Swish.
The curtain fell.
Behind the dark-red velvet, people bustled about.
“Hey, move that portable stage first. Once the curtain goes up, switch on lights #1 and #4.”
“No, not that one! Are you still half-asleep? That’s the portable stage for Act 3!”
“C’mon, guys, focus. Director Choi Ye-chan is out there watching. You wanna leave a bad impression?”
In their midst, Park Chang-sik spewed criticisms. Perhaps because he knew Choi Ye-chan was there, he felt he couldn’t stand still.
That in itself seems kinda annoying, thought Han Seong-tae.
It seemed that while having Choi Ye-chan there might be exciting, it wasn’t all positive.
[“He Who Found Laughter in Tragedy” advises you to focus on your own business.]
[“A Man of a Thousand Faces” says paying attention to others won’t help your performance.]
[“One Who Defined an Era” sighs, saying there’s always at least one person like that on set.]
While even the Gods of Acting looked displeased, Han Seong-tae was reviewing his script. He’d already helped move the portable stage, so he was free to rest for a moment.
As long as he doesn’t bother me, I’m fine.
He had no interest in confronting Park Chang-sik, as long as the guy didn’t disrupt his practice.
“Huh? Why’s he just sitting there taking it easy? Everyone else is rushing around.”
“…”
“Hey, Han Seong-tae. What are you doing?”
…So much for not bothering him.
“Just leave him alone—he helped out with the stage props a while ago.”
“Still, he’s gotta do what needs doing. It’s not like he’s the only one who wants to look good. We’re all supposed to work together. Him just lazing around is crossing the line.”
Thump.
Han Seong-tae shut his script and looked up at Park Chang-sik.
“You’re not helping them?”
“I already helped plenty. Besides, everyone told me to focus on practice.”
“Wow, they say you can rest, so you really go and rest. No sense of awareness, huh?”
Park Chang-sik raised his voice, making sure the others could hear.
“What’s this all about?”
“Sounds like a fight?”
All eyes turned their way. Han Seong-tae’s eyebrow twitched. With everyone busy getting the stage ready, did he really have to pick a fight now?
“I’m not saying you did something wrong. But if you have any conscience, you’d at least jump in and help, right? Doesn’t it look bad for you to be hanging around doing nothing?”
Han Seong-tae could see exactly what he was trying to do.
I knew he didn’t like me, but this is just gross, he thought.
He hadn’t caused any trouble. Roles had been assigned for the show—props, lighting, set changes. As the one playing the Pierrot, he wasn’t strictly obligated to do stagehand work. Even so, he had helped carry props earlier, which should’ve been commendable.
“I get what you’re saying.”
“Don’t think I’m nagging because I dislike you. It’s for everyone’s sake, right? So we can all succeed.”
“Yeah, sure. I get it: we should do our best together, right?”
“Exactly. Glad you understand.”
Smiling, Park Chang-sik nodded. As he did, Han Seong-tae slowly rose to his feet.
“Then I guess you’ll be helping, too?”
“…What?”
“I mean, everyone’s busy, but you’re standing around giving orders. Like you said, we’re all in this together. Right?”
“…”
Park Chang-sik fell silent, with nothing to say. After all, Han Seong-tae wasn’t wrong. Everyone knew that while the others worked frantically, Park Chang-sik mostly stood back, barking instructions.
“Well… that’s true.”
“It always bugged me that he only made other people do stuff.”
Students whispered among themselves. Their hushed comments made Park Chang-sik’s face twist.
“You’ll help, right?”
“…Of course I will.”
He nodded, the muscles in his cheeks trembling. He clearly hadn’t expected to be put on the spot. Han Seong-tae gave him a faint smile.
“All right, let’s keep at it.”
“…”
Park Chang-sik clamped his mouth shut as Han Seong-tae folded his arms.
[“The Founder of Jeet Kune Do” says you’re being too soft.]
[“A Man of a Thousand Faces” insists you should push back harder.]
Seeing their messages, Han Seong-tae shrugged. He could have destroyed Park Chang-sik’s reputation easily, drawing on his 20 years of experience surviving industry politics. But he saw no need.
Getting worked up about something so petty is childish.
As he moved to help carry props again, he saw Kim Min-seok staring at him blankly.
“What?”
“…You’re not the real Han Seong-tae, are you?”
“What kind of nonsense is that?”
Kim Min-seok narrowed his eyes, and Han Seong-tae let out a dry laugh.
“The real Han Seong-tae I know wouldn’t talk back to anyone. He’s too timid.”
“Quit saying stupid stuff.”
“I mean, c’mon—it’s weird. You never used to jump into situations like that.”
In truth, Han Seong-tae had always been quiet, focusing exclusively on acting. Aside from Kim Min-seok, he really hadn’t gotten close to anyone or spoken up much.
“People can’t stay silent all the time.”
“Give me back the real Seong-tae.”
“Stop talking nonsense. Come help me move this thing. The curtain’s going up soon.”
Unable to tell him about his past life and rebirth, Han Seong-tae changed the subject. Kim Min-seok eyed him suspiciously but followed anyway.
