Chapter 3 Part 4: The Home of Stars

At the shout of “Actor,” a few of the customers in the street tent turned to look.
But seeing a face they didn’t recognize under a mask, they quickly lost interest and turned away again.

Yejun rose from his seat and bowed his head.
“Director.”

“You came right on time—looks like you got here early?”
“I just arrived.”

“That’s a relief.

Let’s sit.

The scallion pancake here is killer.
Ma’am!

One scallion pancake, one bottle of soju!
And lots of fish cake broth!”

Why was this man so excited?

Young-ho looked like he might start bouncing in place, his whole body brimming with anticipation.

“I know you didn’t have much time to analyze the character, so thank you for agreeing like this.”
“Not at all.”

“So then—how does Actor Yejun see the protagonist, Go Youngcheol, as a character?”

“…..”

Me.
Who was I in that dream?
No—could you even call that a person?

Lacking the words to answer, he hesitated for a moment, and Young-ho laughed as he spoke.

“It was too little time to define him in a single sentence, wasn’t it?
Actually, Go Youngcheol has a hidden backstory.”

Young-ho began telling a story not included in the script.

“Four years before the film’s timeline, a report comes in to the Seoul Metropolitan Police.
A man is splashing passersby with kimchi broth.
The police respond and arrest Go Youngcheol as he’s throwing red kimchi liquid on strangers.
But since it wasn’t enough to count as serious harm, they make him settle with the victims and release him.”

Pouring soju freely into their glasses, Young-ho asked,

“Why do you think he did that?”

“…..”

The why didn’t matter.
What mattered was what came after.

Yejun replied in a flat voice.

“Because he couldn’t throw kimchi broth anymore, he could no longer see red liquid on people.
So he stabbed them directly to make red liquid come out.
The only thing that excites Go Youngcheol is red blood gushing from a human body.”

Young-ho’s eyes widened.

“H-how did you…?
That part isn’t expressed anywhere in the script.”

“I don’t know.
I just… felt like I understood.”

“…..”

Swallowing hard, Young-ho finally realized that Yejun was different from before.

This man… his eyes have changed.

When he’d spotted Yejun upon arriving at the street tent, Young-ho had been thrilled at the tangible feeling of finally working together.
But now, even during the short time it took the owner to prepare the food, the air felt so awkward it made his throat tighten.

When we briefly met at the theater, he was polite.

The first impression Yejun left had been so strong that Young-ho hadn’t thought much about what kind of person he was.
Even when they spoke briefly, he’d seemed courteous, emotionally reserved, but within normal bounds.

But this felt excessive.

Young-ho cautiously watched Yejun, who was silently staring off at some corner of the street tent.

What is this?
Did he have a bad day or something?

Just then, the sound of a baby crying came from outside the tent.

A couple pushing a stroller quickly sat down in front of it and began soothing the child.
Seeing a chance to latch onto a shared topic thanks to the external stimulus, Young-ho smiled and spoke.

“Looks like the baby’s hungry.”

“…..”

“It’s strange, isn’t it?
When a baby cries, it just… gets to you somehow.”

“…Why?”

Young-ho’s eyes widened.

Why?
He just asked why?

How was he supposed to explain that?
Human beings naturally feel compassion—it was self-evident.

“…..”

This person… is strange.

A sense of unease crept over Young-ho, but as soon as the owner brought over the soju and scallion pancake, he folded those doubts away.

No matter what kind of person this man was—
If only the acting Young-ho had seen could be captured in this film, nothing else mattered.

Besides, judging from what he’d just said, Yejun had already inferred character traits not even written into the script.

“Have a drink.”
“Yes.”

They clinked glasses.
After draining his glass, Young-ho asked,

“It seems you’ve already analyzed the script.”
“Yes.”

“The reason I asked you here today is because, no matter how tight the shooting schedule is, I believe it’s essential for the director and actor to study the role together and exchange perspectives.”

“I see.”

“So I’ll ask again.
To you, Actor Yejun, what kind of person is Go Youngcheol?”

“…..”

What kind of person am I?
No—what kind of person is Go Youngcheol?
Or… was he ever a person to begin with?

If someone is only human on the outside, can you still call them human?

Yejun looked quietly at Young-ho.
Meeting that gaze, Young-ho flinched and cried out inwardly.

What kind of eyes are those?!

They weren’t glaring.
They weren’t hostile.
There was no malice.

Complete numbness.
Eyes so empty they felt terrifying precisely because they held no emotion at all.

A flash of fear crossed Young-ho’s mind, and he quickly spoke to hide it.

“The Go Youngcheol I envision is a killer who feels nothing at all.
People often imagine psychopaths as obvious lunatics—grinning creepily or acting strangely.
But from what I’ve researched, they’re no different from ordinary people.
That means many psychopaths live among us.
They’re so similar to normal people that it’s nearly impossible to distinguish them.
If you had to pinpoint a trait, it might be one or two repetitive behaviors—something like a mild compulsion…”

As he spoke, Yejun occasionally scrubbed his hands hard with a wet wipe.

