Chapter 2 : I am a living actor (2)

“Understanding. So they call this understanding…”

But the truth is, I know. 

I know that understanding this situation is impossible.

Something that only happens in novels or movies has happened to me.

And not in a good way—definitely not in a good way.

Even if it had been a positive thing, accepting it fully would’ve been difficult. 

But this? It wasn’t even that.

“They’re basically saying to just shut up and accept it.”

As always. Because I have no choice.

“Just because I chose to die on my own…”

The moment I thought about death, my body began trembling again.

It was a terror I’d never experienced before—an intense fear.

As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I was scared. I was terrified.

“No way…”

Did Karma Corporation do something to me?

Did they implant a fear of death inside me so I wouldn’t attempt suicide again?

That had to be it—how else could I explain the way I felt?

“Why am I afraid of dying?”

It was supposed to be my only escape from this wretched life. 

So why… why was I?

But the more I thought about dying, the more my body trembled, cold sweat drenched my forehead, and a suffocating fear rose in my chest, making me want to scream.

“Phew…”

The moment I stopped thinking, all the physical symptoms disappeared.

Annoyance surged up, but there was nothing I could do. 

Just my luck.

I kept glaring at the mysterious floating thing in front of me.

It looked just like a quest window from a game I used to play as a kid.

Apparently, “living as someone else” meant completing these quests.

I used to wonder how living could be considered labor—maybe this was the answer.

“Complete quests, collect Karma Points, and buy a Resignation Ticket…”

For some reason, the word indulgence came to mind.

Wasn’t that a symbol of religious corruption?

And yet the afterlife seemed to be running something eerily similar.

Even the term Resignation Ticket felt bizarre.

You had to buy the right to resign? 

How absurd was that?

“Not to mention the fact that being forced into this job for committing a sin made no sense to begin with.”

And yet, this nonsense was now my reality.

“Damn this world…”

Unfortunately, now wasn’t the time to wallow.

I needed to get a grasp on the situation.

I didn’t know what “hell” meant in this context, but it sure as hell didn’t sound good.

The real problem was…

“Why does it have to be acting?”

I had a bad feeling when that guy—who I assumed was the manager—mentioned it, and of course, I was right.

Yoo Chaemin, the body I’d possessed, was an actor.

Now that I thought about it… he didn’t have a bad face.

When I looked in the mirror earlier, my senses hadn’t fully returned, and I wasn’t in my right mind, so I didn’t really get a good look at Yoo Chaemin’s face.

All I knew for sure was that it looked nothing like my original one.

Unfortunately, Yoo Chaemin didn’t seem like a particularly well-known or respected actor.

When I arrived at the filming site, only the staff around me gave a quick greeting and moved on.

He didn’t even have a private waiting room.

Right now, I was sitting in a shared waiting room used by lesser-known or supporting actors, waiting my turn for makeup and styling.

“Doesn’t seem like he has any other staff besides that manager.”

Actually, that manager might not even be his personal one.

And to make things worse, he clearly didn’t take Yoo Chaemin seriously.

He just shoved me into the shared room without a word and vanished. 

Still hasn’t shown up.

“…”

As always, the set was crowded—too crowded.

Everyone was busy, and unless you were someone important, no one paid attention to you.

So, I sat quietly in a corner of the room like an abandoned doll.

“So familiar.”

So familiar it made me sick.

If you’re not famous, you don’t get respect.

That was one of the rules of the world I learned here.

“…Should I at least take a look at the script?”

The quest said to finish today’s filming smoothly.

That probably meant I had to get the OK sign before the shoot ended.

The problem was… if I were the real Yoo Chaemin, that might’ve been doable. 

But me? I knew nothing about today’s shoot.

“Of course I didn’t memorize the script.”

I rummaged through the bag that the manager had lazily thrown down.

A bag that should’ve contained actor essentials held nothing but junk—random garbage.

Not a script, not even something that looked like one.

I let out a hollow laugh without realizing it.

“What the hell is this guy’s deal?”

It’s one thing not to be famous.

It’s another for your agency to be small or underfunded.

But to be treated like this—by a manager who doesn’t even show basic professionalism—wasn’t normal.

“What kind of agency did he sign with?”

Actually, is it even a real agency?

Did he get scammed by a company that just slapped on “actor management” as a front?

If so, that was a huge problem. 

But for now, I had a much more urgent one.

“…The script. What do I do?”

The one saving grace was that when the manager dragged me over, I’d been on the phone—so I still had my phone.

Either Yoo Chaemin had no secrets, or he was just careless, because his phone wasn’t even locked.

I quickly called the number saved as “Manager,” but the guy didn’t pick up.

“I’m screwed.”

Was I going to fail the quest like this?

