The middle-aged man with the goatee—Han Jae-hyuk, a veteran drama producer at DBS—had a sharp eye for talent. It also made him demanding. He’d earned the right to be. After nearly two decades directing in the drama department, he had at least fifteen shows under his belt, many of them hits. So when he’d been asked to judge the first round of auditions for a new show called “Rising Star,” his expectations were rock bottom. Out of a thousand hopefuls, he’d be lucky to find one or two worth a second look. Even then, they’d likely be indistinguishable from the other unpolished actors already flooding the market. As if to prove his point, the first contestant was a disaster. His name was Lee Min-jun. Han Jae-hyuk’s first impression of the man was simple. He looks like he’s missing a few screws. The man had a vacant, almost foolish look about him. As if reading his mind, the top actress Yoon Seo-ah, seated to his left, leaned over. “PD-nim, doesn’t he seem a bit… dim?” The casting director from a major production company on his right shared the sentiment. “I agree. This is going to be a rough start.” Lee Min-jun seemed utterly spiritless. Lifeless, Han Jae-hyuk thought. His acting would be just as empty. “Excuse me, sir. Can I have a word?” The main producer of ‘Rising Star,’ a woman with short-cropped hair, whispered to him, her voice only amplifying his internal sigh. “That man isn’t an official contestant. He came with his friend, who’s currently in the restroom.” She continued, a hint of pleading in her tone. “If the very first participant gets eliminated, it’ll kill the mood right from the start. So, could we just let him act for a bit? Just to fill the time?” “Yes. And if we get a funny clip out of it, even better. We need material for YouTube previews and teasers, after all.” In other words, this vacant-looking man wasn't even a real contestant. “So you want to use him as bait?” “Ah, ‘bait’ is a little harsh. Let’s just say we’re giving him a shot.” “Well, you’re the main PD. It’s your call. But you’d better have his consent, right?” “Of course. This isn’t the dark ages.” Lee Min-jun: an ordinary civilian, a sacrificial lamb to generate some buzz. That was the consensus reached by the three judges, including Han Jae-hyuk. And so, Lee Min-jun’s audition began. The atmosphere in the room changed in less than five seconds. The man who had looked so vacant a moment ago was now the source of the profound shock etched onto Han Jae-hyuk’s face. Actress Yoon Seo-ah’s expression was a sight to behold. A minute passed. The room was frozen. It wasn’t just the judges watching Lee Min-jun sob desperately on the floor; it was every one of the ten-odd ‘Rising Star’ staff members as well. The force of his performance was that powerful. In a single minute, he had captivated a room full of industry veterans. It was realistic, vivid, and intense. Without even looking at the script, they could all see it: Lee Min-jun was in a forest, being hunted by a strange man. Watching it unfold before his very eyes, Han Jae-hyuk thought, This isn’t just talent or a lucky break. This is the result of at least five years of honing a craft. Maybe even ten. He completely reversed his evaluation of Lee Min-jun. This was a level of skill that even top-tier actors, who lived and breathed their profession, struggled to achieve. Emotions become attitude. Feelings become posture. Worry molds an expression; a scent gives birth to a delusion. All of these elements had to be blended to forge a character’s expression, an expression that then had to be chewed on and thoroughly digested before a single, appropriate line could be delivered. It was an endless, grueling process, one that countless actors staked their lives on just to capture a single perfect take. Even the nation’s biggest stars and most celebrated veterans. And he’s doing all of this just from a glance at the script? Lee Min-jun was performing it effortlessly. This wasn’t just a case of being good at acting. Right now, Min-jun was the character from the script. But the shock didn’t end there. It was his calm answer to their questions that truly floored them. Self-taught? He’d acquired this insane level of skill by himself? Just what kind of lonely path has this man walked? And with that, Lee Min-jun left everyone—the top actress, the veteran producer, and the entire production crew—in a state of stunned silence. He calmly walked out of the room. No one moved to stop him. They could only stare, their expressions dumbfounded. The actual first contestant, Lee Min-jun’s friend, finally entered. It was Choi Si-woo, who normally wore a look of mild arrogance but now appeared sheepish and guilty. The moment he saw him, Han Jae-hyuk’s first question was sharp. “Your friend who was just here. What does he do for a living?” “…Excuse me? Ah, he works in design. Why do you ask?” So he’s only ever done design… Everything Lee Min-jun had said was true. Including being self-taught. Han Jae-hyuk was suddenly certain: Lee Min-jun was an unknown master, hidden in plain sight. “Understood, Mr. Choi Si-woo. Please begin your performance.” He turned his attention to the man before him. Unfortunately, Choi Si-woo’s