It was nearly eleven at night in the writer’s studio. The sprawling space, which took up over 1,300 square feet, was located in a residential apartment building but had been converted entirely for work. As proof, a team of assistant writers was clattering away on laptops at a large desk in the center of the living room. Overnight sessions were common here. And in the largest room, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the frantic symphony of typing was the only sound. A middle-aged woman wearing a gray headband appeared in the doorway. She clicked her tongue, frustrated with a passage that wouldn't come together. This was Park Eun-mi, the owner of the studio. Her face, framed by long, permed hair tied back, looked to be in its early forties. Park Eun-mi, the writer, was currently covering her face with both hands, a portrait of agony. Her cell phone, sitting next to her laptop, chirped with a cheerful ringtone. Park Eun-mi, however, gave it only a fleeting glance and ignored the call. The calls had been pouring in like this for a month. The reason was simple, a fact trumpeted by entertainment headlines for weeks. “[Issue Check] Star Writer Park Eun-mi Returns… Broadcasting Industry Abuzz.” She was one of the few true star writers in the country. Of the fourteen dramas she had penned, eight had been massive hits, including her most recent. And the remaining six? They hadn't failed; they’d simply done better than average. In other words, Park Eun-mi was an ultra-class, blue-chip writer who had never known a true flop. “Hit-Maker Park Eun-mi Collaborates with DBS for Her Latest Work.” She had teamed up with DBS’s drama department this time. The director was Han Jae-hyuk, a heavyweight in his own right. They had already worked together on five projects, and a top-tier actress had been confirmed before pre-production had even officially begun. This powerhouse trio was the foundation. It was no surprise, then, that rumors about the production were spreading like wildfire. Park Eun-mi’s phone buzzed every few minutes. Most of the calls were from entertainment agencies, large and small, all desperate to land their actors a role in the new series. It was only natural. Getting cast in one of her dramas was a guaranteed jackpot. Park Eun-mi knew this all too well. “It’s chaos. Utter chaos,” she muttered. A writer of her caliber had considerable sway over casting. But the blueprint for the new drama’s cast was already mostly set. Yoon Seo-ah was confirmed as the lead. So, to Park Eun-mi, the endless calls from agencies were nothing more than a nuisance. She finally reached for the phone, intending to silence it, but paused. She checked the caller ID, her head tilting in surprise, and then put the phone to her ear. “Oh, Director Han. Why are you calling so late? Weren’t you judging the preliminaries for ‘Rising Star’? Did filming wrap up?” The caller wasn't another agency, but Director Han Jae-hyuk himself. He answered, his voice hurried. “Ah, it’s over. More importantly, I’m on my way to your studio right now.” “I’m almost there. I’ll arrive in about twenty minutes.” Having him come to the studio wasn't an issue—they were partners on this project—but Park Eun-mi frowned slightly at the late hour. “I was just about to take a shower. If it’s not urgent, can we meet tomorrow morning?” “No, no. It’s urgent. You need to see this right now. Oh, and Seo-ah is with me.” “See what? Wait, Yoon Seo-ah is coming with you?” “Yeah. We’ll talk details when I get there.” It was past eleven, and both the director and her confirmed female lead were on their way. This couldn't be a minor issue. “Sigh. You’re coming straight from the audition, then. Fine, I understand.” Tossing her phone aside, Park Eun-mi took off her headband and left her room. It looked like she would have to send the assistant writers home. “Everyone, Director Han is on his way, so let’s call it a night. Go home. Take a day or two off.” At their boss’s words, the assistants hurriedly began packing their things. Park Eun-mi chuckled. “Good work. Take my card and get yourselves something delicious on the way home. Don’t worry about the price.” The assistants, now holding the credit card, were thrilled. Among them, a young woman with glasses handed a thin stack of papers to Park Eun-mi. “Author-nim, here are the research materials on sociopaths you asked for.” Park Eun-mi took the papers with a small sigh. “Hmm, thank you for the hard work. But I might not be able to use this.” “Why? Ah—is it because of the actor?” “Exactly. There are plenty of actors who can play a villain, but this role… it requires a complete self-immolation. The ones who might have the skill for it are too afraid to take the part.” Park Eun-mi clicked her tongue and casually placed the materials on the coffee table. “I might have to change the character entirely.” A few minutes later, the assistant writers were gone. In their place, two new figures occupied the living room sofa: Director Han Jae-hyuk and the top actress Yoon Seo-ah, who had already made herself at home. “Oh, Eun-mi, I love the smell in here! You changed the diffuser, didn’t you?” Whether she had or not, Park Eun-mi seemed mildly annoyed. “Seo-ah, for heaven’s sake, sit down. Are you ever not performing?” She meant it as a light scolding, but Yoon Seo-ah didn’t seem to mind in the least. “You always say that. You pretend to be annoyed, but you were secretly hoping I’d notice.” “No, I wasn’t. Whatever. Just sit. The tea is ready.” Turning her back on the actress, Park Eun-mi placed a tray of tea on the table. Then, she glanced at Director Han, who had been staring at his phone since he arrived. “So, PD-nim, is the chief director