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Join the ServerHe had come in at 4 a.m, and it was already nearing 11 p.m.
After nineteen straight hours of forced shooting, Director Kim Minsu, looking utterly exhausted, entered and sat down at the monitoring station with a weary expression.
“Alright!
This is the last scene for today, so let’s all hang in there just a bit longer!”
Director Kim Minsu was tired too, but at least there was one small relief.
The actor for this scene wasn’t Lee Jihoon.
On top of that, this was Yejun’s very first shoot—he had been cast with high expectations after his performance as the killer Go Young-cheol in Jang Young-ho’s film, so there was even more anticipation.
Watching the pitch-black alleyway on the monitor, Director Kim suddenly leaned forward and shouted,
“Mr. Yejun!
Are you ready?”
“…..”
“Mr. Yejun!
Is Mr. Yejun there?”
From within the dark alley, a slightly rough voice drifted out.
“I’m ready.”
“…..”
Director Kim flinched.
Yejun’s voice had changed.
It had a low, gravelly edge to it.
When Kim met the eyes of Assistant Director Jang Young-ho standing beside him, Jang nodded and whispered quietly,
“It looks like he’s fully immersed again, just like when he played Go Youngcheol.
He didn’t come out of there even during the entire break.”
“…..”
After glancing at the staff waiting for his cue, Director Kim spoke in a low voice.
“As soon as the shoot ends, take Yejun with you.
Don’t let the other staff see him.”
“Yes.
I already reserved the food tent right up ahead.”
“I’ll wrap things up here, so you take Yejun straight there, get some drinks into him, and bring him back to his senses.”
“Yes, sir.”
A sigh could be heard from the cinematographer as he checked the angle.
“Ah, I’m exhausted to death.
And this actor’s a rookie, right?
How many NGs is he going to rack up?
Will we even make it back to the dorm tonight?
We’ve got a 5 a.m. call again tomorrow—won’t even get a few hours of sleep.
Hah.”
The staff’s stamina was hitting rock bottom.
Judging that the only way to give them any rest was to finish as quickly as possible, Director Kim shouted immediately,
“Alright, rolling!
Ready, sound!”
“Speed!”
“Camera!”
“Roll!”
“Slate!”
“Sixty-seven, take one!”
“Action!”
The camera angle captures the dark alley.
Within it, a single eye snaps open with a flash.
The cinematographer’s eyes widen as he stares at the monitor.
‘No matter how you light it, how can a person’s eyes look like that?!’
It feels as though there’s not a human in that alley, but a wild beast.
Just as a chill runs through the cinematographer and he swallows hard, a rough yet composed voice flows out from the darkness.
“喂(Hello), 我是姜偉(Jiang Wei-da).”
The cinematographer jolts like a live fish.
Feeling a shiver race through his entire body from just a single voice was a first in his entire directing career.
‘This is insane!
A human voice filling the entire set like this?
And he’s speaking that softly?!’
As he stares so hard his eyes nearly pop out, the cinematographer sees a forehead emerging from the darkness.
Slowly—very slowly—a face reveals itself.
Sharp, gaunt, utterly haggard.
With no flesh on his face, the overhead lighting casts deep shadows beneath his eyes and cheekbones.
‘It’s like that clip of actor Yoo Hojin smoking in the movie Beat!’
Goosebumps erupt across his skin.
All he did was step out of the darkness, yet—
And with the actor glaring straight into the lens, the sensation only intensifies.
It feels as though that beast might leap straight at him.
With a phone pressed to his ear, the face fully revealed under the lights twists its muscles into an unnatural smile.
Not a smile born of amusement, but one forcibly constructed by moving the muscles.
And that only makes the scene even more chilling.
“过去是痛楚的, 但你要么可以逃避, 要么可以向它学习.
(The past doesn’t matter.
It’ll hurt, sure.
But you have two choices—run away, or overcome it.)”
The set falls silent.
The shock is so great that no one can easily open their mouth.
The camera team, in particular, is hit hard.
The main cinematographer, gripping his clenched fist, is trembling.
A beat late, Director Kim Minsu’s bright voice rings out.
“Cut!
O.K.!”
All the staff turn toward him at once.
Director Kim removes his headphones with a wide smile.
Since this was the first time the entire day that a scene had been approved in a single take, the staff instead tilt their heads in confusion.
“That’s really it?”
“So easily?”
“Wasn’t he a rookie actor?
I thought we’d be here till at least 2 a.m.”
“Can we really leave now?”
“Hey, hey, the director took his headphones off.
Guess it’s real.”
“Oh!
It’s really over?!
Yes!
I can sleep a few more hours!”
“But hey, that actor—Ma Yejun, right?
Who is he?
What kind of acting was that?”
“Damn, I’ve got chills.
I thought they brought in a real Chinese mafia guy.”
While the staff cautiously begin packing up their equipment, glancing at the director just in case, the sound director stands frozen with his headphones still on, mouth hanging open.
‘What was that just now?!’
The sound had come from outside the boom mic’s pickup range.
Structurally, the boom mic focuses on sound from one direction—yet his voice had reverberated from all sides, like Dolby Cinema surround sound.
‘Was I imagining it?’
Yeah, there’s no way a human voice could sound like that.
He must just be so exhausted he hallucinated.
The sound director had it easier, at least.
The main cinematographer is still staring blankly at the dark alley angle.
Lost in the image, he only snaps back to his senses when Assistant Director Jang Young-ho runs into the alley and enters the frame.
He jumps up abruptly.
“Who is that guy?
I want to see his face again, just for a moment.”
Looking toward the alley, he sees Jang Young-ho urgently leading the actor away somewhere.
As if trying not to show his face, like a criminal being arrested on the news, the assistant director drapes clothing over the actor’s face and drags him along.
