Chapter 4 Part 3: Where the Water is Deep, the Fish Gather

“Yejun, wasn’t filming that short movie way too exhausting for you?”
“Your eyes are bloodshot, and you look really worn out.”

“…..”

Sitting side by side on the subway heading toward Daehangno after finishing their amusement park part-time job, Jeonghwan asks the question.

Yejun swallows hard.

‘They said it would only take a thousand times, so I thought I’d be out in no time, but I was trapped in there for a full twenty days.’

What’s even more infuriating is that when he returned to reality, only five minutes had passed again.

At this rate, he might end up aging faster than everyone else.

The Pierrot doll almost never gave him any counts.

It wasn’t until three days later—when the count finally went past ten—that he fully figured out what the thing wanted.

To be honest, the first time he succeeded, he’d been overjoyed.

But he hadn’t known why he’d succeeded—he’d just succeeded.

Then, after about ten successful attempts, he finally understood exactly what the Pierrot doll was demanding.

‘It wasn’t training where you just had to keep your eyes from blinking.’

The field of vision used to look at that target shaped like an archery mark.

You had to open your field of vision, and at the same time, open your sound.

Opening your field of vision was harder than it sounded.

You had to look at the target clearly.

Your focus had to be locked in.

And in that state, you had to fire your voice precisely at the target.

You couldn’t frown.

The moment you frowned, the sound warped as well.

Look at the target clearly, with lucid focus.

Without blinking, using the vocal technique you had mastered through training—perfectly.

Only when all of this happened at the same time would the count finally drop by one.

And he had done that a thousand times.

If even a single one of those elements went off, the count wouldn’t move at all.

‘Damn it… I went in thinking it’d be five days of training and ended up stuck there for twenty.’

Lost in thought, Yejun belatedly remembers that Jeonghwan had asked him something and speaks up.

“No, hyung.”
“I just couldn’t sleep well last night because it was hot.”

Jeonghwan looks out the window at the elevated tracks crossing the Han River.

“It’s only June.”

“It gets hot during the day.”

“It was cool at night though.”
“Doesn’t your place get any ventilation?”

“I sleep with the door closed.”

“Well, if you sleep with it open, the car noise would be loud.”
“Seriously, Seoul’s no place for people to live.”

Crossing his arms, Jeonghwan smacks his lips and asks,

“When does the short film premiere?”

“Early next month.”

“What?”
“That fast?”
“Is that even possible?”

“Director Jang said he’s pulling all-nighters.”
“They locked in the screening schedule first, but filming got delayed because they couldn’t find actors.”
“He said it couldn’t be helped.”
“Director Kim Min-soo said he’d help, so it should be better.”

Jeonghwan’s face stiffens.

“K-K-Kim Min-soo?”

“You know him?”

“Holy crap, are you insane?”
“What kind of actor doesn’t know the Urban Legend Director?”

“…..”

Yejun didn’t know him.

Well, he’d been stuck in the Daehwa Entertainment practice room all the time, so of course he wouldn’t know the real industry scene.

Unless they were a director of a ten-million-viewer film or someone who released movies constantly, he usually didn’t recognize names.

Jeonghwan scoots closer.

“You met Director Kim Min-soo in person?”

“Yeah.”
“He bought me meat.”

“What?!”
“You ate with Director Kim Min-soo?”

“Yeah.”

“You lucky bastard!”

Jeonghwan grabs Yejun by the neck and shouts.

“So?!”
“Did you get on friendly terms with him?”
“Did he offer you a role?”
“Did he ask to work together?”

“Cough!”
“Hyung, my neck.”

“Answer me!”

“No.”
“He didn’t say anything like that.”

Letting go, Jeonghwan says,

“You better not pretend you don’t know me once you get famous.”

“Haha, what are you talking about?”

“No, seriously.”

“…..”

Jeonghwan looks at Yejun with absolute conviction that he will become famous.

“Promise.”

“…..”

Hook pinkies?

Two grown men in a subway car?

Seeing Jeonghwan’s intense gaze, Yejun quickly hooks pinkies, then wipes his palm on his pants.