really going to let you direct this one? I heard there was some talk you’d be moved off the floor.” Han Jae-hyuk snorted without looking up. “If I say I’m doing it, what are they going to do about it?” “But that’s not how the corporate ladder works, is it? Honestly, with your experience and reputation, shouldn’t you have been promoted to a desk job years ago?” “A desk job? I’d rather retire than stop directing.” At last, Director Han looked up from his phone, his eyes meeting Park Eun-mi’s from across the table. “But this one might really be my last project. I’m getting old. I have to make way for the younger generation, so it’s probably time I stepped back.” Han Jae-hyuk, with his salt-and-pepper beard, was in his late forties but looked older. Given his accomplishments, he should have been a senior executive at the broadcast station long ago. But he held to a simple creed: he would sooner die than give up his director’s chair. “For now, there’s no one else who can pull in the ratings like I can, so I’m surviving.” Both Yoon Seo-ah and Park Eun-mi chimed in. “I wish you would keep directing forever!” “I feel the same. Though, even if you stayed on as a Chief Producer, I think it would work out.” But Han Jae-hyuk just shook his head with a wry smile. “Forget it. Anyway, I have to make this one count. When this project is finished, I’m thinking of leaving the company. I might start my own production house so I can keep directing.” “Oho, if you did that, investors would be lining up at your door.” Director Han’s eyes grew serious. “Let’s make this one a massive hit.” Yoon Seo-ah, flipping her long hair over her shoulder, smirked. “You don’t have to ask me twice.” Park Eun-mi, letting out a soft sigh, shrugged and took the lead. “When have we ever aimed for anything less? So? What’s the real reason you two barged in here at this hour?” In response, Director Han suddenly stood up. He connected the phone he’d been fiddling with to the large television screen on the wall. Park Eun-mi furrowed her brow. “What are you doing? Are we watching a movie?” Fiddling with the remote, Director Han replied calmly. “Just watch first. We’ll talk after.” “It’s a hidden gem I found today. No, an actor.” “What on earth are you talking about?” Park Eun-mi grumbled, but Han Jae-hyuk had already pressed play. A man appeared on the large screen. It was Lee Min-jun, the first participant from that morning’s ‘Rising Star’ preliminary round. As soon as she saw him, Park Eun-mi tilted her head. “Who’s that? Ah, don’t tell me this is a recording from ‘Rising Star’.” But Director Han, remote in hand, answered her question with one of his own, pointing a finger at the screen. “What do you think of this guy?” On the screen, Lee Min-jun sat in a chair, head tilted slightly, phone pressed to his ear. His pupils were faintly dilated. Park Eun-mi gave a quick, uninterested assessment. “He’s tall. His visuals are decent. There’s a bit of a rough edge to him. But has he been drinking? He looks drunk. His pupils are dilated, and his gaze is a little…” The quick response came from Yoon Seo-ah, her legs crossed elegantly. “He’s intense, isn’t he? While looking completely vacant.” “He has a certain charm, I suppose. A rookie? An aspiring actor? Either way, he has a unique presence for a nobody.” “No, you can’t really categorize him as a rookie or an aspirant.” “What? Director, why are you making me watch this kid? I’m exhausted. My writing is going nowhere today, and my head is about to split open.” On the screen, Lee Min-jun slowly rose and stood before the judges. And then, he began to perform. It was something between a convulsion and a moment of blinding clarity. Ragged breaths, desperate eyes, grotesque contortions of his body—a figure both pitiful and severe. Delicate expressions rippled across his facial muscles, conveying a profound inner turmoil. This went on for thirty seconds, then a minute, then three. The Lee Min-jun on the screen had become someone else entirely. Park Eun-mi, who had been slouched on the sofa, was now on the edge of her seat, inching closer to the television. Her earlier complaints were forgotten. Her expression was now locked in, her focus absolute. Is this… is this acting? How could such a transformation be possible? Park Eun-mi watched, her mind reeling with doubt. Has he actually been stabbed with a knife before? How else could he express this so perfectly? Han Jae-hyuk abruptly stopped the video. He turned to Park Eun-mi, whose eyes were wide with disbelief. “So, which one do you think is his real personality? The drunkard from the first impression, or the man in terrible agony?” “I don’t know. More importantly, what is that acting? I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s not realistic—it’s reality.” “Right. And what if I told you he did that after looking at the script for only one minute?” “What are you talking about? That’s impossible.” “He might not be a known quantity, but he must have put in a tremendous amount of work.” “No. Just watch his interview.” He played a short clip of the interview with Lee Min-jun after his performance. The man came off as almost arrogant, tossing out answers like ‘I’m self-taught.’ Or perhaps it was just immense self-confidence. Director Han paused it and asked again. “Do you think this is the real him?” “I’m… completely lost.” Han Jae-hyuk took a step closer to Park Eun-mi, who was still staring at the frozen image on the screen, his bearded chin jutting forward. “The kid’s acting is insane, but his mind is crystal clear. He was cool, then scorching hot, then ice cold. Like a psychopath. Does he remind you of any particular character?” Only then did Park Eun-mi snap back to the present. She turned, her gaze falling back to the coffee table. There, she saw it. The stack of research materials on sociopaths her assistant had given her. The next morning, Lee Min-jun’s tiny one-room apartment. It was around eight o’clock. Lee Min-jun, who had been sound asleep, suddenly snapped his eyes open. His hair was a mess, and scripts were scattered across his bedding. He’d clearly fallen asleep while reading. After sitting up and stretching, he started his morning by chugging a glass of water. Then he checked his phone and froze. He had a message from an unknown number. The ‘Rising Star’ producer had sent him a clip of his performance. Lee Min-jun downloaded the video. He sat cross-legged on the floor. He needed to watch it. But he couldn’t bring himself to press play. “This is going to be so embarrassing.” The shame he had managed to suppress came flooding back—that uniquely awful feeling that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin. It was awkward enough just hearing a recording of your own voice. But to watch himself act, to relive that cringe-inducing moment? “Phew. Calm down. It’s just a video.” Min-jun had to watch. This video was the only proof of his first entry into the void. He tapped the screen. His own face appeared. It was the face of the man who had mortified him yesterday, but he forced himself to watch. Five seconds passed. Min-jun tilted his head. The anticipated wave of shame had receded. The reason was simple. “This… isn’t half bad?” His acting in the video wasn't just okay; it was good. Of course, there was still a sense of detachment, of seeing a stranger. “Am I actually doing well? Why am I good at this?” It was not the kind of performance that would make him want to hide. And that was just the beginning. When the clip reached the part where he screamed, as if being stabbed by an unseen blade, his jaw dropped. “Wow… that’s incredible.” Lee Min-jun found himself genuinely impressed. Is that really me? Of course, he knew nothing about the technicalities of acting, but from a viewer’s perspective, the man on the screen was more than just good; he was captivating. Before he knew it, he was completely immersed in the video. Then, a sudden realization hit him. “I thought I was being horribly embarrassing.” There had been no reason to feel that way at all. Yeah, now that I think about it, I was a little out of my mind at the time, wasn’t I? His head had been spinning, his brain barely functioning. On top of that, Min-jun had no clear criteria for what constituted ‘good acting.’ Even if the world praised a performance, if he personally decided it was trash, then it was trash. And that’s exactly how he had judged himself yesterday. Acting, he was beginning to understand, was something evaluated by others. But Lee Min-jun had fled the moment he finished, engulfed by that explosive, irrational shame. Now, with a calmer mind, he replayed the events of the previous day. If my acting was that incredible, then I need to re-evaluate everything that happened. The dark memories he had tried to erase now looked entirely different. The questions from the three judges hadn’t been polite pleasantries; they had been expressions of genuine shock. The ‘Rising Star’ producer’s interest had been real. “Wait a minute. Then my preliminary pass wasn’t a fluke or a joke—I passed because of my acting.” Everyone Lee Min-jun met yesterday had been mesmerized by his performance. That had to be the conclusion. At that moment, a new wave of horror washed over him. Lee Min-jun covered his face with one hand. He remembered the dreadful persona he had adopted all day yesterday—trying to look serious, pretending to be tough, the sheer bluffing. At the time, it had been a smokescreen to hide his embarrassment. Looking back now, he realized it must have come across as staggering arrogance. “They must think I’m some kind of savant.” A monstrously talented actor, a genius whose ego was as vast as his skill. It was the perfect recipe for a misunderstanding. Lee Min-jun’s sigh was heavy with regret. The snowball of that misunderstanding, however, had already started rolling. And it was picking up speed. Of course, the person at the center of it all had no idea. Lee Min-jun muttered to himself for a moment longer before making a decision. “Well, they’re people I’ll probably never see again, so there’s no need to worry about it.” What he needed to focus on was something else entirely. “Whatever that void state is, if I can enter it, I can get a role in a real production.” Lee Min-jun felt he could channel the ‘terrified man’ from yesterday at a moment’s notice. The sensation was seared into his brain. He crossed his arms and stared silently at the script lying next to him. More precisely, at the black rectangle beside the script. What he muttered next was barely a whisper. “This is a ridiculous thought, but… maybe I should try acting instead of working in Australia.” Just then, his phone buzzed, vibrating insistently in his hand. It was a call. An unknown number flashed on the screen. Not thinking much of it, Lee Min-jun put the phone to his ear. A man’s voice came through the line. “Mr. Lee Min-jun? This is PD Han Jae-hyuk, do you remember me? I was sitting in the middle of the judging panel.” “Oh. The one with the beard.” It was the director himself. “Hahaha, that’s right. I know this is sudden, but I was hoping we could meet. As soon as possible, if you’re available.” Meet me? Why? For a moment, Lee Min-jun’s brows drew together. He cleared his throat softly, then replied in a low, deliberate tone. “I think you should tell me why first.” He had a persona to maintain, after all.

Chapter 5: A Writer's Agony