Chapter 5 Part 4: Grab the Bull by the Horns

After ending the call, Song Minsu stared blankly at his phone with a look of utter disbelief.

“Ma Yejun?

That Ma Yejun we fired from our company?”

Kim Sunwoo, the executive manager who had been listening to the call, asked with a shocked expression.

“What is this all of a sudden?

The guy who spent over nine years doing nothing but numbered bit parts leaves the company and makes his broadcast debut in just three months?

And not as a simple extra, but in one of the most prominent supporting roles in the early part of a drama?”

Song Minsu glanced sideways at Kim Sunwoo.

‘If that bastard doesn’t know anything, it means Yejun didn’t join a rival company.’

In the end, it meant Yejun had personally gone around on profile tours and, by sheer luck, caught the eye of someone involved in the drama.

After a brief moment of thought, Song Minsu tossed the phone onto the table with a dull thud and spoke.

“Do you know what Ma Yejun is doing right now?”

“…..”

Of course they didn’t know.

Why would they bother keeping tabs on someone who left the company and was on his own?

“We haven’t looked into it.”

“Find out.

Immediately.”

“Understood.”

“The director has been confirmed as Kim Minsu, a film director.

Writer Hong Jihyun, Director Kim Minsu.

Check first whether he has any connections to those two.

If he does, find out everything—how a guy with no money and no backing suddenly got connected to them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Lee Jihoon.”

“Yes.”

“You know the rumors about Director Kim Minsu, right?”

“…..”

There was a well-known story about Director Kim Minsu.

When casting a film, he had once agreed—through negotiations with an agency—to include several supporting actors alongside a lead with strong acting skills.

Then, claiming they couldn’t act, he canceled the casting of three out of four supporting actors.

The agency had raged, shouting about breach of contract, but Kim Minsu hadn’t even blinked as he paid the penalty fees.

Song Minsu spoke with a hardened expression.

“Jihoon is the lead, and we’re paying twenty billion won, so they can’t replace him.

But his demands will be extreme.

Humiliating Jihoon in front of that many staff members would be nothing for that director.

If that happens, talk about Jihoon’s acting will spread—and not just him, but Daehwa’s image will take a serious hit.”

“That’s true.”

“Attach two acting coaches—no, three.

Starting today, analyze the script thoroughly and push his acting to its absolute peak before the reading.”

Kim Sunwoo’s face twisted with difficulty.

‘As if one or two months of practice will fix that!

The only thing that guy has going for him is his face.’

But his mouth said something entirely different.

That was the life of a salaried employee.

“We’ll do our best.”

***

Kim Sunwoo’s office.

After making several calls and learning about Yejun’s situation, Kim Sunwoo furrowed his brow and sank into thought.

‘He joined a Daehangno theater troupe and immediately became a lead actor?

That’s not easy at all.’

Young actors dreaming of film or television often looked down on Daehangno theater troupes.

But those who knew the reality understood—
that place was crawling with acting monsters.

Unfortunate acting monsters born without the single “marketable charm” the public wanted.

To be honest, even if you trained young actors signed to major agencies just because they were handsome or pretty for two—no, even three years, there was no guarantee they could claim a lead role.

That was Daehangno.

‘Even if it’s a small, fifty-seat theater… these results are.’

A printout lay on Kim Sunwoo’s desk, listing the box office performance of the play The Scarred Mountain Lodge, confirmed through a call with a Daehangno insider.

‘Sold out from the 8th performance onward.

Out of 48 total shows, a staggering 39 sold out?’

Selling out a small theater was harder than selling out a large one.

Especially a fringe theater far from the main street—
people assumed such plays lacked star actors and weren’t worth watching, so achieving numbers like this was rare.

Which meant… there was something there.

Unfortunately, he’d missed the chance to see it himself.

The run had already ended, and preparations for the next production were underway.

Kim Sunwoo’s gaze shifted to the poster placed beside the printout.

‘And even in a short film by an unknown rookie director, he’s cast as the lead again.’

No matter how small the stage or film, being cast consecutively as a lead?

That had never happened while Yejun was at Daehwa.

After a brief hesitation, Kim Sunwoo stood up abruptly and pressed the intercom to call the secretary’s office.

“It’s me.

Get tickets for The Killer’s Diary screening at Hongdae Space—the earliest showing possible.

And we’re attaching acting coaches to Jihoon, so call in every trainer currently at the company and organize schedules.”

Glancing at the time, Kim Sunwoo muttered,

“I’ll see for myself what kind of trouble that bastard Yejun has caused.”

***

That evening, an alley near Hongdae Playground.

Kim Sunwoo sat on an empty swing, cigarette dangling from his lips, staring ahead with his mouth hanging open—like a man possessed.

‘This is insane!

What the hell was that acting?!’

He had just come out of Hongdae Space after watching Yejun’s short film.

Goosebumps rose nonstop throughout the screening.

Yejun’s eyes.

His voice.

His presence.

There wasn’t a single flaw—he had melted completely into the role.

‘That bastard… he had this kind of acting in him?’

Kim Sunwoo had seen Yejun act before—years ago.

At first, he’d tried to nurture him, watching with interest.

But at Daehwa Entertainment, where talented rookies poured in endlessly,
a “secondhand” actor who failed to shine quickly was bound to fade from attention.

‘The last time I watched his acting practice was six years ago.’

Six years.

A long time, if you thought about it.

Yet acting trainers submitted daily reports after practice.

There had been nothing remarkable noted about Ma Yejun.

His evaluations were always B.

Neither good nor bad—an ambiguous, above-average score.

