Chapter 2 Part 5: When Opportunity Knocks

The following afternoon.

After finishing their morning part-time jobs, the members of Theater Mae gathered in the rehearsal room.

Yeona and Jieun—the troupe’s two female actors—had first met only after joining the company, but having worked together for several years now, they had become best friends.

The moment they arrived, they fell into lively chatter.

“Hey, I found a new part-time job.”

“What kind?”

“An indoor golf practice range.”

“Oh?

Is it good?”

“Yeah, there’s not much to do.

When customers come in, you assign them a room.

When they leave, you go in and tidy up.

If the machines break down, you call a technician.

And since it’s indoors, it’s not cold.”

“Wow, that sounds nice.

But aren’t there creepy old guys?”

“Not yet, but the owner said there are sometimes men who get handsy.

Still, that’s true no matter what job you do.”

“That’s true.”

As they talked, the two glanced toward Yejun and Junghwan, who had arrived early and were running lines together.

“Yejun-oppa is really handsome, isn’t he?”

“Yeah.

Honestly, it feels like a waste for someone with looks like that to be in Daehakro.

And his acting’s good too, so no wonder he got picked as a lead right away.”

“The director said something about him yesterday.”

“What did he say?”

“He said Yejun-oppa isn’t someone we’ll be seeing here for long.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just like you said—he’s not someone who’ll stay in this scene for long.”

“Oh, you mean he’ll move up to the majors?”

“Yeah.”

“Hm.

But didn’t he get cut from a big agency because his acting was kind of borderline?

It won’t be easy.”

“I know.

Still, his expression doesn’t look great today.

Think something’s wrong?”

“He just looks tired.

Must be something personal.”

Having yet to properly see Yejun act in The Scarred Mountain Lodge, the two nodded as if in agreement.

Once everyone had gathered, the script reading began.

Yejun’s lines sounded quite natural, but since everyone was just sitting and reading, it was impossible to judge true acting ability.

Up until then, the girls’ impressions remained unchanged.

However, before even a week of rehearsals had passed, their opinions completely flipped.

“Whoa!”

“No way…”

Since it wasn’t yet time to rehearse blocking together, Yeona and Jieun—who played ghosts—were only participating at the level of reciting lines.

From the corner of the rehearsal room, they stared at Yejun as if he were a real ghost, watching him work with the other actors.

There was something fundamentally different about his acting.

It doesn’t feel like he’s acting at all.

It’s like there’s one real character mixed in among the actors.

How is his voice like that?

It sounds like it could reach outside the theater!

An actor performing without acting.

Perhaps that was the ultimate goal every actor aspired to reach.

The others were performing with a clear theatrical tone.

But Yejun, standing among them, made it feel as though the real Jung Seongryong had actually been invited into the lodge.

Woohyun and Donghoon seemed to sense it too, watching intently with serious expressions during scenes after they exited the stage.

Woohyun narrowed his eyes as he watched Yejun deliver a solo monologue, then nodded.

“As expected.

The director didn’t pick him for nothing.

Just listen to that voice.

He’s a monster.”

Donghoon swallowed hard.

“That’s the level of an actor who got cut from a major agency?

Damn… suddenly I feel all my hope disappearing.”

Woohyun shook his head.

“Doesn’t matter which company it was.

Must’ve been run by blind idiots.

Firing a monster like that.”

“Damn it.

He wasn’t that good during the reading.”

“No, he was already unusual then.

His line delivery was so smooth that even my responses softened.

He acts with all the tension stripped away—like he actually is the person.”

“……”

Younghwan—the youngest member, in charge of stage management, sound, and lighting—also swallowed hard as he watched Yejun.

“Wow.”

He hadn’t said it out loud, but he’d been dissatisfied.

Sure, he was the youngest and new to the industry, so it made sense—but even with Donghoon and Woohyun around, casting a brand-new member in a leading role hadn’t sat right with him.

No matter how talented someone was, experience mattered.

But after seeing Yejun act in earnest, he realized just how narrow-minded he’d been.

That’s amazing.

When an actor’s performance doesn’t feel like acting—when they seem like the real person—that is the highest compliment an actor can receive.

And this was only a rehearsal room, not even a stage.

What would it be like in front of an audience?

Of course, some actors shine in practice but freeze up and ruin everything once they’re onstage.

But looking at Yejun now, that kind of failure was impossible to imagine.

He’s really Jung Seongryong.

A man who spoke of his past wrongdoing as though it were nothing more than a childhood mistake anyone could make.

No emotional exaggeration.

No unnaturally lowered tone.

Just the same natural speaking voice people used in everyday life—yet with precise pronunciation and flawless delivery.

Any lingering jealousy drained away, and Younghwan broke into a grin.

Word about this monster is going to spread through Daehakro soon.

Heh.

***

One month later, the play The Scarred Mountain Lodge finally opened.

They posted ads on ticketing sites and ran aggressive discount promotions, but only five people showed up for the opening performance.

Theater Mae was located far from the main street, tucked away on the outskirts.