Swish.
Time passed, and the curtain rose again.
[“He Who Found Laughter in Tragedy” beckons you forward.]
Click, clack…
Han Seong-tae stepped back onto the stage.
Director Choi Ye-chan hadn’t expected much from a student play. After working with veteran actors, his standards were sky-high.
He’s interesting.
He’d come without much enthusiasm, but watching the clown on stage, he found himself increasingly drawn in.
Yes, that’s why I ended up watching this whole rehearsal.
—Heehee!
The Pierrot cackled foolishly.
Skipping left and right, he truly was a clown—tapping his feet loudly in something akin to tap dance, only to trip and fall.
—Hahahaha!
The “audience” on stage burst into laughter. And it wasn’t just forced for the scene; they genuinely laughed at how naturally funny he was.
A performance that elicits real laughter…
That was how Han Seong-tae’s acting felt. Choi Ye-chan found himself momentarily forgetting this was just a play—he felt like he was actually at a circus. That was how believable the Pierrot’s performance was.
“Hye-yoon.”
“Yeah?”
“Aren’t these kids first-years?”
“Yes, they are.”
He found it hard to believe a first-year could deliver such a performance.
“No older students who came back from military service or something?”
“Nope.”
At her answer, he made an odd face.
It’s my first time seeing someone so young but with such a seasoned presence.
It was as if the Pierrot had a decade or more of acting experience under his belt—a sense of maturity that shouldn’t be possible at age twenty. Experience isn’t something you can fake with talent alone; it’s forged through repeated practice.
What a curious kid.
Even so, in purely technical terms, he wasn’t necessarily “good at acting,” not in the conventional sense. The student playing William was arguably more skilled. But that was what made him so intriguing: though not the best actor in a technical sense, he had an uncanny ability to balance the entire performance. He knew exactly what would put his fellow actors at ease. That was not talent so much as experience.
“Who is that?”
“Oh, you mean Chang-sik?”
She perked up, immediately ready to praise him.
“Chang-sik is great. A really sweet kid, and he’s so passionate about acting.”
Apparently, she assumed he was talking about Park Chang-sik.
“He’s a good kid. With more experience, he’ll grow into a solid actor.”
Choi Ye-chan glanced at the student she indicated, then shook his head.
“No, not him.”
He pointed subtly.
“The Pierrot. Who is he?”
“…Seong-tae?”
“Seong-tae, huh. Good name.”
Arms folded, he watched the Pierrot. There he was, holding his own opposite the lead. It was actually the lead who was throwing things off, while the clown helped maintain the scene. Fascinating.
“The lead isn’t so great, but that clown is interesting.”
Thanks to Han Seong-tae, the play’s stability was recovering. No wonder it grabbed Choi Ye-chan’s attention.
“…So you like him, huh?”
“He’s not bad. He understands what acting’s supposed to be.”
Acting isn’t done in isolation—Han Seong-tae clearly got that.
“He’s also obviously worked at this.”
“Seong-tae does work really hard,” Lee Hye-yoon agreed.
While she spoke, he stood up; before they knew it, the play had ended.
I didn’t plan to watch for this long.
Too late now. As the students began exiting the stage, Choi Ye-chan walked toward them.
“Nice job,” said Kim Min-seok, greeting Han Seong-tae with a smile as he stepped offstage. Han Seong-tae took the water he offered and drank.
“Dude, look at you sweating. You must be wiped.”
“Not really. It was fun.”
“You’re something else… So, shall we go eat?”
“Is that always your next step? Food?”
At that, Kim Min-seok laughed.
“Life’s about being happy, and good food makes me happy, right?”
“Well, can’t argue with that,” Han Seong-tae said, shaking his head in amusement. Kim Min-seok’s earnest love for food was part of his charm.
“So, what’s up with that guy? He’s been like this for a while now—did something happen?” he asked, glancing at Park Chang-sik.
“You mean Chang-sik?”
“Yeah. He kept picking fights with you about nothing. Why?”
“I have no clue.”
He truly didn’t. It’s not like they’d had a real conflict. Even if it was about not eating with him, that made no sense—it wasn’t Han Seong-tae’s fault.
He never asked me in advance or anything.
“Oh well, just ignore him,” he added. “It’s not like it’s going to stop me from acting.”
“You’re amazing, you know that?” Kim Min-seok said with a half-laugh. Indeed, he seemed to live and breathe acting.
“Ah—he’s here!”
Just then, voices of the other students rose in excitement.
“Director’s here!”
Choi Ye-chan appeared again.
“I enjoyed the play. Quite impressive.”
“A-ah, no, it’s an honor that you liked it!”
“I really love your movies, Director!”
Just a few words from him caused a stir. The name “Choi Ye-chan” carried weight among aspiring actors. Han Seong-tae observed from a distance. He’d never had a director take an interest in him before—he’d never been good enough for that.
He assumed this time would be no different.
“You’re the Pierrot, right?”
“Ah—yes. That’s me.”
“You made quite an impression.”
But then, something unexpected happened.
“Want to work with me on a project?”
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