acting was… “Cut. That’s enough. Thank you for your time.” The audition was over in fifteen seconds. Ten minutes later, at the bus stop in front of the DBS Arts Center, a small crowd had gathered, mostly friends and family of the day’s auditioners. Among them was Lee Min-jun, who looked as if he’d fled the building. Slumped on the bench, he pressed his fingers hard against his temples. His head was throbbing, but he was also trying to process the shocking thing that had just happened to him. A black, square-shaped thing appeared next to the script. When I touched it, I was sucked into some strange space. An endless, dark void. The script I’d been given was floating in that damn place, and when I touched it… I was suddenly in a forest. I definitely died there, didn’t I? He was sure of it. Lee Min-jun had died once in those dark, gloomy woods. Killed by a faceless man. It wasn’t a dream or some vague memory. He had felt his body being transported there; he had experienced it all firsthand. The memory was still horribly vivid. He felt he could summon the emotions, the very image of that moment in the forest, at any time. It felt like it had been branded onto his soul. Is this like… actual time travel or something? What in the world was that cursed space? And how could it make a perfectly healthy person experience their own death? “Is that even possible?” Min-jun’s phone vibrated in his pocket. A call from Choi Si-woo. Five minutes later, Si-woo came jogging toward him from a distance. “Hey, hey! Lee Min-jun!” The moment his friend was within reach, Min-jun shot up and grabbed him by the collar. “You crazy bastard! What took you so long? Did you fall in?” “Heh heh! Sorry, man. Seriously, it just… wouldn’t stop. I really thought I was going to die in there.” “Shut up. I actually did die because of you.” Si-woo looked puzzled, but Min-jun let go of his collar with a long sigh. “Anyway, what about the audition?” “Oh, right. I did it. Hey, by the way, did you go in for me?” Si-woo’s eyes widened. “The judges kept asking about you. What did you do in there?” Remembering his earlier embarrassment, Min-jun quickly changed the subject. “Tsk, I didn’t do much. So, did you pass?” “Nope. They cut me off after fifteen seconds. I’m out.” “Congratulations, you idiot.” “I don’t care. Didn’t have high hopes anyway. But hey, did you see Yoon Seo-ah? Wasn’t she incredible?” At the mention of the actress’s name, a genuine awe appeared on Min-jun’s face. “She’s like an angel. No, she is an angel.” “How can a person even be that beautiful? Her beauty made me want to curse.” “I know, right? When are we ever going to see Yoon Seo-ah that close again? I even got to talk to her.” “I probably won’t, but I’ll remember this for the rest of my life.” “Yeah. Seeing Yoon Seo-ah today made everything else worth it.” Just then, Min-jun noticed a piece of paper tucked under Si-woo’s arm. It was the three-page script from before. He stared at it for a moment, then suddenly reached out. “Hey, give me that.” In Choi Si-woo’s hand, it was just a script. Nothing more. But the moment it passed into Lee Min-jun’s hands, everything changed. A black rectangle materialized next to the pages, shimmering with swirling shades of gray and black, like a living shadow of the script itself. Am I going crazy again? Seriously. Whatever was happening, the black rectangle was back. Which meant that if he touched it with his index finger, he’d be sucked back into that insane space. He wasn’t exactly in the mood for that right now. With an impassive face, Min-jun opened the script. Technically, it was his first time actually reading it. And as he read the first line, he was certain. Just as I thought. This is exactly… what I experienced. The contents of the script perfectly matched what he had gone through in the forest. A terrified man in a brown windbreaker, his emotions, the appearance of a shadowy stranger, the rustling of fallen leaves in the woods, a dreary wind, being stabbed, the man’s screams, his begging for life, being stabbed again… I chose ‘Terrified Man,’ right? So in the end… the role and situation in the script become me… Who would believe such a crazy story? But Min-jun was sure of it. So, for now… I need to verify a few things. He had to experiment with it again, just to be sure. Only then could he decide whether to try and ignore it. Min-jun turned his head and asked Si-woo, who was giving him a strange look. “Your place is in Gwanggyo, right?” “Yeah. Why are you suddenly asking about my house?” “Do you have any other scripts at home? Recent ones, preferably. Genre doesn’t matter.” “I have some, yeah. Picked them up here and there. But why the sudden interest? You barely even watch TV.” Min-jun pulled out his phone and opened a taxi app. “Let’s go to your place. Right now.” Two hours later, they were at Choi Si-woo’s house. Si-woo lived with his parents in an apartment near Gwanggyo Station. They weren’t home, and Min-jun made a beeline for Si-woo’s room. He immediately wrinkled his nose. “Wow. What died in here? What is that smell?” A pungent odor hung heavy in the air. Si-woo just shrugged as if it were nothing. “This is what a man’s room is supposed