Having finished his makeup, Park Jun-sik entered the makeup trailer, greeting the other actors with a deep bow. Just like at his audition, he greeted them enthusiastically:
“Hello!”
“Yeah.”
They responded with curt nods and walked on. It was exactly what Director Gyeong had warned him about:
“You got the lead purely on talent, Mr. Park. But not everyone will see it that way. Imagine how they’ll react—fellow actors may resent you.”
During the script read-through, when Director Gyeong was nearby, everyone had been all smiles, but alone it was different. He felt like an inconvenient stone in someone’s path – that’s how they looked at him. Yet he simply smiled and bowed even deeper. Compared to being slapped and cursed at by people like Song Seong-woo back in theater, mere dirty looks weren’t worth fretting over.
He then politely thanked the makeup team and stepped outside. Production staff still hurried back and forth. The sheer scale here dwarfed the stage he’d come from.
He found himself marveling at the idea of a relatively young-looking director, Gyeong Chan-hyeon, guiding all these people to make a film. Right on cue, the director approached:
“You’re all done with makeup?”
“Yes, Director.”
“Why’d you pitch in with the set crew? I mean, you can do that, but you really should rest your energy. You’ll be shooting all day.”
He scratched the back of his head, embarrassed.
“Oh, I’ve got plenty of stamina. I took your advice and rested well.”
“Stamina aside, you need to hold your own here. If you go around helping with grunt work, the crew and other actors will see you as an easy target. You’re already an unknown actor—”
Gyeong Chan-hyeon looked genuinely concerned as he continued:
“Try to act more assertive. Even if the other actors give you a hard time, show them you don’t care. I warned you people might resent you.”
“Yes, sir, I remember.”
“If I step in, sure, it might get solved, but that’s just a quick fix. You have to handle it yourself.”
“Right…”
“I’m counting on you.”
“Thank you!”
He left after saying his piece, and Park Jun-sik tried to toughen up. He glanced around. Other cast members had managers fetching them chairs, reciting lines with them. Maybe it was his imagination, but he felt as if they were snickering at him for being alone.
“Mr. Jun-sik?”
He jerked his head up at a co-star’s voice, narrowing his eyes a bit as the director had suggested.
“Yes?”
“First time on a film set, right?”
This younger actor was Lee Dae-hoon. He was playing the friend who introduces the main character to the “Liberation Church.” Standing behind him was a burly manager, arms folded.
“Yes.”
“Filming’s not so different from the read-through, y’know. I saw you chatting with Director Gyeong just now—what were you two talking about?”
“Oh… Just that I should do my best, really.”
“Lucky you. Getting all that attention from the director.”
There was a hint of snark in his voice. Park Jun-sik just forced another smile.
“Well, sure. I’m the one he personally picked.”
“Tsk… Must be nice, landing the lead. I’ve been in the business a while and never got a lead role.”
“Oh… right, sir.”
Now he dropped honorifics altogether, peering down at Park with half-lidded eyes.
“You know Song Seong-woo, don’t you? Same theater group, I heard?”
“Yes, sunbae Song Seong-woo. I do know him well.”
“He’s my old classmate.”
“Oh, wow, sir. Haha…”
“He told me a bit about you. Doesn’t sound like you two got along, huh?”
“Well, Song sunbae has high standards. Guess my acting didn’t meet those.”
Lee Dae-hoon let out a scoffing laugh.
“Huh. Well, you can ignore any worthless guy who’s stuck doing theater grunt work. You’ll probably be making more money than him now, so you’re the real ‘senior,’ am I right?”
He patted Park’s shoulder and flashed a broad grin. Something about him seemed dangerous, so Park just gave a stiff chuckle to humor him.
“Let’s grab a drink sometime. I’ll show you the ropes. Must have sucked, working under someone like Song Seong-woo.”
Park just stared off in silence. The phrase “theater grunt work” had struck a nerve. His cheek twitched ever so slightly.
“Actors, get ready for the next shot!”called an assistant director.
Park jumped to his feet.
“Yes!”
The first day of shooting always mixes fear with excitement. I recognized most of the crew from Night, but I still felt a pang of nerves. Hopefully, he’d give the performance he’d practiced so diligently.
After the final touches on set, the camera lined up on the two actors. I noticed a strange vibe in Park’s face as he looked at co-star Lee Dae-hoon. Something must have happened, but let’s just roll.
“Ready,” I announced. The AD, wide-eyed, signaled. Park seemed to perform a silent ritual, preparing.
