Chapter 4 Part 4: Where the Water is Deep, the Fish Gather

“Long time no see, Jihyun.”

“Senior!

You’ve been well, right?”

“Yeah, I’m doing fine.

But what brings you all the way out here?”

“Hehe, I was just curious how your play is doing.

You haven’t forgotten that ever since our school days, your scripts have always been my favorite, have you?”

“Haha, now you’re embarrassing me.”

Standing in front of the theater with Writer Choi, Hong Jihyun looked at the crowd steadily filing inside.

“Wow, senior.

It’s really sold out?

I heard Daehangno has been struggling these days.

That’s amazing.”

Writer Choi scratched his head as he replied.

“Daehangno being tough isn’t exactly news.

I hear broadcast television is having an even harder time.

Isn’t that right?”

“Sigh.”

Writer Choi was right.

The unprecedented situation sparked by OTT platforms.

The broadcasting industry was, quite literally, at a breaking point.

As media consumption fragmented, the influence of broadcast television continued to shrink.

Weekday dramas with ratings in the zero-percent range were popping up one after another.

With the broadcast market in decline, terrestrial networks recorded losses of 28.9 billion won last year.

One network even posted an operating loss of 64.5 billion won, while others saw their operating profits plunge and advertising revenue sink into stagnation.

Young people almost never watch live television anymore.

People joked that the only time they turned on the TV was when visiting their parents’ house.

The rise of OTT—watchable anytime, anywhere—had driven real-time TV into decline.

Letting out a sigh, Hong Jihyun spoke.

“Last year, revenue for terrestrial broadcasters dropped by 10.2%.”

“Hmm.

That’s definitely a problem.

What about IPTV?”

“That sector at least grew by 2.3%.

But since overall broadcast advertising revenue fell by 19% year-on-year, there’s a general reluctance to produce dramas at all.”

“I see.

Everyone’s having a hard time.”

Though he spoke with concern, Writer Choi himself hadn’t watched terrestrial dramas in ages—especially those formulaic chaebol heir melodramas that dominated the networks.

Though he held back in front of Hong Jihyun, he privately believed the current crisis wasn’t just due to OTT’s rise, but also to broadcasters stubbornly targeting only their core demographics with stale, formulaic productions.

“So what genre is your new drama?”
“The last one was mystery, right?”

“Yes.

This time it’s a thriller.”

“Is the script finished?”

“Not yet.

Only the treatment is complete, and the full script is written up to episode four.

We pitched it everywhere—from OTT platforms to cable—and fortunately, a cable network specializing in crime thrillers stepped up to produce it.”

“Simultaneous OTT release?”

“These days, if you don’t do that, you can’t even recoup production costs, senior.”

“Haha, that’s true enough.

Alright, let’s go in.

It’s about to start.”

***

Seated in the lighting control booth, Hong Jihyun inhaled deeply, her face lighting up.

“Wow…
That small-theater smell.”

Small theaters have a distinct scent.

A mix of underground dampness and mold, blended with raw passion.

Some people—especially those sensitive to unfamiliar smells—avoid small theaters because of it, while others love that unique aroma.

Hong Jihyun belonged firmly to the latter.

Having started her career with small-theater plays before breaking into broadcast writing, this smell felt like home.

Resting her chin on her hand, she scanned the murmuring audience before the play began and asked,

“So how’s the troupe these days?

Still struggling?”

Writer Choi sat down beside her and smiled.

“It’s actually better now.

It’s a three-month run, and starting from the eighth performance, it’s been sold out continuously.”

“What?

How many performances are you at now?”

“Thirty-two.”

“Oh wow.

So twenty-four sold-out shows already.

You must’ve covered production costs.”

“Yeah.

It’s been a while since a play actually paid for itself.”

Even if the profit margin wasn’t huge, covering production costs meant being able to prepare the next play with a lighter heart.

The actors here were simply people who wished they could keep doing this work, and they were deeply satisfied with the current situation.

Hong Jihyun began calculating inwardly.

‘A three-month run, four shows a week from Thursday to Sunday.

Thirty-two performances means two months have already passed.

In another month, Ma Yejun’s theater schedule will end.’

Of course, there was no guarantee.

Sold-out shows like this could always be extended.

Writer Choi, seeing through Hong Jihyun’s darting eyes, chuckled.

“You came to see Yejun, didn’t you?”

“…..”

Startled, Hong Jihyun raised her voice.

“Did someone else come too?”

“Sure did.

Look over there.”

When Hong Jihyun snapped her head around, she saw two men in camping caps sitting in the very front row.

Writer Choi explained,

“They come by about twice a week to watch.”

Seeing the shock ripple through Hong Jihyun’s pupils, Writer Choi burst into laughter and patted her shoulder.

“Haha!

Relax.

As far as I know, they’re all people from nearby theater troupes.

The broadcast industry doesn’t start moving just because a fifty-seat small theater sells out.”

Hong Jihyun let out a relieved sigh.

“Oh…
You scared me.”

“What are you planning to use Yejun for?

Your drama?”

“It’s undecided for now.

I’ll watch today and think about it.”

“Why get so jumpy when you haven’t even cast him yet?”

“Well…
Isn’t it just human nature to dislike it when someone spits on something you think might be yours?”

“Haha.

I guess so.

Ah—it’s starting.”

***

The play, The Scarred Mountain Lodge, begins.

Yejun’s entrance was striking from the very start.