Most of the audience consisted of Daehakro theater enthusiasts—people who watched nearly every play, whether it was good or bad.

Among them sat a chubby woman in her late thirties, wearing glasses, in the very front row.

Theater Mae.

A small troupe that puts on modest productions, but their scripts are always solid.

Their weakness is the lack of strong supporting actors, but the writer seems genuinely skilled.

Her name was Jang Jihye.

Though not a professional, she ran a theater-related café with about a thousand members, engaging in deep discussions about films and plays as a hobby.

In real life, she was an ordinary office worker at a small-to-medium enterprise.

A young-looking man in charge of hosting came onstage and showed off some witty banter, but with so few people in the audience, the response was weak.

Feeling sorry for him as he tried to coax applause, Jihye clapped encouragingly.

The lights went out, and the stage began.

Dim, dark lighting revealed what appeared to be the lobby of a mountain lodge.

As expected from a small theater—the set is incredibly crude.

In small-theater productions, actors usually build the stage themselves.

Direction, planning, acting, sound, lighting, promotion, hosting, cleaning, prop-making, and stage construction—all of it was handled by the actors.

Crudeness was inevitable.

The set before her, made of painted plywood with added props, looked like something you’d see in a children’s play.

But the true appeal of small-theater productions wasn’t elaborate sets—it was the script and the chemistry between actors.

Just as Jihye was withholding judgment, a handsome man entered through the lodge door, carrying a travel bag.

“Huh?”

Having seen most of the plays currently running in Daehakro, Jihye tilted her head at the unfamiliar face.

A newcomer?

If she didn’t recognize him, he was probably new.

There was no way she would forget a face that handsome.

He looked young, too.

As she studied his expression, her eyebrows twitched.

What is it?

Something felt off.

Actors were beings who acted with everything—expressions, gestures, even the tiniest facial muscles.

But the man who had just entered the lodge and was glancing around felt different.

There wasn’t a single exaggerated movement.

Where am I?

What is this place?

Actors had many ways of expressing that—looking around restlessly, touching objects for no reason.

But this man did none of those things.

Instead, he shivered slightly, as if to convey that it was cold outside.

It was a small detail, easily dismissed—but to Jihye, who’d watched countless plays, it stood out clearly.

His acting was different.

Imagine a stage direction where an exhausted character comes home and collapses onto a bed.

One actor might stumble in and flop down dramatically.

Another might massage their arms and legs, or sway unsteadily.

There were many ways to express it—but the issue wasn’t how it was expressed.

What mattered was what the actor was thinking.

Stage directions often omit the why.

Why is the character exhausted?

That’s for the actor to decide.

Understanding the entire script, reading the flow, knowing why the character is tired—only then does the acting become natural.

That’s why audiences, confused at first, sometimes realize later: Ah!

That’s why the actor acted like that earlier.

Soon, more men entered the lodge lobby one by one, introducing themselves.

Watching them, Jihye frowned.

That’s strange.

Two of those male actors were already part of this troupe.

She had seen Woohyun and Donghoon in Theater Mae’s production last month.

But they’re different now.

Back then, their acting had been passable—typical small-theater level.

Now, the overall quality felt higher.

More natural.

More immersive.

What had changed them?

Jihye’s eyes lit up.

It’s him.

The handsome guy who entered first.

He’s the reason.

In theater and film, this sometimes happened—one monster elevating the entire cast’s performance.

It was even more pronounced in theater than in film.

Unlike movies or dramas, where actors delivered lines to a camera, theater required actors to build scenes together.

If one actor delivered lines stiffly, like a mannequin, their scene partner would inevitably be affected.

But when one actor performed with complete naturalness, even weaker actors gradually improved during rehearsals.

Theater actors influenced one another deeply, growing together.

The sly Shin Cheolho.

The stiff-looking Park Jihwan.

The laid-back Kim Seonghyeon.

These three had grown closer to real because they had encountered a real Jung Seongryong.

Jihye leaned forward, listening closely to Jung Seongryong as he sat casually on the bed and spoke.

“You see, I made a bit of a mistake back in high school.

Haha, I was immature back then.

I did some pretty bad things.

But, well… isn’t everyone like that?

You made mistakes when you were young too, didn’t you, reporter?

That’s how we all grow up, right?

I’m trying to get my life together now.”

Even as he admitted to serious wrongdoing, the lines were layered with self-justification.

Jihye’s eyes widened.

There’s no acting tone at all!

It’s like he’s really talking—having a real conversation!

And yet I can hear every word clearly!

That kind of performance might be possible in film or television.

Even actors with weaker skills could appear convincing under a capable director—thanks to post-production sound work.

But theater was different.

Small-theater productions didn’t use microphones.

To reach the back rows, actors had to project powerfully and articulate clearly—making an “acting tone” almost unavoidable.

But this actor is different.

It really sounds like natural speech.

Who is he?

Who on earth is this guy?

Eyes wide, Jang Jihye felt her consciousness being pulled deep into the world of The Scarred Mountain Lodge.