turn left, and there’s an alley leading to the Arko Arts Theater.

Even though it was a relatively quiet Wednesday, the area always had heavy foot traffic, and plenty of pedestrians were in sight.

As he entered the theater alley, a young female student who had been watching people from a table set up in front of a café immediately latched onto him.

“Hello!

Are you here to see a play by any chance?”

“…..”

“Have you already booked tickets?”

“No.”

“We’re selling tickets on-site at a 50% discount.

How about it?”

“…..”

The student standing before him.

Yeah—he’d done that kind of part-time job himself once.

Back in college, whenever seniors who had graduated put on plays in Daehangno, juniors would step in to help like that.

They’d paste up posters with glue, call out to passersby, pull in customers.

The pay barely covered the cost of a bottle of soju, but even so, those days had been genuinely fun.

Because back then, he was young enough to delude himself that the future would work out somehow.

He never imagined it would turn out like this.

Watching the girl quietly, Changhyeon dug into his pocket and spoke.

“Is there anything good to watch these days?”

“Of course!”
“There are more than twenty shows.”
“Would you like a pamphlet?”

“Yes.”

The excited student handed him a pamphlet.

It didn’t cover every play running in Daehangno, but it did include quite a few small-theater productions.

Plays staged at famous theaters with well-known celebrities didn’t hand out discounted tickets like this.

What was being sold here were usually small productions at obscure venues.

No title really caught his eye, but he excluded romance first, then comedy as well.

His tastes leaned more toward thrillers or philosophical stories, so after skimming the synopses, he chose one.

“I’ll take this one.

One ticket, please.”

“Wow, you must watch a lot of plays.”
“This one’s pretty heavy, so people don’t usually pick it.”
“Come to think of it, you’re really handsome.”
“Are you an actor by any chance?”

Yejun gave a bitter smile.

“No, I’m just an ordinary person.”
“At least, not yet.”
“How much is the ticket?”

The student blinked at his ambiguous answer, then quickly took the money from his hand.

“It’s originally 15,000 won, but with the discount it’s 8,000 won!”
“Here’s your change.”
“And this is a theater map, so please take it.”
“It’s a small theater, so it’s hard to find otherwise.”

“Thank you.”

If it was a 50% discount on 15,000 won, why was it 8,000?

Well, he wasn’t about to argue over 500 won.

According to the map, the theater was called Theater Mae, and the play was titled For Whom the Bell Tolls.

Judging by the title, it seemed to be an adaptation of Hemingway’s novel.

Just as the student had said, the theater was tucked away underground in a maze-like alley that was extremely hard to find.

The audience seating was fewer than fifty seats.

Including himself, there were only seven people in attendance.

How did they even make a living like this?

The play was a modernized adaptation of Hemingway’s original, carried entirely by just four actors.

At the beginning, the actors’ line delivery was a bit clumsy, making it hard to focus, but from the middle onward it was passable.

When the play ended, the actors smiled brightly and greeted the mere seven audience members.

It wasn’t applause born purely of admiration, but more of encouragement—
Even so, the joy shining on the actors’ faces was dazzling.

If he’d started from the theater scene instead of joining an agency, would he have been able to hold onto that kind of passion?

He heard that audience members could take photos on stage with the actors.

But no one easily stepped up.

The actors stood there awkwardly, smiling awkwardly, gesturing for someone to hurry up and come take pictures.

It looked like the awkward silence would never end if left alone, so Yejun went up first and held out his phone.

A staff member took the photo.

Standing among the smiling actors, Yejun wore a sad expression.

No matter how small the stage, he wanted to stand on it at least once.

But he couldn’t easily muster the courage to choose the starving life of a theater actor.

After exchanging farewells with the actors, he climbed the stairs out.

The walls were plastered with posters.

Most were play advertisements, but one of them stopped Yejun in his tracks.

It was a recruitment notice for stage art staff.

He knew what it meant—making props, constructing sets.

Basically manual labor.

The poster stated vaguely that wages would be “according to internal regulations.”
Lowering his head, Yejun thought that he wanted to do even work like this.

His stubbornly unmoving feet seemed to urge him to try something like this while going on production company profile tours.

But he knew.

He knew exactly how exhausting and how hungry this kind of work was.

Unless it was reckless passion that held dreams hostage for the future, it wasn’t something easily attempted.

Even after all the audience members had left, Yejun stood blankly in the middle of the stairwell, staring at the poster.

His reason told him to try something with even a shred of possibility.

But his emotions resisted fiercely.

Then, suddenly, the actors’ performances from earlier came to mind.

They were far inferior to the performances of the seniors he’d watched over the years,
Yet their smiles had been unbearably bright.

Suddenly, he felt pathetic for having strutted around, proud of being from a large agency.

An ironic situation—lacking both the courage to try and the will to walk away.

Just then, a man in his mid-thirties came down the now-quiet stairwell after all the audience had left.

The stairway was narrow, so Yejun pressed himself against the wall to make room.

The man suddenly spoke.

“Are you here for the audition too?”

“…..”

“Judging by your mask, you look like an actor.”

“Ah.”

He wanted to say yes.

But could he really say that now?

The man glanced at his wristwatch, then quickly stepped aside as he passed.

“The audition’s about to start.”
“Let’s hurry.”

