Chapter 32 : Theater Festival (5)

Park Saeron frowned, his focus shattered.

The play had stopped. Murmurs rippled through the audience, growing louder. Just before they erupted into chaos, Lee Haram spoke, her voice clear and steady.

“Ha… what was that?”

The play resumed. Kim Dohyung, sitting next to Saeron, was impressed.

“That wasn’t planned, was it? Your friend’s quick on her feet.”
“Indeed.”

Saeron, despite his outward indifference, was impressed by Haram’s improvisation. But it was a fatal blow to the play. He knew his own script better than anyone.

The emotional arc of Act 3 was like a balloon, carefully inflated with the villagers’ hopes and dreams, building towards a climactic burst. But the tension had been released prematurely. The ending, now, would feel… flat, unsatisfying. The judges wouldn’t be impressed.

He looked at Haram, who was carrying on with the scene.

‘She’s good, but…something’s missing.’

Saeron had a habit of analyzing people as if they were characters in a story, observing their mannerisms, their motivations, their backstories, and then predicting their actions. His predictions were usually accurate.

His relationships were like carefully plotted narratives, distinguishing between useful and expendable characters.

By his standards, Lee Haram was useful. She was also the most… unusual person he knew.

When Kang Haerin told him about Haram’s interpretation of ‘The Wish-Granting Moon Rabbit,’ he had been mildly intrigued.

That intrigue quickly grew. After weeks of conversations with her, he had realized that Haram possessed a unique quality, a certain…unpredictability.

He couldn’t read her. He couldn’t predict her.

And that excited him. She was perfect for ‘Hundred,’ a story about the uncertainty and the boundless potential of the future.

But today, her performance was…predictable. Technically proficient, but…safe. He could already foresee the rest of her performance, and it wasn’t what he wanted.

He was lost in thought when the play reached its climax: the Moon Rabbit’s farewell to Jinsol. He knew this was the most crucial scene, but he felt no anticipation.

The tension that should have been building throughout the play had dissipated.
Then, the actor playing Jinsol suddenly went off-script.

“Don’t go. You belong here.”

He completely changed the line.
Saeron was the only one who noticed.

“Why… Why are you doing this?”

Haram responded, her reaction so natural that Saeron initially assumed it was a planned deviation.
But he quickly realized it wasn’t.

He knew Haram’s habits. When she was caught off guard, she looked into her scene partner’s eyes, searching for answers, trying to gauge their intentions.

And right now, she was staring intently at the boy playing Jinsol.

She was flustered.

Saeron smiled, enjoying this unexpected turn of events.

The atmosphere on stage shifted. A strange energy filled the theater, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Haram’s performance, usually reactive, passive, had changed.

“And I’ll be happy?”
“You will, eventually.”
“How can you be so sure? You’ve made nothing but mistakes.”

The actors on stage, caught in a whirlwind of emotions, exchanged rapid-fire lines, their intensity spilling into the audience. People were watching, mesmerized, forgetting to even breathe.

The boy playing Jinsol finally broke, relinquishing control to the Moon Rabbit.

“What… what do you want from me?”

Saeron grinned.

The scene was back on track, technically. But he had no idea what would happen next. The uncertainty was exhilarating.

Haram’s eyes, devoid of emotion, filled with tears. She stared at Jinsol, silent, for a long moment.

Saeron watched, a bitter taste rising in his throat. He could feel the raw grief emanating from her, a sourness on his tongue.

The Moon Rabbit continued to cry, her sorrow palpable. Then, she forced a smile, her lips twisting upwards.

“Then… then… come with me.”

When Jinsol didn’t respond, her smile widened. Saeron grinned, stroking his chin. He couldn’t predict her next line.

She turned her back to the audience, looked up at the moon hanging in the backdrop, and said,

“I’ll be generous. I’ll give you a choice.”

She laughed softly, then turned back to Jinsol. The audience held its breath, every eye on her. A silence so profound that even the slightest sound would have shattered it. And then,

“Forget me.”

Dohyung’s gasp broke Saeron’s concentration.

“That was… a powerful ending. I wasn’t sure at first, but… wow.”

Saeron exhaled slowly.

“That was all improv.”
“What?”
“They went off-script, midway through the scene. It wasn’t planned.”
“From where?”
“From… the second half of that scene.”

Dohyung rubbed his nose, then chuckled.

“They’re insane.”
“Indeed. I like it.”

Dohyung smiled, genuinely impressed.

“And your actor… the girl. Her emotional control is… remarkable. How did you find her?”

Saeron chuckled.
It had been pure chance. What were the odds of a student taught by an acquaintance perfectly embodying the protagonist of his script?

“Sometimes you get lucky. I guess this was my lucky break.”

He couldn’t explain it, so he chalked it up to luck. He had spent his life meticulously crafting his own certainty, his own success. A little bit of luck was long overdue.

After the play, we went to dinner with the instructor. 5,000 won Gukbap near Hyehwa Station. Haerin, wanting to maintain her adult pride, once again pulled out her credit card with trembling hands.

Haram, Hyelin, Dojun, and Junseok sat together at a four-person table. Despite the steaming bowls of Gukbap, the atmosphere was frigid.

Haram smiled sweetly, her voice icy.

“Han Dojun, no spoon for you.”
“How am I supposed to eat Gukbap without a spoon?”
“Just… don’t even breathe.”
“Hey, even I need to breathe!”
“You’re talking, so you are breathing…”

I wasn’t going to be merciful. His stunt on stage had infuriated me. Hyelin, sensing my anger, chimed in,

“D… Dojun… I… I think… you should… listen to Haram.”
“What? I can’t even breathe?”
“Y… Yes.”

Hyelin, who usually avoided eye contact with Dojun when he got like this, nodded firmly. He had gone too far. Junseok patted him on the back of his head.

“You deserve whatever Haram throws at you. What kind of idiot goes off-script like that?”
“It turned out well, didn’t it? That’s all that matters.”

At his shameless response, I smiled and picked up my glass of water.

“Want a cold shower? You’ll dry eventually. I have hot water too, if you prefer.”

Dojun wisely shut his mouth at my thinly veiled threat.

After the play, Dojun and I had been summoned by the instructor, who had demanded an explanation for our impromptu rewrite.

Her expression, when she realized it had been entirely Dojun’s doing, had been priceless. Kang Haerin’s face had hardened, then she had patted my back and said, “You did well.”

It had been a dangerous high-wire act, a performance where one wrong step could have led to disaster. And he hadn’t even bothered to warn me.

Who was going to compensate me for the sheer terror of facing his unpredictable improv on stage?
My anger simmered.

Steaming bowls of Gukbap arrived. I looked at Dojun, who was sulking, and asked sweetly,

“Why aren’t you eating?”

He glared at me. There were no utensils in front of him.

“Oh, you don’t have a spoon.”

I smiled and handed him a pair of chopsticks. And then, as a special bonus, I offered him a path to redemption.

“Here. Finish every last drop, and I’ll forgive you.”

Junseok and Hyelin looked at me as if I were the devil incarnate.

What? You thought I was joking?