On the podium, Han Sung-tae slowly looked around. Seated diagonally was Lee Hye-yoon, and behind her, more than twenty students were all staring at him.
He wasn’t nervous.
“It’s been a long time since I felt like this.”
Over the span of more than twenty years, he had experienced so much—and had even performed on stages far grander than this one. Wouldn’t it be odd to feel nervous before an audience of fewer than a hundred people?
“Do you need more time to prepare?”
Lee Hye-yoon addressed him as she glanced briefly around the classroom.
At her voice, Han Sung-tae shook his head.
“No, I’m ready to go immediately.”
He didn’t need any more time to prepare—he was always prepared.
Before stepping onto the stage, he had skimmed through his script. He knew exactly what kind of performance he wanted to deliver. Yet, the reason he had remained still was that he hadn’t fully grasped the situation.
“Phew…”
He exhaled deeply and looked at Lee Hye-yoon. He could see her expression and her gaze. Lee Hye-yoon, resting her chin on her hand, didn’t seem to have any real expectations for him. Watching her tap the desk lightly with her pen, Han Sung-tae let out a wry smile.
Yes, that was just like Lee Hye-yoon. Usually, she was a warm person—but when it came to watching performances, she couldn’t be bothered with sentiment. Didn’t she even give her own son an “F” at one point?
“I was cast as the flower shop owner,” he recalled.
Han Sung-tae paid her no mind. Thinking about the role he was playing, he began to sense what kind of performance he needed to deliver.
[“The Thousand Faces says that you are taking too long.”]
Even without that message, he was ready to perform. In a situation he couldn’t precisely figure out, the one thing he knew for sure was that he had to act.
“Here we go.”
He gathered himself, slightly lifted his head, and slowly began walking while gazing into the empty space ahead.
Clatter.
His hand opened a drawer that held wrapping paper.
Rustle.
He picked up the wrapping paper and retrieved some flowers to wrap. Although every motion Han Sung-tae made was directed as if interacting with empty air, the people watching him remained completely silent. His fidgeting in the void might have looked odd at first glance, but no one laughed—there was nothing to laugh about.
[“The Thousand Faces is with you.”]
Even though his hands were moving in midair, in front of him were a desk, a drawer, and actual flowers.
“It looks like you care for someone, doesn’t it? How do I know? Because you buy camellias. As a flower shop owner, I know all about flower meanings, and you’re one of our regular customers—so of course I know.”
Han Sung-tae smiled gently. He carefully caressed the flower and wrapped it in packaging that best suited it.
“Please make sure to give this as a gift this time.”
He bid the customer farewell with warm encouragement. After the customer left, Han Sung-tae walked over to the display where the camellias were kept.
“Of course I know. I’m in a similar kind of love myself.”
He gazed at the display case where a single flower hung—a white camellia. Its flower language meant “secret love.” He stared at it for a long while, then let out a soft chuckle and turned away. What’s the use of loving and keeping a flower, if in the end, it’s never given to anyone?
“I’m really not in a position to offer any advice,” Han Sung-tae murmured softly.
His voice, gentle yet heavy, filled the classroom. It was curious—Han Sung-tae never raised his voice. Even when he mumbled or spoke as though exhaling a deep sigh, everyone in the room could hear him clearly.
[“The One Who Creates Laughter in Tragedy places his hand on your neck.”]
[“The One Who Defined His Era tells you to put a little more strength in your belly by pressing on your stomach.”]
[“The Thousand Faces is watching your performance.”]
An unseen hand touched his stomach, helping him deliver his lines more clearly.
Han Sung-tae’s performance captivated the entire classroom. His acting was so compelling it held everyone’s gaze, as if each person was holding their breath. With all eyes fixed upon him, he continued his performance.
“Ah…”
It was a strange sensation—as if this was what acting truly meant. The messages seemed to offer him fleeting insights about his craft. Perhaps this was what it felt like to soar through the sky without any equipment.
Ding dong.
A small chime sounded as the door opened.
Han Sung-tae turned and saw someone approaching. It was the person he loved—the one who had made him cherish the white camellia. At the sight of her, he involuntarily froze.
“Uh, please… come in. You’re here again today, I see.”
At his words, she smiled and greeted him. She was invisible to everyone else’s eyes. What is truly important to an actor?
There are so many things—starting with vocal projection and other qualities directly linked to talent. Among these, if one had to choose, it would be imagination—the ability to become the very character one is portraying. The capacity to project a person out of nothingness and converse with them is perhaps the most essential quality an actor can have.
“So, which flower will you pick this time?”
He was imagining her in that moment. He recalled the woman his character adored, and she appeared before him. She was visible only to his eyes, but that didn’t hinder his performance. Through his acting, Han Sung-tae engaged in a dialogue with her image.
***
A sudden jolt.
