Chapter 3 Part 8: The Home of Stars

The final Wednesday shoot of the short film The Killer’s Diary.

Aware of Yejun’s anxiety about excessive immersion into his roles, Jang Young-ho deliberately scheduled all the murder scenes to be filmed in a single day.

The first killing took place in the Jonggak public parking lot restroom.
The second was in an alley behind Hwanghak-dong Market.
The third occurred at a police officer’s home.
And now, they were filming the scene where the mail carrier who comes looking for Go Youngcheol is killed.

“Cut! That was good—let’s get one more from the side! Camera move!”

Films often repeat a single scene multiple times, capturing it from various angles.

Thanks to Yejun, most scenes received an O.K. on the first or second take, so things seemed likely to wrap up far faster than expected.

The staff whispered among themselves at how smoothly the shoot was progressing.

“I thought we’d be pulling an all-nighter since it’s the last day, but we’re already here? Just three more cuts and we’re done? At this rate, we might even finish before dinner.”

“I don’t have that much experience on set, but this is a first for me. On my last short film, we shot for three days on three hours of sleep.”

“Is it because the actor’s good, or because the director’s cutting corners?”

Hearing the murmurs, Jang Young-ho grinned to himself.

They’re saying that because they’re not watching the camera angles.

Unless you were someone like himself or the cinematographer—people holding their breath while staring at the frame—you simply couldn’t grasp the true force of an actor like Yejun.

But just look at the supporting actors who had shared scenes with him.
Even after filming ended, they eyed him as if he were a ghost.
Some even tried to keep as much distance from him as possible.

Heh. They said it really felt like he was going to kill them.

After the first shoot, the Daehangno actor who’d been sent home early had come up to him after filming the Jonggak restroom murder scene and said exactly that.
The performance had been so shocking it made him forget, momentarily, that they were filming.

From here on out, it was up to him.
If an actor delivered that kind of performance and the film still failed, the fault would lie entirely with the director.
Out of sheer pride, Young-ho resolved to push post-production to the limit—even if it meant pulling all-nighters until the day of screening.

The set buzzed with activity as the camera repositioned.

From a short distance away, Young-ho spotted a man in his fifties standing with his arms crossed, and his face lit up.

“Sunbae-nim!”

They were filming in a residential area rather than a studio, since the scene involved killing a mail carrier who came to Go Youngcheol’s house.
There was exactly one person here who wasn’t staff.

The man uncrossed one arm and gave a casual wave.

Though Young-ho called him sunbae, he was actually someone a young director like himself would hesitate to approach casually.

His name was Kim Minsu.

A film director who debuted in the commercial scene with the 2012 movie Urban Legends, and a senior alumnus from Young-ho’s school.

Over the past thirteen years, Kim Minsu had released three commercial films and ten short films, dedicating himself relentlessly to his craft.

None had been massive box-office hits, but not a single film he touched had failed to break even.

A director with a ten-million-viewer hit was impressive—but a director whose films never failed was impressive in a different way altogether.
Plenty of directors struck gold once, only to have every subsequent project collapse and end up ruined.

Kim Minsu gestured as if to say don’t mind me, focus on the shoot.

Smiling faintly, Young-ho glanced sideways at him and thought,

As expected… he’s noticed Yejun too.

Kim Minsu’s gaze had been fixed on Yejun for some time now.

Unlike the other staff, he was a director himself—a seasoned veteran of the industry.
Even without watching the angles, he would have sensed that Yejun was fundamentally different from other actors.

Feeling satisfied by his senior’s attention, Young-ho took his place behind the camera.

“Alright!

Just three scenes left!

Let’s push through to the end!”

***

Kim Minsu had come here for one reason only.

He wanted to offer Jang Young-ho—whom he’d once hired as an assistant director during a short film project—a chance to work as his assistant director again.

This was how the film industry worked.
Seniors pulled from the front, juniors pushed from behind.

It often led to exploitative “passion pay,” but what juniors wanted more than immediate money was experience.
Seniors who provided that environment inevitably earned their respect.

Kim Minsu himself had climbed the ladder the same way, becoming a director thanks to his seniors’ help.
Now it was his turn to give back.

That said, he never once thought of himself as a successful director.
After all, it had already been three years since he last shot a commercial film.

The scripts he wrote couldn’t find investors and were eventually passed around other production companies.
Everywhere he went, the answer was the same—low commercial viability.

In the end, the only thing he could realistically make was a short film produced in-house.

Even that was a blessing.
These days, the industry was filled with directors and crew doing nothing at all.

He stayed in regular contact with his juniors, and when he heard that Jang Young-ho was finally making his directorial debut with a short film, the timing felt right.

Planning to propose the assistant director role, Kim Minsu came by the set—half curious, half supportive—and that was when he noticed one particular actor.

His looks are… average.

