Chapter 29 : Theater Festival (2)

We arrived in Daehangno, greeted by the vibrant energy of May. The drama club members quickly unloaded the bus.

Props of all shapes and sizes emerged from the luggage compartment. We would have been in trouble if we hadn’t chartered a bus.

I joined the others, carrying my share of the load. I noticed the instructor sighing and walked over to her.

“Instructor, are you okay?”
“No, I’m not.”

Kang Haerin rubbed her forehead.

“Do you know how much it costs to charter a bus for a day?”
“I thought the school was paying for it.”
“You wish. My car’s too small, and I couldn’t ask you guys to carry all this on the subway.”
“We could have chipped in.”
“What money do high school students have? I’ll just have to tighten my belt until payday.”

I smiled wryly and thanked her. Adults who were this passionate, willing to spend their own money for their students, were rare. Romance was usually the first casualty of adulthood.

In that sense, Kang Haerin was a pretty decent person. She would have been even cooler if she didn’t keep checking her bank account and sighing. I guess people like the heroes in comic books didn’t exist in real life.

We finished unloading the props in the designated area and gathered around Haerin, who had just returned from speaking with the organizers.

“We’re third. Not bad.”

The Youth Theater Festival showcased three plays a day, and our school, Hyesung High, had been assigned the last slot. Junseok, who had been listening quietly, asked,

“Isn’t the last slot a good thing?”
“It’s a double-edged sword. If we do well, we’ll leave a lasting impression. If we don’t, it’s game over. I’m confident in you guys, though.”

We all nodded at her explanation. Even with impartial judges, it was hard to ignore the fatigue factor. Unlike the audience, who could leave after each performance, the judges had to sit through five or six hours of plays. A tired judge was more likely to give a harsher critique, especially for later performances.

“Each school gets one rehearsal on stage, and then it’s showtime.”

Haerin, seeing our nervous expressions, tried to lighten the mood.

“Look at you guys, all stiff and nervous. Don’t worry. Hard work pays off.”
“Yes!”

I relaxed my shoulders. This was my first real performance in front of an audience. In my past life, I had been relegated to extra roles as a first-year, and then… well, things happened in my second year.

I forced a smile, trying to ignore the nervous energy buzzing around me. A strange mix of excitement and anxiety, like a cotton candy cloud, light and fluffy, threatening to dissolve at any moment.

Two men entered the Minsong Art Hall, the venue for the Youth Theater Festival. One was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, the other a more subdued outfit.

Park Saeron, the writer, and Kim Dohyung, the director. They had decided to grace the high school theater festival with their presence. Neither of them looked particularly… approachable. Sitting together, they exuded a distinct noir film vibe.

Dohyung frowned. He had heard there was promising talent here, but sifting through a pile of rocks to find a gem wasn’t his preferred activity.

You only saw what you knew. No matter how polished, high school plays inevitably had flaws, and Dohyung, as a film director, couldn’t help but notice them.

Watching amateur performances wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience.

He wouldn’t have come if it weren’t for the man beside him.

Park Saeron.
This guy had appeared out of nowhere and achieved an unprecedented 5 million box office hits with his debut screenplay.

One could dismiss it as beginner’s luck, but Saeron continued to churn out hit after hit, solidifying his reputation.

He had gone from an unknown screenwriter, pounding the pavement, to a highly sought-after talent, courted by numerous directors, in just two films.

Kim Dohyung had become interested in Saeron after seeing one of his scripts. A fellow director who had worked with Saeron had shown him the script, and Dohyung had been blown away.

It was daring, unconventional, filled with intriguing gaps and unexpected twists. Dohyung had been captivated by its unique, almost…twisted, brilliance.

He had been hoping to work with Saeron, but he had underestimated the man’s eccentricities.

Saeron had suddenly disappeared from the film scene, publishing a novel, then writing plays, and now, an independent film. He seemed determined to explore every possible medium.

What was even more surprising was that everything he touched turned to gold. Give this man a pen and paper, and he could conquer the world.

So, Dohyung had agreed to direct Saeron’s independent film, hoping to build a strong working relationship.

But he couldn’t help but feel… a little frustrated. He turned to Saeron.

“You know, you could have easily secured funding for this. This script has mainstream potential. Why insist on making it an independent film?”
“I can’t have investors meddling with my vision.”
“That’s true. But in exchange for directing this indie film, I get dibs on your next project. Deal?”
“Deal. I know how to repay a favor.”

Saeron nodded, and Dohyung smiled, satisfied. He was confident that, by next year, he’d be working with this eccentric genius on a major project. He suddenly felt a pang of curiosity.

“So, why are we really here?”
“To watch our actor, of course.”

Actor? So, there was a high school student in this festival who was going to be in his film. Dohyung frowned, scanning the program.

He didn’t recognize any names. This guy, Saeron, always kept him on his toes.

‘Is it some hidden gem?’

He decided to probe subtly.

“That’s surprising. With your script, you could have gotten any actor you wanted.”
“It’s fine.”
“I’m assuming this student is…talented? Since they caught your attention.”
“I haven’t seen them act yet. That’s why I’m here.”
“What?”

Dohyung looked at Saeron, puzzled. He was just grinning. Dohyung considered punching him, then thought better of it, looking at Saeron’s bulging biceps and tattoos. He sighed and turned towards the stage, hoping the play wouldn’t be a complete waste of his time.

The second play ended, and Kim Dohyung opened his eyes, feeling a surge of irritation. It had been boring and predictable.

It wasn’t a bad play; it was actually quite decent for a high school production, probably even award-worthy. But Dohyung’s standards were high. His passion for film had, paradoxically, made it difficult for him to simply enjoy a movie without analyzing it. He turned to Saeron.

“Still no sign of our actor?”

He hoped not. He had just watched a performance by an aspiring actor who, though clearly dedicated, lacked the emotional depth and expressiveness he expected from professional actors. Saeron nodded.

“Not yet.”

The final play began. Saeron’s “actor” had to be in this one.

Dohyung frowned, his eyes on the stage. This play felt…different. While the previous ones had been like sandstorms, this one was like ripples on a calm lake.

‘Not bad.’

There were occasional stumbles, inevitable in a high school production, but overall, the performance had a sense of… ease. The pacing felt a little rushed at times, but the girl playing the Moon Rabbit seemed to bring a sense of calm and control to every scene.

“This one’s the best so far.”
“Right?”

Dohyung was impressed when the actor playing Kim Jinsol appeared.

He portrayed the complex character, a mix of melancholy and optimism, flawlessly. His expressions and movements were precise, his interpretation nuanced, his hard work evident. He was clearly a level above the other actors.

Dohyung felt certain this was Saeron’s “actor.” He whispered,

“That boy playing Kim Jinsol… he’s pretty good. He’s the one, right? Our actor?”
“He’s good, but our actor is playing the Moon Rabbit.”
“The Moon Rabbit? She’s… decent, but not particularly outstanding.”

Dohyung frowned. The girl was talented, for a high school student, but not… extraordinary. Saeron’s voice was flat.

“Yeah, she’s being surprisingly subdued. That’s not like her.”

The play was nearing its end. Dohyung had a feeling this school would win.

Then, the unexpected happened.

“Aaaaah!”

A scream echoed from the stage. The play stopped.