Chapter 4 Part 2: Where the Water is Deep, the Fish Gather

The Pierrot doll remains silent, but Yejun more or less gets the idea.

Originally, line delivery and eye focus are one and the same.

Even someone who isn’t a specialist could easily infer that much.

Taking a deep breath again, Yejun watches the movement of the target and recites his lines.

“If these base hands defile your sacred shrine… to let death know!!!

Huff, huff.”

“…..”

There is no change at all.

During the long speech, the target moved four times.

He adapted quickly and followed it with his gaze as he spoke, but the Pierrot doll does not so much as twitch.

Instead, numbers appear at the end of the text floating above the doll’s head.

[0/1,000.]

So it wants him to do it a thousand times.

Vocalization had been ten thousand times—does that mean this is only one-tenth the work?

“No!

That’s not the point!

The line is insanely long, so isn’t this harder, you bastard!”

Wow.

This is driving me crazy.

What’s worse, he delivered the lines without mistakes just now, yet the count didn’t go up.

Which means if he tries to cheat by rattling them off quickly, it won’t count.

In other words, he has to tackle it head-on.

“Hoo… I shouldn’t have given you that bread.”

Anyway, pointless acts always seem to create unexpected variables.

***

Jang Young-ho’s apartment.

An officetel studio apartment packed with editing equipment everywhere except for a foldable bed.

Sitting in front of no fewer than four monitors, wearing headphones, and operating a speed editor shaped like a game controller, he notices his phone—placed where he can easily see it—light up.

He takes off his headphones and answers the call.

“Yes, senior.”

– You told me to come over, didn’t you?

“Yes, I’m at home.”

– Are you wearing headphones?

I rang the bell more than ten times, you little shit.

“Ah!

I’m sorry!

I’ll open it right away!”

Young-ho rushes to the door and opens it to find Director Kim Min-soo standing there, slapping his own knee with a bag of chicken and beer in hand.

“Ah, I’m really sorry.”

“You made an old man with bad knees stand outside?”

“Haha, old man?

You’re barely in your early fifties.”

“I passed the average life expectancy of the Joseon era ages ago.

Move it.”

“Haha, come on in.”

Kim Min-soo tosses the bag of chicken and beer aside and clicks his tongue as he looks around the place.

“Same as ever, you bastard.”

“Haha.”

Young-ho’s officetel is small—just a kitchen and a combined living room and bedroom.

Four-fifths of the room is filled with editing and filming equipment.

At a glance, it looks like a workspace, but surprisingly, Young-ho also eats and sleeps here.

“You sleep on the floor?”

“No, there’s a foldable bed over there.”

“There’s no space to put a bed with all this equipment.”

“I move things around a bit when I sleep and just set up the bed.

Haha.”

“Good grief.

Do you even cook and eat properly?”

“I did at least buy a rice cooker.

Haha.”

Kim Min-soo opens the built-in fridge and immediately grimaces, clutching his nose.

“Hey, you bastard!

It smells like a corpse in here.”

Young-ho scratches his head.

“I’ve never cleaned the fridge.

I don’t eat anything in there either.

I’m afraid I’ll die.

Haha.”

“Get married, idiot.

You need a wife to take care of things like this.”

Young-ho smiles bitterly.

“What woman would marry a poor film director who hasn’t even debuted?”

“What about that woman—Choi Su-mi or whatever?

She seemed decent.”

“She’s just a friend.

Who dates a friend?”

“Friends for a long time who become spouses—that’s nice and natural.”

“It’s not like that.

Haha.

You bought something.

You didn’t have to.”

Kim Min-soo glares at the fridge and says,

“What, should I make poison out of whatever’s in there?”

“Haha.”

“You haven’t eaten, have you?”

“No.”

“Eat that.”

“Aren’t you eating, senior?”

“I ate at home.”

“Hehe, thank you.”

Kim Min-soo chuckles at the sight of Young-ho tearing into the chicken like a starving man, then notices Yejun’s image on the PC monitor and sits down in the computer chair.

“How far are you?”

“Munch munch.

I added sound up to five scenes.

Haven’t adjusted the volume or fine-tuned yet.”

“Which scenes?”

“From #C-14 to 18.”

This is how film editing usually goes.

You don’t work strictly in order—you start with tasks that take longer or shorter, depending on the director.

Gnawing on a drumstick, Young-ho smiles faintly as he watches Kim Min-soo scroll through the #C file list with his headphones on.

‘You said you were shocked just looking at the angles without sound, right?

You’ll be knocked flat when you hear it with sound, hehe.’

Unaware that Young-ho is watching him, Kim Min-soo plays file number 14 and adjusts the speakers, eyes fixed on the screen.

A scene where Min-seo, talking on the phone while walking past a bench, drops her phone, which slides to Go Youngcheol’s feet.

Min-seo bends down a short distance away and sees the phone right next to his foot.

To reach it, she needs his permission.

Min-seo tucks her hair behind her ear and says,

–Sorry, my phone rolled under your foot.

Go Youngcheol, who had been staring into the distance with empty eyes, slowly turns his head toward her.

–…..

A close-up of Go Youngcheol’s eyes.

Kim Min-soo’s brow furrows.

‘Yes.

This gaze.

This is it.

Perfect nothingness—something only someone with a completely hollow soul could have.’

He has seen it once before, but watching it on a small camera monitor and on a 30-inch screen are entirely different experiences.

