Chapter 4 Part 6: Where the Water is Deep, the Fish Gather

As always, an arrow target materialized on the wall.

Its position changed every time.

Which meant that familiarity born of repetition was impossible—his gaze had to lock onto a brand-new spot each time.

Yejun stared at the arrow target with pitiful eyes and spoke.

“If this lowly hand should sully your sacred shrine, then as recompense for that sin, I would gently kiss you with these lips, red as two pilgrims flushed by the sun, to wash away the ugly mark.

If I cannot have your love, then it is better that I be discovered as I am.”

A measured pace.

A soft, sorrow-laden tone with slight pauses in between.

The arrow target vanished and reappeared at the lower right.

Yejun dropped to his knees, looking down toward the bottom of the screen as he said,

“To live on dully without your love—better to die beneath their hatred.”

The skin around his eyes trembled.

He knew that if he widened his eyes as if in a staring contest, the count would never rise.

So Yejun desperately fixed his focus on the target and continued.

“O my love, my wife.

Though death has stolen away your sweet breath, it has not taken your beauty.

Even death could not conquer you.

Could it be that even that wraithlike ghost of death fell for you, and thus locked you away in darkness to make you its consort?”

The arrow target formed on the floor.

Still kneeling, Yejun bowed his head deeply, his hands trembling as if beholding his beloved’s final moments, and spoke.

“Eyes, look your last!

Arms, this is our final embrace!

Lips, gate of life—seal it with a righteous kiss, and let death, which claims all things, know it!”

The skin around his eyes quivered again.

Eyes left unclosed for too long screamed for moisture.

But even that twitch had to be used as an expression of sorrow for him to pass this test.

– Ding!

The sound of an arcade coin dropping.

At that sound, all the strength drained from Yejun’s body.

He squeezed his eyes shut and flopped flat onto the floor.

“Ugh!

I passed again.”

Rubbing his sore eyes roughly with the backs of both fists, Yejun looked at the Pierrot doll.

Beneath the printed lines of dialogue, the number read 501 / 1,000.

Pierrot Training Level 2 had now been run four times.

Which meant this was the fourth time for this training as well.

The first day had taken twenty days.

Now it had stabilized enough to take about five.

‘I’m clearing it in about the same time as when I passed Level 1.’

It was boring—yet at the same time, exciting.

Because the clear time was shortening every single day.

And more than that, he could clearly feel his acting in the ongoing play improving alongside this training.

When Younghwan, who worked in the lighting control booth, told him that whenever Yejun delivered his lines while facing that direction, it felt like his voice was shooting straight toward the control center, Yejun had nearly leapt for joy.

‘Pierrot’s training definitely helps.’

It was just that the mind-numbingly repetitive drills were so unfun that he didn’t want to do them.

But once something became a routine, Yejun was the type of person who actually preferred repetition.

Around us, there are people who constantly chase stimulation and excitement.

If you look at SNS, they’re always traveling, enjoying extreme sports, living what looks like a genuinely fun life.

Watching them, most people end up thinking, Why does my life feel like a hamster wheel?

But if you look closely at those people, there’s something you’ll hear them say surprisingly often.

‘Ah… why does life feel so boring these days?

Isn’t there anything fun?’

On the other hand, what about people who simply live through their routines, doing much the same things every day?

They rarely complain that life is boring.

Because they know how to find small, quiet happiness in the everyday.

Traveling sometimes is fun.

Trying something different once in a while is fun too.

But for them, their everyday life is the best.

Yejun was that kind of person.

That was why he’d endured nine long years of nothing but going back and forth between practice rooms under a major agency.

Still rubbing his eyes as he stared up at the black ceiling, Yejun took a sip from the flask and examined it closely.

“What kind of water is this?”

It was strange water.

Not water you drank out of thirst, but water you sipped little by little to moisten your vocal cords.

And yet, every time he drank it, his throat—swollen from overuse—calmed almost instantly.

If not for this water, the training would have been much harder.

Suddenly, a thought crossed his mind—does this doll give more than just water?

‘Come to think of it, when I shouted “At least give me some water!” back then, it gave it to me immediately.’

This water was definitely not ordinary.

He’d even tried saving some and gripping it tightly after the training ended—but once he left, it vanished without a trace.

It seemed like water that could only be drunk here.

If so, it might not be just water at all.

What kind of water could instantly soothe a severely overworked throat?

So then—what did he need the most right now?

Asking for money wouldn’t work.

He had to ask for something he needed here and now, something usable in this place.

After a moment of thought, Yejun lay on his side, looked at the Pierrot doll, and said,

“My eyes are really dry.

You got artificial tears or eye drops or something?”

The moment his words fell, a small bottle appeared on the floor.

“Ohhh!”

Just as he’d expected.

He quickly snatched up the eye drops and examined the bottle.

Once again, there was no label.

Holding the bottle, Yejun cautiously asked the doll,

“…You don’t give money, by any chance?”

Silence.

Somehow, the Pierrot doll’s expression looked exasperated.

“Ahem.

Just kidding.”

Trying to hide his embarrassment, Yejun put the drops into his eyes.

“Agh!”

It felt like pouring peppermint oil straight into his eyes.

