Chapter 3 Part 5: The Home of Stars

Boarding the bus while skimming through today’s shooting script, Yejun fell into thought.

Is this the director’s consideration?

There’s no murder scene in today’s shoot.

When he’d woken up and checked his phone that morning, a notice had come in saying the scenes scheduled for today had been changed.
Originally, the first shoot was supposed to be a murder scene set in the restroom of the Jonggak public parking garage, but due to location issues, it had been altered.

Bits and pieces of memory surfaced—Director Jang Young-ho advising him yesterday about how deeply he’d immersed himself in the role.
Perhaps that was why the schedule had been changed.

Scene 9, Cut 1, Take 1.

A scene where he happens to run into Minseo, a college student, while passing near the campus.
From this point on, the killer Go Youngcheol temporarily stops killing.
The script leaves it ambiguous whether this is love or curiosity.
If Young-ho had thoroughly studied the killer’s psyche, he would likely conclude it was curiosity.

I need more training.
In Pierrot rehearsals, it can’t be helped, but in reality, I have to step out of the role and protect myself until the director calls action.

There was no need to overthink the method of training.
He already knew the only answer was repetitive practice.

As these thoughts piled up, he felt grateful once more for what Director Jang had helped him realize yesterday.
If he himself were the director, what would he have done?

Seeing an actor completely immersed in a role for his film, he would probably want to leave them be.
To capture the most perfect scene, he’d be willing to do almost anything.

Thinking back on what Director Jang had said, it seemed like he’d briefly had those thoughts as well.
But in the end, he’d chosen to advise Yejun instead.

He’s a good person.

The filming location arrived as his thoughts concluded.
There was no need to search hard for the staff.
In a corner of the wide university athletic field, the only people gathered around filming equipment would be the film crew.

He’d assumed that since it was a short film, there would only be four or five staff members.
That assumption was wrong.

The director, cinematographer, assistant director, boom operator and sound director, lighting crew, slate and script supervisor, production producer, camera assistant, art, costume, makeup, and props staff.
A rough count already exceeded ten people.

He looked first for Young-ho’s familiar face, but it seemed the director had stepped away briefly.
Instead, he spotted a familiar face applying makeup to a female actor.
It was Choi Soo-mi, the art director who’d previously visited with Director Jang Young-ho.

They hadn’t formally exchanged greetings, but he’d received her business card back then and remembered her name.

“Director Choi.”

Soo-mi, who had been gently brushing makeup onto the actress’s left cheek, looked up and widened her eyes behind her round glasses.

“Oh my!

Actor Ma Yejun!”

Though they didn’t know his face, everyone knew the name of the lead actor for this film.
All ten staff members turned to look at him.
Film may be the director’s art, but actors are its flower, and the staff’s attention naturally focused on him.

Feeling slightly embarrassed by this attention—different from the gaze of an audience—Yejun bowed, hiding his reddening face.

“Am I late?”

“No!

You’re right on time.

Sit here.
Wow, when I heard you didn’t have film experience, I was worried you might come already wearing makeup.
But you came bare-faced. That’s perfect!”

For all that, he was from a major agency.
He’d attended over three hundred auditions.
It made no sense not to know that.

When auditioning, it was better not to wear makeup.
At first, he’d tried getting makeup done through the agency to look better.
He’d even tried adding accents like glasses or earrings.
But those attempts had always earned him lower scores than appearing naturally.

For an actor, their most natural state was their best state.
That was why coming to set like this was ideal.

As Yejun sat to receive makeup, the actress who’d been seated beside him stood up, and he bowed.

“I’m Ma Yejun.”
“I’m Jo Minju, sunbae!”

Sunbae?
Ah—by her standards, that made sense.
The casting notes had said she was a fourth-year university student.

When Yejun sat next to Minju, another woman rushed over to apply base makeup in Soo-mi’s place.
He later learned she was the script supervisor.
On short film sets, it wasn’t unusual for people to multitask beyond their assigned roles.

Minju seemed quite interested in Yejun and kept talking even while getting her makeup done.

“Sunbae! You do theater in Daehangno, right? Are you part of a troupe?”
“Sunbae! Have you tried anything besides theater?”
“Wow! You’ve done dramas too? Even if it was a minor role, that’s amazing! Students like me would kill just to get a minor role!”
“Have you gone to a lot of auditions? Is there a sure-fire strategy? I keep auditioning, but I always fail.”

She must be the talkative type.
But there wasn’t much he could tell her.
From his own experience, out of a hundred auditions, you might hear back for a second round once.

He’d never passed a final audition, so of course he didn’t know any winning strategy.

Minju was just like her character in the script—bright and innocent.
In industry slang, a so-called “flower field for a brain,” meaning someone filled only with cheerful thoughts.

“Since we’ve got time, let’s take it slow.
I don’t have much to teach, but I’ll answer your questions sincerely.”

“Wow, thank you, sunbae! You’re so kind!”

Director Jang Young-ho returned to set mid-makeup, spotted Yejun, and approached with a smile.

“Did you get home okay last night?”
“Ah, Director. I caused quite a bit of trouble yesterday.”
“Haha, trouble? Not at all. You were fun when you got drunk.”