Ma Yejun was handsome.
Tall, broad-shouldered, solidly built from regular exercise.
But that was by ordinary standards.

On TV, even beautiful singers looked plain when standing next to actors—people whose appearances bordered on the unreal.
By that measure, Yejun’s looks were merely average.

Still, for a bit-part actor who usually sported a scruffy, homeless-looking beard, he was striking enough to make you look twice.

And then came that murder scene.

At first, my eyes were drawn to the victim’s acting.

It genuinely surprised him.
Why hadn’t an actor capable of such visceral terror gained any recognition?

But he soon realized the truth.

It’s that actor drawing it out of him.

Perhaps the actor playing the victim hadn’t been acting at all—maybe he’d truly been terrified.

No screaming.
No chilling laughter.
Just a murderer expressionlessly repeating his stabs, as if the act stirred no emotion whatsoever.

He was orchestrating everything.

I want to see it through the camera.

Watching from a distance and watching through the lens were completely different experiences.
Actors performed with their eyes and voices, and Kim Minsu felt a powerful urge to see that empty gaze framed by the camera.

Soon, filming wrapped for that scene, and as the staff packed up to move locations, Young-ho jogged over.

“Sunbae-nim, you came!”

“I did. Shoot going well?”

“Yes, thanks to you.”

“How many scenes left?”

“Two.”

“And takes?”

“Six per scene.”

Kim Minsu checked his watch.

“Think we can have dinner together?”

“Ah… since it’s the last shoot, we were thinking of having a wrap-up dinner.”

Grinning, Kim Minsu clapped Young-ho on the shoulder.

“Exactly. I’m saying I’ll treat.”

“Oh! As expected of you, sunbae!”

“These juniors might all work with me someday. Gotta soften them up early so they don’t demand high pay later.”

“Haha, you’re something else.”

“I’ll reserve a pork belly place nearby. Call me when you’re done.”

“Whoa, you’re buying meat?”

“Looks like barely over ten people. On commercial films, staff can hit two hundred.”

“I don’t even remember the last time I ate meat. Mind if I grease up properly today?”

“Sure—then we’ll count that as your assistant director fee.”

“Hey! That’s not fair. At least give me something.”

“Haha, kidding. Call me later. Oh—and.”

Kim Minsu nodded toward Yejun, who was wiping fake blood from his face.

“That actor’s coming too, right?”

“Ah.”

Young-ho glanced at Yejun with a sly grin.

“You noticed him too, didn’t you?”

“If you noticed, how could I not? Can you show me the angle?”

Asking to see unfinished footage was rude—unless the relationship ran deep.

Young-ho nodded.

“You’ll be shocked.”

“Can I see it now?”

“I’ll show you during the move. Next location’s ten minutes away—ride with us.”

“Alright. What was he doing before this?”

“Small-theater plays in Daehangno.”

“Huh… interesting.”

***

A few hours later, at a pork belly restaurant near Jongno.

Kim Minsu sat alone with his arms crossed, waiting for Young-ho and the staff, his expression very different from before.

This is insane.

The moment he’d seen the monitor in the car—no, the moment he’d seen Yejun’s eyes on that screen—his entire body had shivered.

Things he hadn’t felt while watching from the side came flooding through all at once.

Unconsciously bouncing his leg, Kim Minsu took a sip of water.

That was acting?

The footage had no sound, but unless the audio completely collapsed, it was obvious the final scene would be extraordinary.

Short films were different from commercial films or dramas.

The shooting schedules were brutally tight.

Young-ho’s shoot would wrap in just three days.

Scripts were sometimes handed out only a week before filming.
Actors barely had time to analyze their roles.

And yet… that kind of performance?

Short films were often boring.
They leaned toward experimental themes and artistic intent rather than mass appeal—and the rushed preparation often resulted in underdeveloped acting.

But a single actor had erased one of the very reasons short films were dull.

He said he was a Daehangno stage actor.

Maybe he’d already played killers on stage.
Maybe the continuity of similar roles had let him sink fully into that mindset.

Even so… that was extraordinary.

The moment Kim Minsu checked the angle, wanting to know more, he had already fallen for Ma Yejun.

Like a first love that steals your heart before you realize it, once lost, your focus narrows.

Right now, Yejun was all he could think about.

At that moment, the restaurant door slid open and Young-ho and the staff poured in.

“Director Kim Minsu is the best!”

“Auntie! Close the shutters! We’re eating all the meat tonight!”

Free meat bought by a senior in the industry tasted better than anything else.

Watching the flushed, excited staff take their seats, Kim Minsu tapped the chair beside him.

“You—sit here.”

“…..”

Standing before him was Yejun, his eyes still hollow, not yet free from the role.

📚 Also on NHV Novels

Heemin’s One-Sided Love

AdultBoys LoveDrama

Read Now →
Not interested