Chapter 5 Part 6: Grab the Bulls by the Horn

Yejun scraped his chair back and sprang to his feet, then bent at the waist in a perfect ninety-degree bow.
“Hello!

I’m Ma Yejun, sir!”

“Oh, yes.”

A great actor of eighty-nine years.

Someone with sixty-eight years since debut was using honorifics toward an unknown rookie.

It felt undeserved.

“Sir, please speak comfortably.”

“Is that all right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your manners are excellent.”

Only then did Yejun look around at the seasoned actors watching him and raise his voice to greet them properly.

“I’m sorry!

I think I froze up when I saw so many distinguished seniors.

I should have greeted you sooner!

My name is Ma Yejun, and I’m playing Jang Wei.”

He had been rude from the start.

As a rookie, he should have gone around greeting each senior actor individually,
but his timid nature had made him choose to stay quiet instead.

Fortunately, the experienced supporting-actor seniors—older and well seasoned—nodded and waved their hands as if to say it was fine.

Among them, actor Seong Su-il, who would be playing the squad leader, spoke with easygoing warmth.
“That’s how it is when you’re new.

Just saying hello first can feel overwhelming.

Ah—can I speak casually too?”

“Of course, senior!”

This senior was nearly sixty himself.

If anything, it was an honor to be spoken to casually.

The actors who had briefly taken interest soon returned to chatting with the colleagues beside them.

As Yejun, once again forgotten, tried to quietly sit back down, he noticed Lee Sooncheol gesturing toward him.

He hurried over and bowed deeply.

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you ever lived in China?”

“No.

I’ve never even been outside Korea.”

“Is that so?

Then what about your Chinese teacher?”

“I’ve been taking lessons for about a month.”

“A month?

Where is that teacher from?”

“He’s an assistant professor in the Department of Chinese Language and Literature, a junior of Director Kim Minsu.”

“Korean?”

“Yes.”

“Hm.”

Lee Sooncheol stroked his chin for a moment before speaking again.
“Did you know Shanghai uses a dialect?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you learn that?”

“Yes.

I studied it diligently.”

“…..”

Learning the Shanghai dialect from a Korean assistant professor.

There was no way it could be perfect.

Lee Sooncheol pondered briefly, then nodded.
“Well, expecting perfection after just a month would be greedy.

All right.

If there’s anything you don’t understand while delivering your lines, feel free to ask.

Tones are the most important thing in Chinese—keep that in mind.”

“Thank you, senior.”

At that moment, the door opened and Lee Jihoon entered.

“Hello, seniors!”

Very different from Yejun’s quiet entrance.

Jihoon was greeting loudly even though he still had over thirty meters to go before reaching his seat.

Actors who knew him waved back,
while senior actors meeting him for the first time checked the time with faintly displeased expressions.

No matter how popular he was,
arriving last when Lee Sooncheol was already present—and at such a young age—was not a good look.

But in the entertainment industry, popularity made the senior.

Since lead actors were often cast first,
supporting actors who displeased them frequently ended up excluded,
so no matter how senior they were, no one dared scold Lee Jihoon openly.

Jihoon approached Lee Sooncheol first and bowed politely.
“I apologize for being late, sir.”

“You must be busy.

These days, every time I turn on the TV, you’re there.”

“Haha, I’ve just been lucky enough to land a few commercials.”

“All right.

Sit.”

Jihoon glanced briefly at Yejun standing beside Lee Sooncheol,
then passed him by without stopping and went around greeting the other senior actors.

‘Right.

It makes sense to greet seniors in order.’

But even after greeting everyone else, Jihoon never came to Yejun.

Sitting beside Jisoo, he casually joked with her.

He wasn’t treating Yejun as a senior at all—
just as an unknown extra.

Not outright disrespect.

Just complete indifference.

Honestly, it felt unpleasant.

Yejun wasn’t asking for deference,
but at least some acknowledgment would have been nice.

Just then, a staff member entered and called out loudly.
“Director and writer are arriving!”

A title that even made a veteran actor stand up.

Director Kim Minsu entered and, seeing Lee Sooncheol already on his feet, hurried over.
“Oh my, sir.

There’s no need for you to stand.”

“Haha.

If the director arrives, it’s only proper for an actor to stand.”

“Please, sit.

Everyone, sit down!”

Since Lee Sooncheol had stood, all the actors were on their feet.

Kim Minsu gestured for them to sit, seated Hong Jihyun in the central position, and remained standing as he spoke.

“All right.

Today marks the first script reading for our new drama, Eternal Crime.

As you all know, while I have plenty of experience in film, I have none in drama.

I’m lacking in many ways, so I hope you’ll all help me out.

I ask for your cooperation!”

Actors and managers applauded.

When Kim Minsu sat down, Hong Jihyun stood.

“We’ll begin the reading with Episode 1.

Scene #A-1, Take 1 is the scene where violent crimes detectives chase a fleeing suspect.

Please open your scripts to page four.”

The crime itself was left unspecified.

Detectives chasing a fleeing suspect.

Among them was Officer Choi Jina, played by Jisoo.

Hong Jihyun read the stage directions.
“The suspect vaults over a car and flees into an alley.

Three violent crimes detectives chase after him, panting as they shout.”

Jisoo, clearly well rehearsed, delivered her lines while acting out labored breathing.
“Senior Park, go that way!

Youngsoo, circle around the alley and cut him off!

I’ll go this way!

Where did Senior Cha go?!”

Another actor playing a detective mimed running and shouted back.
“I don’t know!

He disappears out of nowhere all the time!

Huh—huh!”

“Damn it!

Hurry up!”

Hong Jihyun continued reading.
“The fleeing criminal grabs a passing woman from behind and holds a knife to her.”