Watching the scene blankly, the cinematographer breaks into a wide smile and approaches Director Kim, who is replaying the footage with a thoroughly satisfied expression.
“Director.”
“Ah, good work today.”
“Who is that guy, really?”
“Mr. Yejun?”
“I know his name, but what kind of person is he?
How does someone like that exist?”
“Haha, shocking, isn’t it?”
“No, seriously—Lee Jihoon is the lead, and he’s pathetic, but an actor like that only gets a criminal role?
Does that make any sense?”
“Haha.”
Director Kim feels the same way about acknowledging Yejun.
But placing someone with absolutely no career history into a major supporting role that appears all the way to the end of the drama isn’t easy.
There’s no justification to convince investors or the production company.
The cinematographer swallows hard and looks toward the set door where Jang Young-ho and Yejun exited.
“Where’s he going?”
“Oh, out for drinks.”
“Drinks?
Right after filming?”
“Yes.
He likes alcohol.”
“Well, actors being fond of drinking is a pretty famous story.”
“I’ll finish up and head over too.
Care to join us?”
“Oh!
Really?
That’s alright?
I wanted to talk to him anyway.”
Getting close to the main cinematographer is always good for an actor—the better the angles, the better it is for them.
After checking his watch, Director Kim said,
“Let’s wrap up within an hour, have a quick drink, then head back to the dorm.
We’ve got another early call tomorrow.”
“Yes!
I’ll hurry!”
***
An hour and a half later, at an indoor food tent near the general filming complex.
Entering with the cinematographer, Kim Minsu spots Jang Young-ho and Yejun seated in the far corner.
Jang happens to be looking their way and makes an “OK” sign with his fingers when their eyes meet.
‘Good.
Drinking brought him back.’
As they approach the table with the cinematographer, Yejun—his face flushed from the alcohol—stands and bows deeply.
“Director, Mr. Main Cameraman.”
The cinematographer laughs loudly and pats Yejun on the back.
“Haha, Mr. Yejun.
I’m Park Junsu, the main cinematographer.
First time properly introducing ourselves, right?”
“Yes, Director Park.”
“Alright, sit, sit.”
Apparently in a good mood since filming ended early, Junsu downs three shots of soju in quick succession as soon as he sits.
“Alright, the latecomer’s three-shot penalty is done—shall we really get started now?”
Junsu clearly likes Yejun a lot.
“Haha, in my thirty years as a cameraman, you’re the first guy like this.
My whole body was shivering!
My legs were trembling!
Episode one didn’t have many impactful scenes since it focused on character setup, but ending it like that?
Viewers won’t be able to not watch episode two!”
Having dropped formal speech with Yejun, Junsu keeps pushing drinks on him.
“Come on, have another!”
“Thank you.”
Thankfully, Yejun doesn’t have any bad drinking habits.
According to what Young-ho quietly mentioned, even after arriving here, Yejun had kept drinking for a while with that same deranged Jiang Wei expression.
Only after finishing an entire bottle by himself did he slowly return to normal.
Director Kim studies Yejun with sharp eyes.
‘At least it’s good that alcohol brings him back.
The problem is when shoots don’t end after just one scene like today.
The staff will definitely start finding it strange.’
Kim Minsu calls out quietly to Jang Young-ho.
“Young-ho.”
“Yes, Director.”
“That kid Yejun—he still hasn’t fixed that habit of over-immersing, has he?”
“Is that something that’s easy to fix?”
“When’s the next shoot?”
“The day after tomorrow, starting at 5 p.m.
It’s an outdoor shoot.
Since Jiang Wei is mostly active at night, we’re gathering at sunset to do final coordination with the action director, then shooting once it gets dark.”
“As soon as ‘cut’ is called—whether it’s an NG or a one-take—move Yejun somewhere else immediately.”
“The next shoot is a Joseonjok fight scene, so it’s just stunt performers.”
“Still.”
“Yejun doesn’t have a company yet, so he doesn’t have a car.
Should I let him rest in mine?”
“That’s fine.
Keep him from interacting with other staff or actors as much as possible.”
“Understood, Director.”
“Where’s the location?”
“A basement karaoke bar in Bangi-dong.
Business has been so bad lately that it’s closed—we booked that place.”
“Alright.
A lot of props will probably get wrecked, so prepare well.”
After giving his instructions, Kim looks back at Yejun, then suddenly lets out a small, incredulous laugh.
“When you think about it, it’s kind of ridiculous.”
Young-ho pours him another drink and asks,
“What is?”
After downing the soju, Kim gestures toward Yejun with his eyes.
“We’re in a situation where an actor is perfectly immersing himself in his role—which should be a blessing—but instead you and I are sitting here worried.
Isn’t that funny?”
After a moment of thought, Young-ho smiles back.
“That’s true, haha.”
Then the cinematographer Junsu’s cheerful shout rings out.
“Haha!
On camera this guy’s like some kind of beast, but off-camera, drinking like this, he’s a total softie!
Hahaha, adorable, adorable!
Come on, drink more!
Drink and get a good night’s sleep!”
Young-ho tries to stop him.
“Director, that’s enough.
Mr. Yejun has to go to his part-time job tomorrow morning.”
“Huh?
Even an actor like this works a part-time job?”
“He’s still just a supporting actor.
This is his first broadcast debut.”
Junsu alternates between staring blankly at Yejun and Young-ho, then breaks into a grin.
“Guess he’ll be quitting that job soon, then.”
Giggling, a thoroughly tipsy Junsu pats Yejun’s shoulder hard and shouts,
“I guarantee it!
Once this drama airs, you’ll be crazy busy!
Quit that part-time job in advance, haha!”
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