Just thinking about it sent chills down my spine.

It felt like the ground beneath me would split open at any moment, plunging me into a pit of boiling sulfur.

And in that fire, I’d suffer for eternity, unable to die completely.

For some reason, I was sure of it.

“Pull it together.”

If hell is scary, just don’t go there.

I slowly looked around.

In one corner of the waiting room, a woman was reading a script.

“There’s no time. Wandering around looking for a script that may or may not be lying around is useless… Better to borrow one.”

I didn’t even know which episode they were filming today.

What if I memorized the wrong lines, from a scene that had already been shot? 

That would be worse.

I cautiously approached the woman.

When she sensed my presence, her expression changed subtly.

Her eyes looked like she recognized me—no, recognized Yoo Chaemin.

Not like a close acquaintance… but more like someone seeing a minor celebrity in person after only ever hearing their name.

“Does that mean they’ve worked together a few times?”

That would honestly be the best-case scenario.

“Um, excuse me. Could I please borrow today’s script for just a moment? I… forgot mine.”

“The script?”

She flinched in surprise and repeated my words.

“Yeah, I know. What kind of actor forgets their script?”

But it’s fine. 

This wasn’t my problem—it was Yoo Chaemin’s.

“I’m really sorry. Just 30 minutes—no, even 20 minutes would help.”

I looked at her and pleaded sincerely.

“Uh… um…”

After a moment of hesitation, she finally handed over her script.

“Just return it in 30 minutes, okay? I’d let you keep it longer if I could…”

“Oh, no, that’s more than enough. Thank you so much.”

I took the script and sat back down.

Wait.

“…I don’t even know which character Yoo Chaemin is playing.”

Should I ask?

The thought crossed my mind, but I dismissed it immediately.

Forgetting your script might be forgivable.

But not knowing your own role? 

That’s next-level insane.

“Yoo Chaemin-ssi? Please come over.”

Of course, that’s when the makeup artist called me.

I asked her if it was okay to read the script while getting my hair and makeup done. 

She kindly nodded.

I sat down and opened the script.

Lines filled the pages in a familiar format.

I stared blankly at the unfamiliar names, then began flipping from the first page.

Anyone with a major role—I could safely rule them out.

Everyone else’s lines? I’d memorize them all.

It wasn’t a big role, so I didn’t need to be perfect. 

As long as I stayed within the bounds, they’d probably give me the OK sign.

“Memorizing scripts… I’m actually good at it.”

Because, well—I used to be an actor, too.

***

Even after filming began, the manager still hadn’t shown up.

I followed the staff as they guided me to the set, using the opportunity to ask about today’s scene.

They responded in a cold but relatively informative manner.

“Gyuwon’s causing trouble again today.”

From that offhand comment, I figured out which character Yoo Chaemin was playing.

The immature youngest brother of the female lead.

The kind of nuisance who shows up once in a while to stir up trouble.

A stock character found in practically every weekend drama.

And his lines? Just as cliché.

“No need to overdo it. Just act naturally.”

I took a deep breath and lifted my head.

The set resembled the stereotypical house you’d see in a weekend family drama.

Old-fashioned furniture, and a living room big enough for a full extended family to gather in.

“Too nice of a house for a poor family.”

Not realistic at all, but that’s drama for you.

Still, seeing the set helped me understand the scene.

Gyuwon, who’d quit a job after just one day, pretends to go to work again—but gets caught by his mother.

She scolds him out of concern, but he lashes out instead.

Then the father comes home, finds out, and clutches his chest in shock.

I ran through the lines in my head once more.

Before long, the actress playing Gyuwon’s mother appeared.

I wondered if she might be someone I knew or had worked with—but thankfully, she wasn’t.

“…Thank God.”

Seriously, thank God.

After a quick camera rehearsal, we began shooting.

Clack!

The sound of the slate echoed loudly through the now silent set.

As soon as I heard it, all the noise and chaos in my head disappeared like magic.

All that remained was the flow of the scene, the lines I needed to say, and the emotions I had to express. 

Nothing else.

“Aigoo… Aigoo, my goodness…”

The mother sighed in front of me.

The sound irritated me, and my brows furrowed automatically.

I turned away from her, avoiding eye contact.

Then, I felt her desperate, pleading hand reach out to me.

“Why did you do that, huh? Gyuwon, you little brat! Why couldn’t you just be honest?”

She always scolds me, always blames me.

Even if I’m honest, nothing would change.

I slowly turned back to face her and met her sorrowful eyes.

Not a single ounce of guilt.

Only resentment.

I opened my mouth and delivered the line, fully confident that it would come out just as I imagined.

“And if I tell you? What difference would it make?”

“…Wait a second.”

Something was off.

What was it?

This… crappy acting.