to smell like. It’s your place that’s weird for smelling nice.” “Bullshit. Open a window.” As Si-woo slid the window open, Min-jun held out his hand expectantly. “Ah, hold on. Let me find the recent ones. The ones I’ve actually read are around here somewhere.” Si-woo began rummaging through a messy bookshelf. Min-jun watched him with mild disgust. Three minutes later, Si-woo returned with his findings. “Found them. Two drama scripts and one movie screenplay. Is three enough?” Two neatly bound scripts and a thick stack of loose pages were handed over to Lee Min-jun. And then it happened. Black rectangles shimmered into existence next to each of the three items, each a slightly different size. Seeing this, Min-jun took a deep breath, his first confirmation complete. He checked the time. 11:41 AM. Min-jun tapped the air with a slightly trembling index finger, and Si-woo, sitting across from him, chuckled. “Have you finally lost it? What are you doing?” Lee Min-jun replied to his friend with dead seriousness. His index finger poked one of the black rectangles—the one beside a bound script. Then… A numbing sensation washed over his entire body as the void pulled him in. A dry, absurd chuckle escaped his lips. “I’m back here again.” Before he knew it, his vision was filled with an endless, dark space. He was back in this place, whatever it was. The feeling of floating adrift was the same. Perhaps because he’d been through it once before, Min-jun was calmer this time. He had a bit more composure, though the fear and terror still lingered beneath the surface. He had to keep a clear head. He turned to look behind him. There it was—a white square, floating at chest height. But this time, something was different. There weren't one, but two white squares now. “It seems like they accumulate.” The number increased with every new script he acquired. He hadn’t examined it up close yet, but the second white square was almost certainly the script he had just touched. Min-jun didn’t approach them, however. “First things first.” There was another experiment he needed to run. He took a deep breath. “Out! Log out! Outside!” he shouted into the void, but nothing happened. He continued to yell other, similar commands. “Go back! Hey! Let me out! Turn off!” Nearly five minutes passed like this. Then, he tried one more word. “Exit.” With that single word, a wave of gray swept over him. It happened so suddenly he let out an involuntary groan. A moment later, Choi Si-woo’s voice registered in his ears. “Hey! What was that? Are you okay?” Min-jun slowly turned his head. Choi Si-woo was standing right there. He was back in the messy bedroom. He felt slightly dazed, but he had definitely escaped the void. The answer was clear. ‘Exit.’ That’s the command to get out. Min-jun immediately checked the time. It was 11:41 AM. The exact same time as when he’d entered that insane space. I spent about five minutes in there, but the time here hasn’t changed at all. When he entered that boundless space, time in the real world stopped. Or at least slowed to an infinitesimal crawl. Having arrived at a reasonable conclusion, Min-jun looked up at Si-woo. “What did I look like just now?” “What do you mean? You were just pointing at nothing like an idiot.” Si-woo’s brow was furrowed with concern. “Then you sort of froze for a second and gasped. Seriously, man, are you okay?” Taking in his friend’s reaction, Lee Min-jun stroked his chin. “This is interesting. So, next—” Just as Min-jun was about to reach out his finger again, Si-woo’s phone buzzed on the desk. He glanced at it, his worried expression shifting as he answered the call. He listened for a moment, then made eye contact with Min-jun. “Yes, yes. Ah! Really? Ah, yes, yes. Hold on a moment. He’s right here with me now.” Covering the receiver, Si-woo pushed the phone toward Min-jun, whispering urgently. “The ‘Rising Star’ PD wants to talk to you.” Lee Min-jun’s face immediately soured, but he took the phone anyway. A slightly breathless, excited female voice came through the speaker. “Mr. Lee Min-jun? Oh my—we were so surprised when you just disappeared!” The sound of her voice instantly reignited his bravado, a flimsy defense against his earlier embarrassment. “Um… Min-jun-ssi? Do you have any intention of appearing on ‘Rising Star’ again?” Before he could answer, she rushed on. “You passed! You passed the first round! It would be really great if you could come for the second preliminary round! The story is perfect, too—you came to support your friend and ended up passing instead of him! Isn’t that a great angle?” You want to make me a laughingstock? Min-jun thought, fighting back a scowl. He pitched his voice low and heavy, determined to maintain his mysterious image. Then, to neutralize his mortifying dash from the audition room, he added an excuse. “I was just killing time anyway.” He meant for her to take the hint and forget about it. However, the producer on the other end of the line seemed to interpret his words very differently. There was a beat of stunned silence, then her voice came back, filled with disbelief. “That performance… was just you… killing time?”

Chapter 3: A Lifeless Audition