Chapter 7 : I am a living actor (7)

To be honest, there had been a flicker of hope during the casting process for Yoo Chaemin.

But after watching his performance in the currently airing weekend drama on public broadcast, even that faint hope had vanished.

“It’s been about two years since he started acting—how is it possible that he hasn’t improved at all?”

Even considering the number of projects he’d been in, the result was hard to accept.

Maybe he never took acting lessons—or worse, maybe he really just had no talent.

Director Choi Younghwan could only think of two possible explanations.

The writer seemed to share a similar opinion.

“Still… if it can work, we have to make it work.”

It really was the definition of a bitter pill to swallow.

“…Yeah. Let’s trust Yeoreum and Jihwa. They’re the main couple anyway.”

There was still hope.

Though it hadn’t been officially announced yet, the actress recently confirmed to play Yeoreum was exactly who they’d imagined for the role.

A former child actress, she’d delivered a powerful performance in her last project, establishing herself as a legitimate adult actress.

Just as bad luck sometimes comes in waves, so too does good fortune.

They had also discovered a promising rookie actor for the role of Jihwa, the male lead.

He hadn’t officially debuted yet, but as a performing arts student, his acting was impressive and stable.

Choi planned to meet with him after Yoo Chaemin’s audition wrapped.

“It’ll work out. It’s rare for everything to be perfectly in place from the start, right?”

If only one part was a bit clunky, everything else was solid.

Acting? That could be patched up with editing.

Which is why Director Choi Younghwan didn’t expect much from Yoo Chaemin.

Just speak and move without looking too awkward—and wrinkle your forehead at the right moments!

That was it.

“I’ll start with scene 34.”

Yoo Chaemin spoke calmly. 

His tone carried a strange sense of confidence.

Director Choi tilted his head slightly as he opened the script.

Clap!

Yoo Chaemin lightly clapped his hands together.

“Was that a self-slate?”

Choi watched with a bored expression as Yoo Chaemin blinked slowly and then raised his head, which had been slightly bowed.

In that moment, his eyes—which had always looked so innocent—suddenly seemed filled with a storm of raw emotion.

“That look in his eyes… was it always like that?”

In the drama from just a few days ago, his gaze had been so lifeless.

But now, just a change in his eyes made him look like a different person.

His clean-cut facial features now carried a bit of grit, and shadows seemed to fall more deeply across his face.

Yoo Chaemin’s brows gradually knit together.

“What are you talking about?”

Huh. 

Mmm.

His vocal delivery and pronunciation were still lacking, breaking the immersion instantly.

But instead of reacting with resignation, Director Choi crossed his arms. 

His eyes now focused more intently on Yoo Chaemin.

“Are you my stalker or something? Why do you keep following me around?

I told you before—this kind of behavior creeps me out, didn’t I?”

“……”

“Crying now? Ha… must be nice, huh? Everything gets fixed just because you cry. What, gonna go snitch to the chairman again? Go ahead. Try it.”

The technique was still rough.

But something about the atmosphere he projected—his gaze—made you forget how unrefined the technique was.

There was an undeniable pull, a force that made it hard to look away.

“Am I imagining things? Still, it feels like he emphasized the right beats.”

Choi knew a performer with such weak technique shouldn’t be capable of such nuance, and yet he couldn’t shake the thought.

The longer Yoo Chaemin acted, the stronger that feeling grew.

“Hey, Han Yeoreum. I told you to back off. 

You like me, so what? What am I supposed to do about that?

Look at me—I’m dealing with you right now, aren’t I?

Do you think I’d even talk to someone like you otherwise?

What else do you want from me? What… more… do you want?!”

Pfft.

At the height of Yoo Chaemin’s voice, a burst of laughter came from the front of the room.

Director Choi furrowed his brow and looked across the room.

It was the so-called “manager” laughing openly during his own actor’s audition.

Under Choi’s glare, the manager quickly shut his mouth—but he still looked at Yoo Chaemin with an amused expression.

“Is this why his acting never improved?”

Most actors can only perform up to the level of their understanding.

But that’s typically true for those with a decent amount of experience.

Having grown used to working with such seasoned professionals, Choi may have forgotten what it was like for rookies.

“Even if you understand something, it’s not easy to express it through acting.”

Acting improves with practice.

But how could anyone freely experiment or learn when they’re being laughed at by their own manager the moment they slip up?

“At the very least, it’s obvious he’s studied and done his research.”

You can’t perform like that without putting in effort.

It was something you had to see in person to truly grasp.

“Was I really so blinded by bias?”

Choi began to regret having so easily dismissed Yoo Chaemin.

“That’s all.”

The performance ended.

Director Choi clapped—genuinely.

It wasn’t the best he’d hoped for. But there was potential.

More importantly, Yoo Chaemin clearly had the desire to improve.

“…Thank you.”

Just from the applause, Yoo Chaemin blushed and said thank you shyly.

Choi glanced over at writer Shin Woori, exchanging a quick look.

Thankfully, she seemed to feel the same way and gave a small nod.

“Well then…”

Just as Director Choi was about to wrap things up, Yoo Chaemin spoke first.