As he dragged in a suitcase and the four characters met for the first time, Hong Jihyun watched with narrowed eyes and nodded.

‘The resonance in his voice is incredible.

The lighting booth is at the very back of the audience, yet his voice reaches here perfectly.

He doesn’t sound loud—almost like he’s speaking softly—but every word lands clearly in my ears.

Just how much vocal training has he done?’

What impressed her most was his voice.

‘Stage acting and screen acting are fundamentally different.’

In broadcast acting, the camera captures close-ups.

There’s no need to overact.

Even the slightest tremor of facial muscles can convey emotion, so actors keep their voices low.

Theater, however, must convey emotion to audiences seated far away, which is why exaggerated expressions and slightly elevated pitch are often used.

‘But Ma Yejun is different.’

Everything about his acting suits broadcast.

Perhaps it’s even ill-suited for theater.

Yet the audience, realizing that every small movement of his carries meaning, watches with bated breath, focusing more intently on his gestures than in any other play.

‘The reason he can command that level of focus…
is his voice.’

Even when murmured, his voice spreads evenly to every corner of the theater.

That alone gives him the power to carry the play without exaggerated physicality.

Before she realized it, Hong Jihyun—like the rest of the audience—was completely absorbed into The Scarred Mountain Lodge.

The occasional appearance of vengeful spirits broke her focus slightly, but the frequent entrances of the lead actor, Jung Seongryong, instantly pulled her back in.

After Kim Seonghyeon dies, then Teacher Park Jihwan, and finally Reporter Shin Cheolho, Seongryong begins to sense something is deeply wrong.

Dragging the belongings of the dead into his room, Room 104, he rummages through their bags and finds a business card—his face hardening.

Still without overacting, Jung Seongryong heightens tension through subtle facial movements, then lifts his head and looks toward the lighting control booth.

Of course, there’s no way he could actually see her from the stage—yet Hong Jihyun flinches, feeling as though his gaze is fixed directly on her.

Then Jung Seongryong speaks.

“Jiseong Girls’ High School.

That’s the school the girl attended.

Then these teachers must be the ones my father bribed back then.”

Hong Jihyun felt as though a gust of wind had shot from the stage, ruffling her hair.

She clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide as she stared at Jung Seongryong.

‘Unbelievable!

He’s projecting his voice in the exact direction of his gaze!’

Was that even possible?

In simple terms, the sound wasn’t dispersing—it was being shot toward a single point.

To audience members outside his line of sight, it would likely sound like a kind of 3D surround resonance, the sound spreading outward.

Jung Seongryong rummages through Reporter Shin Cheolho’s bag again and finds a notebook.

“Reporter Shin Cheolho said he worked for Hanseong Ilbo.

But this notebook—”

Stamped on the cover are the words Ilseong Ilbo.

With a hardened expression, he mutters,

“The reporter who took money and wrote an article selling out that child back then…
Are you saying that was Shin Cheolho?”

Holding the business card and notebook, Jung Seongryong steps forward, carefully surveying the cabin—from ceiling to floor, his gaze sweeping over every prop.

Finally, standing by the frost-covered window, he murmurs,

“Then the one who invited us here… must be that child from back then.”

Any human would feel fear after three consecutive deaths.

Jung Seongryong’s emotions initially reflect that—but then, his trembling pupils gradually stabilize.

The entire process is clearly visible.

Hong Jihyun swallows hard.

‘Incredible.’

A smile slowly spreads across Jung Seongryong’s face as he once again looks toward the lighting booth—perhaps perceiving this direction as the sky.

Licking the back of his hand, he delivers a monologue.

“Shall we… love once more?

It’s been a while.”

A crawling shiver runs through her entire body.

The revulsion of someone utterly devoid of remorse for their sins slithers up her skin like insects.

The climax of the play—chaos unleashed by vengeful spirits driven by revenge.

At some point, Hong Jihyun completely forgets why she came, utterly immersed in the performance.

Jung Seongryong’s death.

The play ends with the monologue of a spirit who has finally quenched its resentment.

Yet the audience remains silent.

Hong Jihyun understands exactly why.

‘My god…
A small-theater play managed to pull me in this deeply?

They’re still trapped inside the story.’

When the actors come out to bow—starting with Kim Seonghyeon and continuing in the order of their deaths—the audience finally snaps back to reality, applause erupting.

Some even rise to their feet.

Naturally, the loudest applause is reserved for Yejun, who comes out last.

Writer Choi, who had been watching silently the entire time, finally speaks.

“Impressive, isn’t he?”

“…..”

“Did you know?

Yejun improves every single day, even now.”

Hong Jihyun turns to him.

“Isn’t it natural for an actor to grow over the course of a run, senior?”

Resting his chin on his hand, Writer Choi smiles as he watches Yejun wave to the audience.

“But what if that growth is so dramatic that even others can clearly see it?

And what if it happens every day?”

Hong Jihyun’s eyebrow twitches.

“Are you saying Ma Yejun is like that?”

Smiling, Writer Choi replies,

“You know me.

Once I finish a script, I don’t revise it.”

“Yes.”

“And yet, during these thirty-two performances, I’ve revised the script twenty times.”

“Why?”

Writer Choi grins.

“You’ll find out soon enough.

If you end up casting Yejun, you’ll know immediately.”

Looking back at Yejun on stage, he murmurs,

“That script you’re writing right now…

You might end up rewriting it.

If you can watch Yejun’s acting and still resist revising your script, then that might be proof you’ve reached the ranks of truly great writers.”