Yejun watched the man’s back as he descended, then turned his gaze back to the poster.

Only then did he notice that today’s date was written as the audition date.

He stared at the poster for a moment, mentally tapping at a calculator.

‘I can’t make money from theater.’
‘There must be part-time jobs with flexible hours.’
‘Other actors must be working too.’
‘If I sleep less, I can definitely make time for profile tours.’
‘Then maybe I could do it too.’

He wanted to dream just a little longer.

He didn’t want to drift away from this dream he absolutely couldn’t give up.

***

A short while later, after impulsively auditioning, Yejun ran into the man in his thirties again outside, where he was smoking.

The man smiled affably and offered a handshake.

“Wow!”
“I thought your mask was unusual, but you really can act.”
“You’re experienced, right?”

Yejun bowed slightly as he shook his hand.

“Thank you.”
“It’s embarrassing to say, but I majored in acting.”

“Wow, impressive.”
“I’m not a major.”

“Your acting was pretty good too.”

It wasn’t empty praise.

The man’s acting had been quite solid.

The audition consisted of about three minutes of short acting using sides handed out on the spot.

With over three hundred drama auditions under his belt, Yejun was naturally used to this.

But it wasn’t something easy for a non-major to pull off suddenly.

Even so, the man delivered a commendable performance.

He was probably an actor who’d been through the wringer around Daehangno.

Perhaps his acting—unconstrained and distinctive—was even more appealing than Yejun’s own, shaped by formal training.

The man smiled lightly.

“I’m Lee Jeonghwan.”

“Ma Yejun.”

“If you don’t mind me asking—your age?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Haha, I’m thirty-two.”

“Yes, I look forward to working with you.”

With no common topic to continue on, Jeonghwan scratched his head, put another cigarette in his mouth, and said,

“Do you smoke?”

“No.”

“Must be nice.”
“I wish I could go back to before I started.”
“This damn thing—I wish I’d never touched it in the first place.”

Smoking.

At some point, he’d naturally stopped reaching for it.

He’d been under agency management since high school.

No smoking, no drinking, not even a single swear word.

The company policy was that youthful indiscretions could become problems later.

Just then, the phone in his pocket vibrated.

When he checked it, there was a message from the theater troupe.

[We are pleased to inform you that actor Ma Yejun has passed the audition.

Welcome to Theater Mae.

The script for the new production will be sent via email.

Please familiarize yourself with the script and join rehearsals starting three days from now.]

He was happy.

Honestly, he’d expected to pass—but still, he was happy.

Nearly ten years of acting practice.

Countless auditions for major broadcasting dramas.

Repeated failures—but still.

Receiving a message saying even a small troupe wanted to use him made his spirits soar.

“Oh!”
“I passed too!”

When Yejun looked up, he saw Jeonghwan holding his phone with a joyful expression.

So they were both in.

Well, only two people had auditioned, after all.

And his acting really hadn’t been bad.

Jeonghwan bowed politely.

“I look forward to working with you.”

“Haha, me too.”

“Then I’ll see you in three days.”

“Sure.”
“Get home safe.”

As he moved away from Jeonghwan’s pungent cigarette smoke and headed home, Yejun’s shoulders felt a little lighter.

***

Three days later, Theater Mae.

Only now did he realize that the play he’d seen that day had been the final performance.

The theater would be closed for a while to prepare for a new production.

The troupe consisted of six actors, one staff member who doubled as stage art director, a writer, and the troupe leader.

The leader—wearing a flat cap like a painter from the ’70s and puffing on a pipe like a ship’s captain—looked to be in his sixties, with deep smile lines.

Regardless of the troupe’s size, he clearly lived for this work.

The leader handed out bound copies of the script he’d emailed in advance and spoke.

“Alright, alright.”
“We’ve got new members, so let’s introduce ourselves.”

Starting with the leader and moving toward the writer, everyone gave self-introductions.

They were bright, energetic people.

When it was his turn, Yejun stood and bowed.

“I’m Ma Yejun.”
“I’m twenty-seven years old.”
“I majored in acting.”

Perhaps because of his noticeable looks, attention focused on him.

“Judging by your short hair, you must’ve just been discharged?”
“Where were you before?”
“If you majored in acting, you must have a lot of experience.

That’s reassuring!”
“Let’s do our best together!”

After bowing again and sitting down, the leader spoke once more.

“Alright, now that introductions are done.”
“You’ve all read the script, right?”
“What did you think?”

The script sent by email was for a horror play titled The Scarred Lodge.

Late at night, four men visit a mountain lodge at someone’s invitation and begin dying one by one.

In truth, the one who invited them was a vengeful spirit—
A woman seeking revenge on the four men responsible for her death.

It was a familiar story, but the twist was that the four men didn’t know each other.

The psychological battle of hiding one’s sins while watching people die was fairly compelling.

With no roles assigned yet, they spent time discussing impressions of the script as a whole.

Then the leader spoke.

“We’ll start stage construction today.”
“The two newcomers should focus on memorizing the script for now.”
“You can help with stage setup next time.”
“It goes faster when people who are used to working together handle it.”
“So for today, head home.”
“We’ll gather again in the basement rehearsal room the day after tomorrow.”
“We’ll have a team dinner then too.”
“Alright—meeting adjourned!”