Soo-mi asked curiously,

“Why? Does Yejun have a drinking habit?”

Young-ho waved his hands dismissively.

“No, not that.
Just know that Actor Yejun has more than one drinking personality. Haha.”

“Oh! Does the demon sleeping inside him awaken when he drinks?
That fits the role perfectly!”

No.
It’s the opposite.
He becomes human when he drinks.

Yejun’s face flushed, and he fidgeted awkwardly.
Seeing this, Young-ho stopped teasing and introduced the staff.
Honestly, Yejun couldn’t remember all their names.
It was the first day—he’d learn them gradually.

After receiving detailed explanations and instructions for today’s shoot from the director and assistant director, and once lighting and audio signaled readiness, filming finally began.

It wasn’t his first time in front of a camera, but standing at the center of the camera angle as the lead—rather than someone else’s background—made him a little nervous.

“Ready, sound.”
“Speed.”
“Camera.”
“Roll.”
“Slate.”
“Scene nine, take one!”
“Action!”

Yejun’s first film shoot had begun.

***

Jo Minju, a fourth-year student at a well-known Seoul university for film and theater.
She’d applied after hearing about a short film opportunity ahead of her graduation project.
Thanks to her school seniors Young-ho and Soo-mi, she’d been cast.

There was no pay, of course.
Getting a drink out of it would be lucky.

Even so, she had no intention of taking it lightly.
Plenty of rookie actors were desperate to land even an unpaid role like this.

Besides, the staff here were people she’d likely run into again someday, somewhere.
An image for the future is built in the present.
Only by working hard everywhere could future opportunities arise.

Finishing her makeup, Minju muttered, hypnotizing herself.

“I am Minseo now.
Naive, cheerful, an ordinary college student who doesn’t doubt people.”

That was her character.
Raised in a well-off household, loved by good parents, she’d grown up without prejudice toward others.

The killer Go Youngcheol meets the innocent and pure Minseo and, for the first time, puts a brake on his killing spree.
Looking at Minseo, Go Youngcheol finds that, strangely, he can’t imagine red blood gushing from her body.
He becomes interested in her.

As Minju sat with the script on her lap, her ears caught the voices of Yejun and Young-ho.

“Sorry, but could you give me five minutes before filming?”
“Ah, do you need the restroom?”
“No. I want to focus on the role.”
“Oh, like self-hypnosis? Understood. Let’s start filming in five minutes.”

Senior Ma Yejun.
She’d heard he did theater in Daehangno.
Still an unknown actor, but the director and art director had praised him highly, saying he’d definitely make it big someday.
An unscratched lottery ticket.

Minju had never seen Yejun’s acting yet, but she was curious how senior actors used self-hypnosis and immersed themselves in their roles.

Picking up his bag, Yejun walked steadily away and disappeared behind a campus building.
Unable to resist her curiosity, Minju softened her footsteps and followed him.

She knew it was rude.
But she was too curious about how seniors worked.
Asking directly might not get an answer anyway—many actors were shy.

Peeking around the corner where Yejun had disappeared, she saw him sitting alone on a bench behind the building.

So he comes to a quiet place to fully concentrate and immerse himself in the role.

Something worth learning.
Even asking the director boldly for five minutes was a big leap for a student actor like her.

But requesting time to immerse oneself in a role was absolutely necessary.
Even if he was an unknown actor, he was still more experienced than her.
There was much to learn.

Watching Yejun closely, Minju’s eyes suddenly widened.

Huh?

Seated on the bench with the script on his lap, Yejun rummaged through his bag and pulled out a white mask.

What is that?
It looks like a Pierrot mask.

Looking oddly tense, Yejun took a breath, put on the white mask, and opened the script.

Is this some kind of superstition?
What is he doing?

As he’d said, Yejun kept the mask on and bowed his head for about five minutes.
Watching this, Minju tilted her head.

He’s turning pages, so it looks like he’s checking lines… but why the mask?

No—she wasn’t even sure his eyes were on the script.
He looked almost unconscious.

Then, after five minutes, Yejun slowly removed the mask and stood up.

Startled, Minju hurried back to set first and watched as Yejun emerged from beside the building.
Director Jang Young-ho, who’d been watching Yejun from afar, smiled with an unreadable expression.

What is going on?

She couldn’t understand this method of concentration at all.
No matter how much there was to learn from seniors, this seemed wrong.

It wasn’t some ritual—
What on earth was that white Pierrot mask?

Minju spoke to Yejun when he returned to set.

“Please take good care of me, sunbae!”

“…..”

There was no reply.
Instead, what returned was a terrifyingly indifferent gaze, cold enough to repel a soul.

“…..”

What?
Was this really the same person?
A person’s attitude could change—but how could their eyes change?

Just moments ago, Senior Yejun had been polite, kind, and expressive enough to blush at jokes.
How could his gaze become so empty in just five minutes?

Minju sucked in a sharp breath.

Did the person… change?

This wasn’t immersion into a role.
The person himself had changed.

What stood before her now wasn’t Ma Yejun—
It was the killer, Go Youngcheol.

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