That was where Yejun had always stayed.

‘So something changed in the army?’

What was it?

Did he meet some legendary retired master actor turned drill sergeant and endure hellish training?

How could a person change this much?

Jihoon’s face—forever stuck delivering sigh-inducing performances—floated into Kim Sunwoo’s mind.

“Ha… damn it.”

Of course, in terms of marketability, Jihoon was still superior.

That hadn’t changed.

The guy was ridiculously handsome.

So what if he couldn’t act?

Actors who shot one drama and then landed ten commercials were rare.

An actor who could earn billions just smiling while holding a bottle of lotion was precious.

Exhaling thick cigarette smoke, Kim Sunwoo muttered,

‘The problem is… those two monsters are going to collide in the same frame.’

There would be comparisons.

And Jihoon—already criticized as “nothing but a pretty face”—would see his image sink even further.

In the end, the only choice was to train him mercilessly during the remaining time and reduce the gap as much as possible.

Checking his calendar, Kim Sunwoo murmured,

“The first reading is in one month.

By then, I’ll turn that bastard Jihoon into the perfect Cha Seunghyun, the lead detective of this drama.

Luckily, Yejun’s role is Chinese.

There’s no way a guy who doesn’t know Chinese can fully master the script in just a month.”

Sure, he’d improve little by little over time.

But at least during the reading, the chances of embarrassment were low.

None of Yejun’s lines were in Korean.

From an actor’s perspective, an entirely Chinese-speaking role was a massive burden.

This time, the goddess of luck wouldn’t be on Yejun’s side.

Still—

How had Yejun obtained that level of acting?

‘Honestly, it’d be more believable if he said he went into the mountains after getting fired to train.

But that’s not it.

He left the company, immediately joined a troupe, rehearsed for a month, and went on stage.

He even filmed the short movie while performing in the play.’

Firing Yejun hadn’t been Kim Sunwoo’s decision.

But if this turned into a problem and the board raised the issue,
Song Minsu would dump all responsibility onto him and save himself.

Powerless, Kim Sunwoo would be the one crushed.

Grinding his teeth, Kim Sunwoo stood up from the swing and muttered,

“Damn it… this is driving me insane.”

***

At the same time, Yejun’s apartment.

After enjoying a rare, hearty dinner of soybean paste stew and kimchi with freshly heated instant rice,
Yejun sat cross-legged on his bed, staring tensely at the script in front of him.

“Back into the mind of a murderer.”

What kind of person would Zhang Wei be this time?

Yejun recalled the backstory Writer Hong Jihyun had explained.

‘A mid-level boss from Shanghai’s underworld.

Former head of the Shanghai branch of the Triad—said to be the most terrifying organization in China—
forced out by the Communist Party’s crackdown, fled to Macau, then illegally entered Korea.

Born in 1989, thirty-five years old.

Originally from the now-vanished Kowloon Walled City.’

A place known as Kowloon Fortress—
a demon realm.

Because of disputes over sovereignty between Britain and China, no national authority had power there,
turning it into a haven for crime—the last demon realm of that era.

It was forcibly demolished in 1992,
so Zhang Wei would have been too young to remember it himself.

But children are always influenced by their parents.

The parents who lived their entire lives doing dark things in that place passed their influence directly to Zhang Wei.

Starting as a low-ranking thug in the most feared organization in China, he committed countless murders and crimes, eventually rising to become the Shanghai branch chief—a living legend.

‘Primary weapon: a hand axe.’

Just imagining it was terrifying.

Wouldn’t it be better to use a knife cleanly, like Go Youngcheol?

What kind of mental world did a Chinese crime boss who wielded a hand axe—something that made your jaw tremble just looking at it—possess?

Digging through his bag, Yejun grabbed the bread he’d bought at the convenience store.

‘He seemed to like it last time.’

Whether he truly liked it or not, Yejun couldn’t be sure.

The Pierrot had no expression.

Still, after offering that small bribe of bread, the training level of the Doll’s Room suddenly increased, and items actors needed—like eye drops—began appearing.

Bribery wasn’t a good habit, but if it worked, he’d use it.

Not using it would make him an idiot.

A five-thousand-won double bulgogi burger—normally too expensive to buy.

It didn’t taste great cold.

Better to heat it in the microwave before bringing it.

But… did that Pierrot really eat this stuff?

No matter how he imagined it, he couldn’t picture the Pierrot eating a hamburger.

After heating the burger and grabbing a cola from the fridge, Yejun closed his eyes.

He took a breath.

Then, wearing the mask, he opened the script—

—and all the lights vanished as if someone had flipped a switch.

Once again, he stood in the room where the Pierrot cried alone in the darkness.

The Pierrot felt familiar now.

Yejun held out the warm hamburger and cold cola.

“Today, it’s this.

You know hamburgers, right?”

“…..”

Still silent.

Yejun took the Pierrot’s gloved hand and placed the hamburger on it.

“I didn’t heat it too much, but eat it while it’s warm.”

Smiling at the Pierrot standing there blankly with the burger, Yejun rubbed his palms together.

“Alright, let’s start.

Today, not the Doll’s Room—
take me into the script.”

“…..”

The Pierrot stared at Yejun for a long moment, then slowly raised one hand and snapped his fingers.

A thin crack appeared behind the Pierrot.

As Yejun strode forward and opened the door—

a blinding mass of white light burst forth.

Shielding his eyes, Yejun opened them again—and could only smack his forehead.

‘Ah… right.

The first role is always the lead actor.’

Was there no way around it?

For now, it seemed he had no choice but to experience things first as the lead detective, Cha Seunghyun.