Not exactly burning—but so sharply cooling that he couldn’t open them.

“Ugh, what is this?”

It didn’t seem harmful, but it was definitely potent.

He let the tears stream freely, and once the pain subsided, he slowly opened his eyes.

And then—his gaze looked slightly different.

A little more moist.

A little brighter.

With no mirror, Yejun didn’t notice the change.

Blinking a few times, he wiped away the tears with his sleeve and looked at the bottle again.

“It’s better than I expected.

My vision feels clearer.”

Good.

Another helpful thing gained.

Yejun sprang to his feet, clenched his fist, and shouted,

“I’m cutting down the time again today—even if it’s just one hour!

Alright, let’s go!

Get the arrow targets ready!”

***

Hong Jihyun’s studio.

The production manager in charge of her upcoming drama Eternal Crime opened his laptop and began explaining.

“For PD assignment, we’re currently approaching Jo Sangho PD, who handled the sixteen-episode series Stranger Kingdom the year before last, and Park Junwoo PD, who directed Memory Game.”

Jihyun puffed out her cheeks, biting down on the pen in her mouth.

“Didn’t Jo Sangho PD completely tank two dramas last year?”

“Haha, but the drama I just mentioned was a hit.”

“That was the year before last.

Using someone who tanked two projects after that as director feels… questionable.”

“Then how about Park Junwoo PD?”

“What were the ratings for Memory Game again?”

“Eight percent.”

“……On cable?”

“No… on terrestrial.”

“Isn’t that a flop?”

“…..”

After a moment’s thought, Jihyun spoke.

“These days, there’s not much boundary between film directors and drama PDs, right?”

“That’s true.

PDs debut as film directors and vice versa all the time.”

“Then how about using a film director?”

“Do you have someone in mind?”

“Director Kim Minsu.”

“Ah, him.

But I’ve heard he’s been making only short films lately.”

“That’s because he doesn’t have investors.

What director wants to make only short films?”

“Well, that’s true.

But he doesn’t have drama experience, does he?

Would he agree?

As you know, film people tend to have strong pride.”

“I’m close with him.

Want me to sound him out?”

“Oh, if you have a connection, please do.

Director Kim Minsu would be more than welcome.”

Jihyun nodded, then asked,

“How’s the investment coming along?”

The production manager opened a file and showed her the screen.

“The broadcaster is covering fifty percent of the production cost.

We’re recruiting PPL right now—quite a few companies gathered just based on your name, Writer Hong.

But we’re still about forty percent short.

Once filming for episode two is done, we’re planning to negotiate distribution rights with OTT platforms to fill the rest.”

“How much from cable ad revenue?”

“About ten percent of production costs.”

“So in the end, we’ll need to cover thirty percent through OTT rights sales.”

“Exactly.

That’s the trend these days.”

“Sigh… the world changes so fast, it’s hard to keep up.”

“Haha.

Even our policies that held firm for thirty years are changing.”

Looking at the production manager from cable network OAN, which had confirmed the broadcast slot, Jihyun asked,

“You’ve got connections with agencies, right?”

“Yes, naturally.”

Talent agencies.

In exchange for investing part of the drama’s budget, they push their actors into the cast.

Of course, this applied only to major agencies.

“Which ones?”

“Daehwa, YM, and SG.”

“Of course Daehwa’s in again.”

“Daehwa’s terms are the best, Writer.”

“Let’s hear them.”

“One lead actor, one top-billed supporting actor, and four minor roles—for a proposal of two billion won.”

“Who’s the lead?”

“Actor Lee Jihoon.”

“What?

That guy who can’t act to save his life?”

“Haha, but he’s popular, isn’t he?

Handsome.”

“Can’t they swap him out?”

“Lee Jihoon is the hottest actor Daehwa has right now.

They’re pushing him hard.”

Jihyun tapped her pen against the table, clearly displeased.

“But if Director Kim Minsu’s personality comes into play, Lee Jihoon might get cut.”

The production manager tilted his head, unfamiliar with Kim Minsu beyond reputation.

“Why?”

After a brief pause, Jihyun said,

“So we’re basically in a position where we have to accept Daehwa’s offer for now, right?”

“Yes.

The investment gap with other companies is significant.

Upper management has instructed us to proceed with Daehwa if possible.”

“Hmm.

Alright.

Next item.”

“We’ll handle casting and staff composition once the director is confirmed.”

“Oh, then that’s it for today?”

“Yes, let’s end it here.”

“Alright.

Good work.

Ah—and one more question.”

“Yes?”

“What’s your standard appearance fee for rookie actors?”

“Even rookies can command higher fees if they’re popular.

I’d need more specifics.”

“Someone who’s never appeared on broadcast TV, has one short film releasing next month, and whose previous job was a university theater actor.”

“In that case, typically about five hundred thousand won per episode.”

“And if I wanted to give more, within my authority?”

“Hmm… up to around eight hundred thousand per episode would be fine.”

“That feels a bit low.”

“Who are you talking about?

Rookies usually jump at the chance even without pay.”

“Mm.

I suppose.”

“Yes.

This industry prioritizes careers above all.”

Jihyun rested the pen on her upper lip and pushed her lips forward.

“…Would that person think the same?”