“Excuse me, but… could I perform one more scene?” “Huh? Oh—sure, of course. Go ahead.”

Though his mind wondered is that really necessary?, his head nodded on its own.

Part of it was his looks—but more than anything, it was the eyes. That look in his eyes had a strange power.

“Thank you! I’ll do scene 703.”

Yoo Chaemin called out the scene number eagerly, as if he’d been waiting for the chance.

It was clear he had prepared thoroughly.

Director Choi smiled faintly and flipped through the script quickly.

“That’s pretty far in the story…”

The scene Yoo Chaemin had just performed was from the very beginning of the script. 

It depicted Lee Hyuk at a time when he found Han Yeoreum’s attention annoying and bothersome, reacting with harshness and cruelty.

But later in the story, Lee Hyuk becomes a completely different person.

‘I can see why he prepared that scene so thoroughly, but… I don’t know.’

Could Yoo Chaemin, as he was now, really understand and portray that version of Lee Hyuk?

Director Choi Younghwan was almost certain the answer was no.

Clap.

Yoo Chaemin clapped his hands again.

He took a deep breath and lifted his gaze.

For just a moment, it seemed like his eyes dropped slightly. 

Then the corners of his mouth twitched — like he was holding back a smile.

And then… in an instant, tears welled up in Yoo Chaemin’s eyes.

His brow furrowed, and he appeared to be trying not to let the tears fall.

His tightly closed lips quivered beneath a firm jaw that trembled ever so slightly.

He was desperately suppressing his emotions — because he knew that letting them out would only burden Yeoreum further.

‘He’s different.’

Something had changed.

Almost unbelievably, Yoo Chaemin had changed. 

No — Lee Hyuk had changed.

There was no need to analyze or pick it apart. 

It was instantly clear.

Yoo Chaemin was Lee Hyuk now, showing his raw emotions without a filter.

“Haa…”

Lee Hyuk let out a small sigh and chuckled briefly, covering his eyes with one hand.

Tears streamed down from under his hand.

His trembling jaw, which had just barely been held together, began to collapse. 

A small, childlike sob escaped from his open mouth.

For a brief moment, he covered his face as he wept. 

Then he roughly wiped it with his hand.

When he revealed his face again, his eyes were flushed red.

“…Can’t I?”

He asked in a voice trembling with hopelessness — already knowing the answer.

And then he broke. 

Because he already knew.

Lee Hyuk cried.

His whole body shook.

His face twisted and distorted, and he repeatedly wiped his face with rough hands — just like a child.

“Why… why? Why her and not me? I… I…”

“…”

“I like you too, so whyyyy…!”

His desperate voice filled the space.

“I love you.”

“…”

“I love you, Han Yeoreum…”

Lee Hyuk confessed his love in a voice so small and broken.

Only now — far too late.

“…That’s enough.”

Lee Hyuk disappeared in an instant, and Yoo Chaemin was back.

“S-sorry, I need to use the restroom…”

And with that, he hastily excused himself.

It was only a moment later that Director Choi Younghwan realized Yoo Chaemin had left the room.

***

Inside the restroom, the moment he collapsed in front of the toilet, blood surged up from his throat.

“Guhk! Khurk…!”

A metallic taste filled his mouth.

The strong smell of blood stabbed at his nostrils, making his head spin.

‘Why the hell am I throwing up so much blood…?’

He glanced into the toilet and saw a pool of vivid red. 

The deep crimson color wasn’t just disturbing — it was downright nauseating.

He nearly gagged from the sight alone.

‘Did I bleed this much when I died, too?’

Well, he’d never know for sure.

Once he confirmed there was nothing left in his stomach, he flushed the toilet.

The blood was sucked down in a swirling whirlpool, but the red stains remained.

‘The janitor’s gonna have a hard time cleaning that… I’m sorry.’

He silently apologized in his heart, then let out a small sigh.

He’d used it — the skill he bought from KarmaMall not long ago.

KarmaMall offered a variety of items, from “Leave Work Passes” to other strange goods.

Some items were already sold out, suggesting that the catalog was shared among all employees.

But there was one slot — marked with a question mark — that showed a personalized, randomized “special offer” item at a discount.

‘Honestly, getting this skill was pure luck.’

Under a scroll-shaped icon, the description read:

[Skill :: Seal Release!]

It was the first time anything had appeared in that mysterious slot. 

For some reason, the name had caught his eye — and before he knew it, he had tapped on it.

Then the item description appeared:

A high-grade personalized skill just for you, exactly what you’ve been wanting and waiting for!

When activated, temporarily removes job rank restrictions.

Warning: Comes with a significant penalty!

That “significant penalty” was a concern, but he didn’t have time to hesitate.

[0:00:59]

He had only 59 seconds left.

It felt like a scam — how perfectly timed it all was. 

The exact skill he needed, at the exact price he had left.

Five Okchuns.

It was like some hyper-targeted SNS ad.

The price matched so exactly that he hesitated for a moment —

But realistically, there wasn’t any other item he needed more than this one.

He had no choice but to buy it.