Chapter 2 Part 8: When Opportunity Knocks

“A! A! A! Mmm! Mmm! Mmm!”
Damn it, the writer changed part of #D-19’s lines today, so I wanted to run one more rehearsal before bed.
And yet again, I’ve been dragged into the Pierrot Doll’s Room.
“This time I’m getting out within six days, no matter what!”

The probability of accurate vocalization is steadily increasing.
Now I only fail about once in ten attempts, with most of them succeeding.
But when I calculate the physical time required to fill the remaining count, no matter how much I cut corners, there’s no way I can finish within five days.

“At least give me some water.

My throat’s about to split apart.”

In this room, hunger and thirst don’t exist, but Ye-jun’s vocal cords were so fatigued that his throat felt cracked as he muttered hoarsely and cleared it.
And as if by magic, a bottle of water appeared in front of the doll.

Staring blankly at the unlabeled 500ml bottle, Ye-jun suddenly shouted.
“Hey! So you weren’t giving me water because I never asked, you bastard!”

If I’d known, I should’ve asked from the start.
Seriously, this isn’t even funny—it’s just messing with people.

Grateful for the water in front of him, he hurriedly twisted the cap open and gulped it down.
“Oh! This is seriously cold!”

It was cold as if it had just been taken out of a freezer, not a refrigerator.
Strictly speaking, icy drinks aren’t good during vocal training.
It’s better to drink lukewarm water to avoid irritating the throat.
But in his severely parched state, the cold water felt like a lifeline.

Not knowing whether the damn doll would give him more water or not, Ye-jun stopped after drinking about two-thirds of the bottle.
As he examined the unlabeled bottle, something about it felt strange.

It didn’t resemble commercially sold bottled water at all.
The bottle looked more like something used in a laboratory—wide at the bottom, narrowing upward into a triangular shape.

A sense of unease crept over him as Ye-jun glared at the doll.
“This isn’t some kind of weird water, right?”

“…..”

The doll, as always, gave no answer.

Even if it were water full of E. coli, his throat was so wrecked he couldn’t afford not to drink it.
After taking a few more sips, Ye-jun clenched his fist tightly.

“Again!

Let’s go!

I want to finish this fast and sleep!

A! A! A! Mmm! Mmm! Mmm!”

***

“What did you think of the actor we saw yesterday?”
“Hmm, he was good, but his tone was too theatrical. Not really the type we’re looking for.”
“Sigh. We’ve been holding auditions for three weeks and still couldn’t find anyone, so we’ve been tearing through Daehak-ro for two more weeks now. Still nothing. Where are we headed today?”

A man and a woman walked through Daehak-ro, talking as they went.
Both looked to be in their thirties, with ordinary faces.
The woman held out her phone.

“There’s a play that’s been getting steady reviews lately. It’s called The Scarred Mountain Lodge.”
“What, from people who actually watch theater?”
“Yeah. You know that café admin, right?

They usually give decent scores to scripts but are really stingy when it comes to acting.

But for this one, they gave the actors a really high score.”
“Isn’t that person just a regular viewer, not an industry insider?

Let me see.

A horror play?”
“Yeah, but they’ve got a good eye—good enough that even industry people trust their judgment. And they gave four stars to the overall acting.

Scroll down.”

At her prompting, the man scrolled to the bottom of the review, his eyebrows twitching.
“A monster has appeared in the Daehak-ro theater scene?

Isn’t this person usually not the type to use such sensational language?”

“Exactly.

That’s why people have been flocking to see it.”

“Where’s the theater?”

“It’s in a small venue up the alley by the Naksan Park parking lot.”

“Hmm. Not on the main strip, then. Must be tiny.”

“I checked while booking—only fifty seats.”

“Hmm. Not getting my hopes up.”

“Me neither, honestly.

But we’re the ones in a bind.

We have to start production this month, and all the staff are already on standby.”

“…Right.”

The man handed the phone back.
Wearing a field jacket, military pants, and sporting a scruffy beard, he looked like either a theater actor or a struggling film director.
His name was Jang Young-ho, a man who had majored in film and dreamed of becoming a director.

The woman with glasses was Choi Soo-mi, his college classmate and a film art major.
After graduation, unable to find stable work, she had drifted aimlessly until a chance reunion with Young-ho at a school gathering.
Hitting it off on the spot, they decided that instead of waiting endlessly for opportunities, they’d at least try making a short film together.

The film they were planning had a budget of eight million won and a runtime of around forty minutes.
Even student short films typically draw five to eight hundred applicants when casting calls go up.
After three weeks of auditions without finding anyone suitable, they had resorted to searching for actors on foot.

As they walked toward Theater Mae, Young-ho spoke.

“I rounded up some juniors to handle lighting and sound, and with you here, mise-en-scène is covered.

But locations are still a mess.”

“We’ll just have to keep running around ourselves.”

Just like in the theater world, where actors have to handle multiple roles, the short film scene also runs on people wearing many hats.
Young-ho firmly believed that this hardship would someday bear fruit.

Adjusting her round glasses, Soo-mi said,
“The script you wrote is really solid.

Films where the protagonist is a murderer aren’t common.”