“Scene 1, Cut 1, Take 1!”
Clack!
As soon as the slate clapped and the AD stepped out of frame, I called:
“Action!”
The moment I said it, Park’s “ritual” ended, and he transformed into someone else entirely, fully immersed in character. No hint of awkwardness—he was the role incarnate.
“…Kinda bored these days, man,” he said, playing the main character with a hollow tone.
“Really? I’ve been loving life lately.”
Dae-hoon gave a subtle performance as the sinister friend coaxing Park toward the cult. Dae-hoon had been in the industry for a while, though never got his big break. If memory served, he never really took off in the end.
“Oh, yeah? What’ve you been doing?”
Dae-hoon’s character explained how he’d recently found a religion that made him so happy.
“You think… maybe you could take me there?”
Park’s face looked hopeful. Close-up.
A bright expression, but laced with unspoken dread—an amazing nuance I could hardly describe.
“Cut! OK! Great job!”
When I signaled, he exhaled deeply. Next to me, our cinematographer from Night, Park Jin-soo, said:
“What’s with that guy?”
We were on a first-name basis now, after working together before. On Night, I had to assert authority from the start, but now he respected my ability.
“He’s pretty good, right?”
Jin-soo grinned, pointing at me with a mocking laugh.
“Cut the proud-parent face. You’re not even married, but you’re literally beaming like you’re bragging about your kid. Isn’t he older than you?”
“He’s about seven years older, I think.”
He whacked me lightly on the shoulder—light for him, but it still hurt a ton.
“Ow!”
“Stop whining. You’re still young.”
He replayed the footage, hand on his chin.
“Man… is he really a stage actor? He’s handling close-ups like a pro.”
I nodded. Theater actors often aren’t used to tight-framed close-ups. They over-project, making it hard for them to “hold up” when the camera’s right in their face.
But not Park—he overcame it easily.
“See? My instincts were right,” I said.
“Why do you sound like you need reassurance? Don’t tell me you want me to pat your head for bringing in the perfect cast?”
He studied me with a grin, stroking his bushy beard like some wise hermit.
“Lots of reporters have been running their mouths. It made me nervous—like, ‘what if this flops?’”
“At least we know the acting won’t be the issue. He’s got the fundamentals locked in.”
“Glad to hear you say it, hyung.”
“You feel different now than on Night. Back then, you were brimming with confidence. Is it because of Noh Young-hoon’s column?”
I just laughed it off.
“Nah. Let’s move on to the next shot.”
He gave me a bemused glance, then broke into a half-smile:
“So you are human. I thought you were some machine.”
In the actors’ waiting area, Park Jun-sik pored over the next scene in the script, mentally rehearsing how he’d play it.
The first scene had gone well, and his heart was pounding with excitement. He had fifteen minutes before they’d start filming again—there was a long road ahead, but people say getting started is half the battle.
He was proud that Director Gyeong had already come over, showering him with praise.
“What’s he done to get all that hype?” someone muttered behind him. It was Lee Dae-hoon’s voice. The big manager nodded, agreeing.
“Nothing special,” the manager said.
“Exactly,” Dae-hoon said, turning to other actors who joined in the gossip:
“Maybe the director’s just pumping him up for his first day.”
“I heard Gyeong Chan-hyeon was scary during Night, but he seems so laid-back now.”
“Probably just being nice so that no-name rookie doesn’t get too anxious.”
Park had no friends here, so he pretended not to hear, kept his eyes on the script.
“An unknown actor starring as the lead? What was the director thinking?”
“For sure. They should’ve given it to you, Mr. Lee—someone with experience.”
“Of course.”
Still, he stayed focused, running the scene in his head, adjusting the subtle details.
“Mr. Lee Dae-hoon, Mr. Park Jun-sik, Ms. Kim Mi-na! Time for the next scene!”called the AD.
Park jumped up.
“Yes!”
It was the scene where they’d both meet the cult leader.
“Don’t overdo it. Watch for any theatrical overacting…” he reminded himself quietly, dashing out of the waiting area. Behind him, Dae-hoon smirked at his retreating figure.
“He’s a newbie; he should’ve memorized the entire script by now. What’s that rookie doing, still relying on the pages?” he whispered.
“Seriously. Tsk, brand-new scum,” the manager agreed.
At a subtle signal from Dae-hoon, the manager glanced around—no one watching—and stealthily slipped Park’s script from where he’d left it into his own coat.
Seeing this, Dae-hoon let out a smug laugh.
“Guess that’s trouble for you, Jun-sik.”
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