Park Chang-sik, who had been watching Han Sung-tae’s performance, clenched his fist tightly.
For some reason, Park Chang-sik felt that Han Sung-tae’s acting was exceptionally good. The ace of the theater and film department, he found himself marveling at someone else’s performance.
“Is this even possible? That guy used to be terrible at acting!”
Park Chang-sik gritted his teeth as he watched Han Sung-tae. It was a situation he couldn’t understand. The Han Sung-tae he once knew was just a hyperactive kid who put in a lot of effort but couldn’t act. Didn’t he see his performance during the university interview? Even after joining the theater and film department, Han Sung-tae had struggled—he simply couldn’t act. In Park Chang-sik’s eyes over the past six months, Han Sung-tae seemed to lack any talent whatsoever.
“Just a week ago, he wasn’t even close to this.”
He recalled having seen Han Sung-tae perform recently, when he was a pitiful performer—struggling with voice projection, with no real emotion. But what was this new display of skill?
Bang!
Park Chang-sik tightened his grip on his fist. Han Sung-tae’s performance now overwhelmed everyone in the classroom. He was someone who, just a week ago, had barely been noticed.
“Hey, don’t you think that guy has something special?”
“Yeah, I do. It’s amazing. Not only is his acting impressive, but his focus is remarkable… could he be like me?”
“But, call me crazy—but doesn’t he seem to be acting even better than Park Chang-sik?”
“Am I the only one feeling this way? I was sure I remembered Park Chang-sik’s performance, but now I can’t even recall what he did.”
Nearby voices murmured. Typically, they would have mocked Han Sung-tae’s performance and lauded his efforts, but now thoughts raced:
“How can my performance be overshadowed by that guy?”
It was inconceivable. No—this shouldn’t even be happening. Even during the Korea University interview, Han Sung-tae barely managed to get in. He was nothing compared to those who arrived with high expectations.
“Hahaha. That’s what everyone says,” Han Sung-tae’s natural laugh and dialogue resonated. Facing that performance, one could not simply deny the comparisons…
“Ha!”
Park Chang-sik let out a hollow laugh. This wasn’t right.
“If I had performed properly, I would have done much better than that.”
He refused to admit the comparisons. For Han Sung-tae to perform better than him? That was simply because Park Chang-sik himself hadn’t really acted well. In his first year, he had performed without much effort, confident that he was the best actor. In contrast, Han Sung-tae was giving his absolute best.
Even a slug can roll, as the saying goes.
He wasn’t entirely talentless; he could deliver a passable performance.
“I was lucky. If I had slept properly last night, none of this would have happened.”
Yes, Han Sung-tae was lucky. Luck—that was the sole reason his performance seemed good. Nothing more, nothing less.
With that thought, Park Chang-sik folded his arms and, with a slightly relaxed expression, watched Han Sung-tae’s performance.
Thunk.
The sound of a pen dropping was heard from somewhere.
Lee Hye-yoon was staring at Han Sung-tae’s performance blankly.
***
“What am I seeing right now?”
Lee Hye-yoon momentarily doubted her eyes.
She knew Han Sung-tae well—her son’s friend, the kid who worked hard but lacked talent. In her eyes, he was simply pitiful—a neglected orphan abandoned by his parents. Yet he was also a remarkable child who had chased his dreams since he was young. Still, she had always thought that, despite his efforts, his lack of talent meant that giving up would be better.
“I’m so foolish. Even if I am like this, that person won’t ever notice me.”
As Han Sung-tae’s performance continued, Lee Hye-yoon’s thoughts began to change. Surely, during the interview, he had given a rather poor performance.
“How is this even possible?”
Perhaps it was because she had no expectations at all. Watching his performance, she couldn’t help but be impressed. There was a depth in his acting—a depth she felt unqualified to evaluate.
Isn’t it remarkable that a kid who had just reached adulthood could now display the depth of an actor who had scraped through the bottom of the industry for over ten years?
Tap, tap.
She picked up a pen that had fallen on the floor and tapped it on the desk.
Han Sung-tae’s performance provoked many thoughts in her mind.
She couldn’t understand how he had come to act so well.
“I always knew he worked hard,” she thought, “but effort alone can only get you so far; some things are possible only by other means.”
Compared to his performance at the interview, Han Sung-tae’s acting now could be said to have transformed completely.
It might be an illusion, but Lee Hye-yoon saw the dignity of a great actor in his performance. Of course, that was something that should never really happen—a first-year student in the theater and film department showing the performance of a great actor seemed unthinkable.
Surely, it was a delusion on her part, partly because her expectations had been lowered by other students.
One thing was absolutely certain.
“How interesting.”
Her view of Han Sung-tae, whom she had once regarded merely as a talentless kid who only worked hard, had changed—in a slightly positive way. Lee Hye-yoon looked at Han Sung-tae with a mysterious smile.
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