“What, like Dexter?”
“That’s different.

That’s about a killer hiding as a cop.

Yours is about a psychopath whose nonexistent emotions are shaken after meeting a woman.

Totally different.”

There were only two main characters in Young-ho’s script.
The murder victim was an extra, to be filled by underclassmen or actor exchanges, leaving only two lead roles.
No supporting roles—just leads and extras.

Extras and the female lead weren’t an issue, but finding a male lead was difficult.
Most juniors were either too young or didn’t fit the image.

Soo-mi pulled out her phone again.
“This review talks about the lead villain, actor Ma Ye-jun.

It says the way he calmly recounts his horrific past crimes is even more chilling.

Look at the photo.”

In the photo, a woman stood next to Ye-jun.
Examining his face, Young-ho’s eyes widened.

“He’s handsome.”

“Exactly.

That’s what’s weird.

Actors praised like this in small theaters are usually plain-looking or downright unattractive. Handsome ones in small theaters usually can’t act.

But this guy’s getting rave reviews despite his looks.

I don’t get why he’s still here.”

“Then it’s one of two things.

Either the reviewer was dazzled by his looks, or a fan or acquaintance wrote fake praise for promotion.”

Soo-mi shook her head.

“No.

There are too many reviews for that.

Over a hundred already.

How many Daehak-ro plays have you seen with over a hundred café reviews?

And there’s a ton of talk about his voice.”

“His voice?”

“Yeah.

Some say even from the back row, his lines came through crystal clear.

Others say his speech resonates.

A small theater play with over a hundred reviews—not some celebrity-driven production.

Have you seen anything like that since COVID?”

“…No.”

“Even if we don’t know for sure, rumors must be spreading.

Industry people are probably starting to look, too.”

“So we need to move fast.”

“Yeah.”

“Our budget’s eight million won.

How much can we allocate for the male lead?”

“Fifty.”

“…That’s awkward.”

Offer fifty thousand won per appearance in Daehak-ro, and hundreds of actors would swarm in.
That’s how poor the scene is, and most actors prioritize career over money.
But numbers don’t matter if no one fits the role.

After arriving at the theater and showing their mobile reservation, the two entered early and carefully observed the incoming audience.
Seeing nearly ten women enter already, Young-ho sighed.

“Looks like the type that pulls crowds with looks.

Why is it all women at a horror play?”

“That’s a fair suspicion.”

While women do drive most cultural consumption in their twenties and thirties, this was excessive.
Fifteen minutes before curtain, Young-ho was the only man left in the audience.

Shaking his head, he muttered,
“Well, it’s not the first wasted trip.

We’ll just say we watched a play.

Where to tomorrow?”

“I’m thinking Hongdae.

They’ve got small theaters too.”

“What kind?”

“Comedy.”

“Hey.

We’re looking for a murderer, not a comedian.”

“Why not?

Comedy actors can really act.”

“Sure, but visually—”

“Isn’t it scarier when someone who doesn’t look like it acts terrifying?”

“…Fine. Let’s try it tomorrow.”

As with most Daehak-ro plays, a friendly young man came onstage to warm up the crowd, and the play finally began.
Watching the crude set, Young-ho noticed Ye-jun entering with a suitcase.
He opened the door without speaking a line, yet Young-ho’s eyes widened in shock.

‘He just shivered slightly.’
‘Such a tiny movement you’d miss it if you weren’t watching closely.’

It was cold outside.
Most actors would exaggerate—hugging their arms, shivering violently, hunching over.
But this man showed none of that.
He moved instinctively, not demonstratively.

Naturally conveying a character’s objective—the motivation that sparks conflict—is never easy.
The man from the photos Young-ho had seen earlier.
His eyes gleamed.

‘That actor is Ma Ye-jun.’

Completely absorbed, Young-ho’s concentration shattered moments later.
Another actor burst in, shaking and shouting.

“Ah! It’s freezing! I almost froze to death!”

Was the acting cringeworthy?

Yes.
Bad?
Absolutely not.

In Daehak-ro, few actors command attention from the moment they appear, and this was solid work.

Young-ho’s gaze returned to Ye-jun.

‘He’s so natural that everyone else looks like they’re acting.’
‘That probably elevates the overall performance, but the skill gap is overwhelming.’

Ye-jun still hadn’t spoken a single line.
He had merely entered, placed his suitcase in the corner, surveyed the lodge, and greeted the newcomer.

Yet even so, he had already shattered Young-ho’s preconceived notions.

“Ah, you too?”
“…..?”
“I’m reporter Shin Cheolho, invited to cover the lodge’s opening event.”
“…..”

The new man’s line.
Ye-jun said nothing, merely staring calmly at him—his gaze flicking between the business card and the man’s face.

Young-ho swallowed hard.

‘It’s a face as indifferent as if he’s watching a passing insect.’

One look at those eyes told him everything.
The character had no respect for people.

“Oh, I see.

I was also invited to the opening event.

I’m businessman Jeong Seongryong.”

The moment Ye-jun spoke, both Young-ho and Soo-mi’s eyes widened.

‘W-What kind of voice is that?’
‘The entire theater is resonating!’