So this is what a script reading feels like.

Without physical movement, just the voices alone made it feel like a real drama was playing.

Scene #A had no lines for Yejun.

The drama’s opening scenes established character traits and brief backstories.

For over an hour, Yejun followed along silently, eyes scanning the script.

The hot-blooded detective Cha Seunghyun made a stylish entrance, knocked the criminal unconscious with a few jabs, and rescued the endangered civilian.

But the civilian, startled by Cha Seunghyun’s excessive force, fainted instead, leading to Choi Jina grilling him afterward.

In this drama, Cha Seunghyun was a special-recruit officer—a former Olympic boxing team candidate.

A hotheaded cop whose fists moved faster than his brain.

As Hong Jihyun read the directions, she suddenly felt that Jihoon’s acting had improved slightly.

She exchanged a glance with Kim Minsu.

‘Jihoon’s not bad today.’

She’d been worried Kim Minsu might tear into Jihoon mercilessly on the very first day of reading,
so she whispered to him while he stared expressionlessly at the actors.

“Looks like he practiced a lot.

He must know about the acting controversy.”

This wasn’t idle talk.

Jihoon was often mocked for reading scripts like a textbook, becoming a frequent target of criticism over his acting.

But his massive fanbase kept him consistently cast as a lead.

The reading gradually approached the end of Episode 1.

After each episode, the actors were given a ten-minute break.

Yejun, who had done nothing but sit so far, waited for his turn at the final scene.

‘I only have one line in Episode 1.’

Jang Wei opens his eyes in the darkness.

Stepping out from the alley into the glow of a streetlamp, he makes a phone call and speaks a single line—and the episode ends.

A brief appearance, which made it all the more difficult.

He had to make an impact from the very start so viewers would want to see the next episode.

After scenes of complaints being filed by the revived civilian and Cha Seunghyun and the squad leader being reprimanded by the commissioner, Lee Sooncheol’s performance as the police commissioner stood out.

With veteran ease, he delivered a role full of gentle charisma and subtle humor.

Seeing Director Kim Minsu’s previously rigid expression gradually relax, it was clear the performance was excellent.

As the story neared the final scene, Hong Jihyun glanced subtly at Yejun.

‘Even the Chinese teacher was stunned.’

The teacher Director Kim had assigned had stopped scheduling lessons with Yejun at some point.

Worried there had been trouble, Hong Jihyun checked in—only to hear something unbelievable.

‘I think that man might be a linguistic genius.

He learned Chinese at an astonishing speed.

Somehow, he even mastered the Shanghai dialect—one I never taught him—almost perfectly.

I can’t even do it that well.

What more could I possibly teach him?

Is this some kind of prank?

Was he Chinese to begin with?

Or does he have Chinese heritage in his family?

In any case, there’s nothing left for me to teach him, so I stopped scheduling lessons.’

It didn’t make sense.

Ma Yejun had clearly said he didn’t know any Chinese.

And yet, after just three lessons—only three hours total—he could deliver Chinese lines flawlessly?

In the Shanghai dialect, no less?

‘No.

The teacher’s Korean, so there must’ve been a misunderstanding.

Surely Lee Sooncheol will hear the mistakes.’

Of course, even if the tones were slightly off, Lee Sooncheol wouldn’t scold him on the spot.

But if he felt the preparation was lacking, a stern rebuke was still possible.

‘As long as he shows he prepared seriously, he’ll probably let it slide.’

Still, anxiety gnawed at her.

Knowing Yejun had received only three hours of instruction, Hong Jihyun’s leg bounced nervously.

***

Finally, the last scene of Episode 1.

Hong Jihyun read the stage direction with a tense expression.
“A dark alley.

From within the darkness, a single pair of eyes opens.

Jang Wei steps forward.

Holding a phone in his right hand, he speaks with an associate from an organization in Shanghai.”

All eyes turned to Yejun.

Yejun, who had been bowing his head, slowly lifted it and opened his eyes.

Across from him, Kim Minsu curved his lips into a faint smile.

‘That bastard’s eyes really are art.’

They were different from Go Young-cheol’s eyes in the short film.

If Go Young-cheol’s gaze had been empty—devoid of emotion—
Jang Wei’s eyes were filled with madness.

One look was enough to tell he wasn’t sane.

He seemed overly immersed in the role again,
but what could be done?

That was something the actor himself had to overcome.

The staff could help as much as possible,
but in the end, it was a battle he had to fight alone.

‘With the right lighting, even just his eyes in the darkness will shine.

The early impact depends entirely on his gaze.’

The reading room fell silent.

Lee Sooncheol, watching Yejun, caught that gaze as well.

His eyebrows twitched, and he stroked his chin.

‘Oh.

Those eyes are good.’

He had pondered what kind of character Jang Wei would be while reading the script.

Seeing Yejun embody a crazed axe murderer so perfectly—even before speaking—his evaluation rose.

‘A rookie, was it?

Looks like he’s spent several years grinding it out in Daehakro.

Judging by his age, late twenties maybe.’

Now all that remained was the line delivery.

If an actor could project a gaze like that, even imperfect Chinese would be forgivable.

Then—

Yejun, pretending to be on a call, twisted his lips into a cold sneer and spoke.

“过去是痛楚的,但你要么可以逃避,要么可以向它学习,”

(The past hurts.

You can run from it… or you can learn how to use it.)

It just so happened that Lee Sooncheol sat directly at the end of Yejun’s line of sight.

A chill ran down his spine, and his mouth fell open.

‘He knows how to project resonance through his gaze direction?

At that age?

No—more importantly!’

‘What is this pronunciation?

These tones?!

This sounds exactly like a real Shanghai mobster!’