“Ugh, I hate touching another guy’s hand.”

“What, you punk?”
“Haha.”

Laughing, Jeonghwan scratches his head.

“Once today’s performance is over, it’s Monday again.”
“I’m going on a profile tour.”
“What about you?”

“I’ll go with you.”
“Which area?”

“This week, I’m circling Apgujeong.”

“There are production companies there?”

“Yeah, a few small ones.”
“Walking would be rough, so I’m thinking of riding Ttareungi bikes.”

“Sounds good.”
“Let’s go together.”

“Okay.”
“Let’s start early Monday.”
“If we push hard all day, we can probably hit at least ten places.”

“Yes, hyung.”

***

At the same time, Jang Young-ho’s officetel.

Having already spent several days living together while helping with post-production on the short film The Killer’s Diary, Kim Min-soo yawns so wide his mouth might tear.

“Young-ho, get me some water.”

“…..”

“I said water, you bastard.”

“…..”

Kim Min-soo looks away from the screen and over at Young-ho.

Seeing him slumped in the computer chair, neck bent at an impossible angle as he sleeps, Kim Min-soo lets out a dry laugh.

“You little shit.”
“Working nonstop for three days and this is how you end up.”

Even Kim Min-soo had slept two or three hours a day.

But Young-ho, driven by passion for his own film, had worked for over seventy-two hours without sleep to squeeze out the best possible result in limited time.

No wonder he’d passed out cold.

Knowing that waking him would just make him insist on working again, Kim Min-soo leaves him be and resumes editing, glaring at Yejun’s face on the screen.

‘It’s not just clear diction and strong projection.’
‘The energy carried through his lines is enormous.’
‘Even when he mutters, every word comes through clearly.’
‘Actors like this are rare.’

And that gaze—what about that?

If there really were a serial killer named Go Youngcheol, wouldn’t he look exactly like this?

Especially the scene where he stares at Min-seo—who treats him familiarly after meeting him a few times—with empty eyes, then a flicker of curiosity causes his pupils to tremble slightly.

It’s incredible.

And the sudden surge of murderous impulse rising within him as he watches the innocent, hopping Min-seo—that, too, is expressed entirely through his eyes.

Even in scenes without dialogue, Go Youngcheol’s psychological state is conveyed through his gaze alone.

While Kim Min-soo is completely absorbed in the charm of Yejun’s portrayal, he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket.

“Gah.”
“I forgot to call my wife.”

He’s going to get chewed out again.

Three days away without a single call—of course she’d be furious.

Sure, he’d told her in advance that he wouldn’t be coming home, but still.

“Huh?”

He’d assumed it was his wife, but a different name is on the screen.

Glancing at the sleeping Young-ho, Kim Min-soo steps into the bathroom and answers.

“Oh, Writer Hong Ji-hyun.”
“What’s up?”

–Senior, you’ve been well, right?

“As well as anyone in this industry can be.”
“Who’s actually doing well these days?”

–Things are tough for you too?

“No investors for commercial films, so what can I do?”

–I heard you’ve been consistently making short films.
–There’s even a rumor you’re producing something for BIFF—

“Rumors travel fast.”
“Who’d you hear it from?”

–Hehe, you know industry gossip travels a thousand miles in a day.

“Cut the nonsense.”
“I heard you landed a cable drama contract.”
“Did you call just to rub it in?”

–No way.
–But wow, you hear things fast too.

“You’re the one who said gossip travels fast.”
“Get to the point.”
“I’m busy.”

–Senior, do you happen to know any actors who can speak Chinese?
–Either someone who appeared in your films or someone you’re working with now?

“Chinese?”
“Why Chinese all of a sudden?”

–We need a Chinese serial killer for this drama.
–But none of the actors we’ve seen feel right.

“A killer?”

Instinctively, Kim Min-soo glances at the bathroom door.

The best killer he knows is right outside, on the monitor.

After a moment’s thought, he asks,

“How many episodes?”

–Sixteen.
–The criminal appears in four episodes.

“You said it’s cable, right?”
“What’s the rookie rate?”