His pupils don’t move quickly.

They shift slowly, in small increments—Go Youngcheol’s gaze is truly something else.

Anyone would flinch if a stranger they met on the street turned to look at them like that, but the innocent Min-seo smiles brightly.

“I’m sorry, hehe.

I’m so clumsy.

If you just move aside for a moment, I’ll grab it.”

Such a cheerful smile.

Even if she didn’t know he was a murderer, it’s not a normal reaction to a man who so clearly looks unhinged.

Noticing that Min-seo’s line is shot in a waist shot rather than a full shot, Kim Min-soo pauses the scene and looks at Young-ho.

“Wouldn’t a full-figure shot be better here?

It might look nicer to show them facing each other.”

This time, Young-ho bites into a chicken wing and chuckles.

“There are NG takes in that folder too.

Watch them and you’ll understand.”

“…..”

Kim Min-soo opens another file as instructed.

The same scene, but filmed from a distance—a full shot of both actors.

And Min-seo’s reaction is strange.

Just moments ago, her delivery was natural, but standing face-to-face with Yejun, she moves stiffly, like a doll.

–S-s-sorry.

Hehe.

I-I’m so c-cl-clumsy.

Haha.

Unable to watch such acting, Kim Min-soo asks with a puzzled expression,

“What is this?

Why is it so different?”

Young-ho gulps down his beer and wipes his mouth.

“She wasn’t the only one.

The victims who faced Go Youngcheol in the film were similar.

They said they just couldn’t act naturally after seeing that gaze.

Well, terrified victim performances came out better because of it.”

Kim Min-soo’s eyes widen.

Acting in a film is, by definition, acting.

It isn’t real.

Go Youngcheol is also a fictional character.

The actors all know that.

Min-seo is supposed to remain calm and bright even after seeing his gaze.

Yet an actress who knows it’s fake stiffens up like a doll the moment she meets his eyes.

Kim Min-soo swallows and asks,

“Is it really that bad?”

“Hehe.”

Kim Min-soo watches Young-ho just smile, then puts his headphones back on and replays the first file.

Unlike the NG take, Min-seo smiles brightly and speaks again.

–Could you lift your leg just a bit?

–…..

Still that empty gaze.

Go Youngcheol stares at Min-seo for a moment, then slowly scans her with his eyes.

A man looking over a woman’s entire body.

Yet there is no surge of lust at all.

‘That look… it’s like he’s thinking, What is this?

Like he’s looking at an object, not a person.’

Min-ju, who plays Min-seo, is quite pretty.

In the film, she’s even wearing a short, flowing dress.

Anyone would find her attractive, yet Go Youngcheol’s eyes remain empty.

Then his chapped, pale lips—cracked and peeling—twist and open.

–Aren’t you afraid of me?

A single word, like thunder.

The sudden blast of volume makes Kim Min-soo jump and throw off his headphones.

“Gah!”

Seeing Kim Min-soo instinctively slap his own ears, Young-ho bursts out laughing, rolling around with his chicken forgotten.

“Haha!

I knew you’d react like that, senior!

Haha!”

Kim Min-soo scowls and glares at him.

“You bastard.

You did that on purpose.”

“No, senior.

Haha!”

“Don’t laugh, you little shit.”

“Haha, haha!”

After laughing so hard his eyes well up, Young-ho finally calms down, stands, and opens the sound-file folder.

“Here—this is Actress Jo Min-ju’s sound file, and this is Actor Ma Yejun’s.”

“So what?”

“Open the memo file next to them.”

Normally, sound directors save a memo file alongside sound files, recording volume and other sound information for the director’s reference during editing.

Not knowing why he’s being told to look, Kim Min-soo opens it—and immediately frowns.

“What is this?

Isn’t it an error?”

“It’s real.”

“…..”

Real?

Min-ju’s and Yejun’s recordings are at the same volume?

That makes no sense.

Yejun’s voice just thundered out a moment ago.

Youngcheol smacks his lips and continues,

“This was actually the first scene we shot.

Even our sound director was shocked and threw off his headphones.

His voice was so resonant and clear.

Ma Yejun said this was his first time filming a movie since he’s mostly done theater.

So we got an NG on this take.

After that, Yejun adjusted his volume.

But this scene was just too good to give up.

We’re planning to adjust only Go Youngcheol’s sound and put it in the film.”

Still unsettled, Kim Min-soo says,

“They were recorded at the same volume, yet there’s this much difference?

Min-seo spoke a bit loudly, and Go Youngcheol almost murmured.”

Young-ho takes another drink of beer and replies,

“You’ll understand if you watch Ma Yejun act on stage.

Even in a small theater, his voice carries clearly to every corner.

Only his voice.”

“…..”

What kind of vocal training produces a voice like that?

The unedited footage was on a level that made it impossible to believe the volumes were the same.

‘And yet… the diction was incredibly precise.’

On screen, Go Youngcheol doesn’t open his mouth wide when he speaks.

He barely parts his lips, murmuring—yet the projection is overwhelming.

“It’s like a pansori singer who’s spent ten years screaming into waterfalls.”

“Haha, that’s what it sounds like, right?”

Yejun had been dragged into the Pierrot’s room for vocal training a total of twenty times.

Which meant two hundred thousand forced, perfectly articulated vocalizations.

Unaware that Yejun’s voice was the result of what would amount to twenty-seven years of daily vocal training by ordinary standards, the two men can only sit there in awe.