Young-ho’s eyebrow twitched.

Now that I think about it—
That behavior.

A man who feels nothing.
Occasional compulsive actions.
Empty eyes.

The Go Youngcheol he’d just described was sitting right in front of him.

My god.

Just two days.
In only two days, Yejun had become a perfect Go Youngcheol.

Realizing why Yejun was in this state, Young-ho sucked in a breath.

Can an actor like this really exist?

Goosebumps broke out all over his body—along with a twinge of worry.

He’s too immersed.

He’d heard that, rarely, actors became so absorbed in a role that they developed psychological issues.
Some couldn’t escape their characters even after filming ended.

Young-ho swallowed.

I need to remind him.
You’re not Go Youngcheol—you’re Actor Ma Yejun.
But…

He wanted it.
He wanted to capture that perfect murderer on camera.
He didn’t want to break the image of the most perfect killer he’d ever imagined.

“Actor Yejun.”
“Yes.”

“Have another drink.”
“Yes.”

Clear soju filled the glass.
The mechanical repetition of clinking glasses and bringing them to their lips.

Why do people drink alcohol?
No—why did I start drinking in the first place?

Young-ho drank silently, glass after glass.
In the process, Yejun ended up drinking quite a lot as well.

Then something strange happened.

When people get drunk, they often act unlike themselves because their minds are clouded.
But with Yejun, the opposite occurred.

The more he drank, the more he emerged from Go Youngcheol’s mental world and returned to Ma Yejun.
Perhaps it was only natural—after all, he had never truly been Go Youngcheol to begin with.

Was that why?
His words gradually became more animated.

“So, you see—when Go Youngcheol happens to meet Minseo, a college student, and reacts to her bright demeanor,
I don’t think it’s so much that he feels affection.
It’s more like curiosity toward emotions he himself can’t feel.
As the stage directions say, he even considers killing Minseo.”

Young-ho sensed that Yejun’s speech patterns were slowly returning to the fragmented, partial version he’d seen before.
Relief washed over him—followed immediately by regret.

What am I even thinking?

No matter how important the film was, people came first.
Knowing something was wrong and still ignoring it for the sake of ambition—that was unacceptable.

“Actor Yejun.”
“Yes, Director.”

“Right now, you’re not normal.”

“…..”

“Do you remember washing your hands with a wet wipe every thirty seconds earlier?
You haven’t done it for several minutes now.”

Yejun looked at the wet wipe on the table, his expression saying, Did I really do that?

Young-ho gave a bitter smile and rested his chin on his hand.

“Humans really are sly creatures.
I knew something was wrong with you, but I found that version of you deeply satisfying.
That’s a director’s greed—and plainly, a failure as a human being.
I’m sorry, Actor Yejun.”

“…..”

“Actor Yejun.”
“Yes?”

“An actor performs a role.
That’s the biggest task.
But there’s an even greater one.”

“What is it?”

“Protecting yourself.”

“…..”

Swirling his glass, Young-ho smiled.

“But at least for now, this seems to be the best medicine for you.
Let’s have one more.”

***

He had no idea how he managed to get home last night, dead drunk.

He remembered meeting Director Jang Young-ho at a street tent in Jongno and the two of them drinking seven bottles of soju.
After that—nothing.

Feeling like his stomach was about to turn inside out, Yejun staggered to the fridge and gulped down bottled water.

“Ugh.”

He desperately craved ramen.

He filled a pot with water and took out a packet.
Normally he added an egg, but today he wanted the clear, spicy broth just as it was.

As the water boiled, he added the seasoning first, then the noodles, gently loosening them with chopsticks—
when suddenly his brow twitched.

Right.
Yesterday.

Yesterday—no, the two days up until yesterday.
He had clearly been abnormal.

The problem was that he hadn’t realized it himself.

If he hadn’t gotten blindly drunk with Young-ho, he might have ended up in serious trouble.

Pierrot rehearsals…
They might be more dangerous than I thought.

Repeating a role until you merge with it—every actor’s dream.
But no actor truly enters a role so completely that they share its mind.

Except him.

He’d thought it an undeniable blessing.
But now he realized—it could also be dangerous.

Shaking his head to dispel Go Youngcheol’s numb mental world creeping back in, Yejun checked the time.

Shooting starts at 11 a.m.
Location: Sanghwa University athletic field.

It was close, but factoring in time to eat and shower, he needed to move quickly.
Stirring the ramen as it cooked to perfection, he muttered out of habit,

“Not Go Youngcheol.
Ma Yejun.
Not Go Youngcheol.
Ma Yejun.
I am Ma Yejun.”

Something so obvious, yet so easily forgotten—
The simple fact that I am me.

It had happened because he’d only recently met Pierrot.
He would need more experiments, more practice.

He didn’t know how long it would take to fully immerse himself in a role while still protecting himself—
but he would do it.

‘Hang in there, Ma Yejun.’

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