–Fifty per episode, I think.

“Hmm.”

–Why?
–You’ve got someone, don’t you?
–You do, right?
–Say you do!

Kim Min-soo scratches his head.

“I do.”
“But I don’t know if he speaks Chinese.”

–Who is it?

“A complete rookie.”
“A Daehangno stage actor.”
“He’s been filming a short movie with my junior.”
“He’s incredible as a killer.”

–Oh!”
–We were actually looking for a total unknown!”
–Can I see him?

“No.”
“It’s slated for release next month, and we’re still in post-production.”

–Even just a short clip?

“Hmm.”
“I’ll ask my junior.”
“If he’s okay with it, I’ll send something.”

–Please, senior.”
–I’m going crazy because I can’t find a killer role with impact.”
–Save me just this once.

“It’s not my film, so I can’t promise.”
“But I’ll ask.”

–Please.”
–Ah, what’s your junior director’s name?

“Would you know it?”
“He’s a rookie too.”

–Then at least the actor’s name.

Glancing at the closed bathroom door, Kim Min-soo says,

“Ma Yejun.”

***

A workspace far more spacious than Jang Young-ho’s one-room officetel.

The studio of Hong Ji-hyun, one of the industry’s top writers.

The first-floor workspace, styled like a quiet cafeteria with a forest view outside, is part of a large estate near Namyangju.

With her phone wedged between shoulder and cheek, Hong Ji-hyun speaks while sitting in front of her laptop.

“Anyway, senior, please.”
“I’m really in a hurry.”
“Okay, talk soon!”

As she types the name Kim Min-soo just mentioned into her memo pad, she tilts her head.

“Ma Yejun?”

She’s heard it somewhere before.

A few months ago, maybe—but she can’t remember where.

On a whim, she searches the name online.

There’s no profile—it really is a rookie—but a flood of café posts appears instead.

[“I fell for Actor Ma Yejun after watching The Scarred Mountain Lodge, recommended by the café admin.”]
[“Ma Yejun’s voice echoes in my dreams.

How can a voice be like that?”]
[“On my second viewing of The Scarred Mountain Lodge, I finally got a photo with Actor Ma Yejun!”]
[“Storytime: I met Actor Ma Yejun while eating at Halmi Noodle House in Daehangno.”]
[“Selling three consecutive A-row seats for The Scarred Mountain Lodge 6/24 performance.

Personal reasons.”]
[“Actor Ma Yejun is insanely kind.

Totally not trash like Jeong Seongryong in real life.”]

Realizing he’s mainly a theater actor, Hong Ji-hyun’s eyes suddenly widen.

“Wait.”
“The Scarred Mountain Lodge?”

That’s the script written by her senior—and school senior—Choi.

A rush of memories from months ago floods back.

Clapping her hands together, Hong Ji-hyun exclaims,

“That’s it!”
“The actor Choi-senior asked Daehwa Entertainment CEO Song Min-soo to check for personality issues!”
“That actor’s name was Ma Yejun!”

Now, when was that again?

Writers who live creating fictional worlds often have worse memories than average people.

With so much to remember, once their mental capacity is exceeded, unnecessary memories get erased first.

Because of that, Hong Ji-hyun has a habit of storing daily events in brief memo-like diary entries.

She digs through files from a few months ago and mutters,

“Hmm… March?”

It’s June now.

Looking back at the café posts on her screen, she murmurs,

“A rookie actor who had a personality check at a Daehangno small theater in March…”
“Getting a recommendation from Kim Min-soo just three months later?”
“From that Kim Min-soo, notorious for being picky?”

This actor—
There’s something there.

Feeling a gut instinct telling her to act now, Hong Ji-hyun hurriedly gets dressed and grabs her phone.

“Senior Choi!”

“It’s me!”

“That Daehangno play—you’re still running it, right?”

“I really want to see it, but I couldn’t get tickets.”

“Could you get me just one?”

“Oh, it’s sold out?”

“Ah!

That’s fine!”

“Even a lighting control booth seat is okay!”

“I’ll head over right now!”