Ten years ago, there was a child actor who drew a lot of attention as a prodigy.
Joo Seo-yeon.
“Definitely a talented actor. But performing on stage is an entirely different matter.”
Director Jo Do-yul looked at Seo-yeon stepping forward and picked up his pen. In front of him lay a notebook for evaluations.
The first audition round featured a video of an improvisational performance. By the video alone, it was clear that she was an actor. She showcased appropriate acting in front of the camera.
The performance of “Hong Jeong-hee” as shown in the video included the actress’s nuanced interpretation, but it wasn’t overdone—just appropriately integrated.
Thus, despite some uncertainties, Seo-yeon passed the first audition round.
“Script?”
“All of it seems memorized.”
“Hmm.”
Seo-yeon’s script had been placed on the chair. While memorizing lines is good, it’s not mandatory. In auditions, many actors performed with the script in hand. Hence, though impressive, it doesn’t necessarily add bonus points.
On the contrary, attempting to act without a script and making mistakes is more problematic.
“Now, what will you show us?”
The scene from Hong Jeong-hee’s script is a powerful one from Act 3, Scene 6. The moment is heavy with tension, as it reveals a covert relationship between Bae Sung-hak and Song Min-seo, captured from Hong Jeong-hee’s secretive perspective. This scene both wraps up Act 3 and foreshadows the crisis of Act 4. It is a crucial scene—if Hong Jeong-hee isn’t done justice here, her character in the subsequent act will lose all relevance.
“Can she pull it off?”
“But she’s been away for ten whole years.”
“Drama and theater are different, aren’t they?”
Indeed, apart from being away for a decade, Seo-yeon’s experience as an actor was limited to one drama: *The Moon That Hid the Sun*. Lacking in experience, she had several possible weaknesses.
But…
“She has charisma.”
The kind of presence that draws the gaze—an innate talent.
In the midst of everyone observing this aura…
“Hm.”
Seo-yeon’s performance began.
“Lies.”
A downcast smile, followed by a single word. At that moment, Jo Do-yul felt chills—not because the acting was superb, but because her voice was so distinct and clear.
“What is this?”
After all, wasn’t this her theater debut?
Looking at her now, there was no sign of the prodigy child star, Joo Seo-yeon. Her back was slightly hunched, her long hair falling forward, giving off an eerie vibe. The charm of her pretty face had vanished.
“Why, why does he laugh at that kind of girl? He’s never shown such a side before.”
What is the difference between acting in a drama and a play? It’s about the style of expression.
Dramas require a more emotional, nuanced performance. With close-ups on the actor’s face, it’s possible to extract their emotions.
Typically, naturalistic acting involves embedding everyday expressions with emotions, which defines drama performances.
However, what about the play?
“Surely not, surely not. Could I be mistaken? Could I be deceived? That girl is definitely seducing my innocent older brother. Yes! That’s it!”
Seo-yeon overplayed it with exaggerated chest-clutching and staggered movements. She swayed like a woman unable to steady herself in a dark alley.
Her actions were fluid, never breaking the dialogue flow.
In theater, the performance relies on the body more than anything else.
Exaggerated movements—they’re different but similar. Unlike in film or drama, the emotions of an actor on stage are mainly conveyed through the body, not just the face.
Her hands, arms, legs, the swaying movements—every part of her body told Hong Jeong-hee’s story. Her voice trembled, yet her pronunciation remained clear, proof of proper vocal training.
The voice, too, was different, cracked and eerie.
“Damn, it’s amazing.”
The other actors who entered together with Seo-yeon wiped their arms watching her act. Her exaggerations felt natural. Like a real play, it was impossible to deny that the person in front of them was Hong Jeong-hee.
“Shouldn’t I sneak out too, hmm? Like this, in my school uniform. My older brother wouldn’t be harsh to me, right?”
This part wasn’t in the original script but was seamlessly integrated.
Seo-yeon was currently dressed in a school uniform. On the other hand, Hong Jeong-hee is supposed to be a college student older than twenty. Despite that discrepancy, Seo-yeon made it work naturally, portraying a young woman disguised as a teenager, thus enhancing Hong Jeong-hee’s unsettling nature.
“Planned, was it?”
Or impromptu? After all, this was her theater debut.
Her blocking, the movement path during acting, was proof: Seo-yeon had no prior stage experience. But she was aware of it. She visualized an unseen path, portraying Hong Jeong-hee, who hid in the alley to watch and stumbled forward.
Though awkward for blocking, it oddly felt genuine. It mimicked Hong Jeong-hee’s unstable psyche.
What about her gaze? Audiences often follow emotions through the body but prefer to look at the face. Seo-yeon naturally directed her gaze towards some of the judges.
“Just a little, just a tiny bit, wait for me, older brother. I will surely…”
She curled her body and turned with short strides, as if exiting the stage.
Thus ended Seo-yeon’s portrayal of Hong Jeong-hee.
“…”
A strange silence filled the room. Jo Do-yul reflected: Hadn’t he judged her for lacking experience in drama? True, she may be inexperienced, but a brilliance and talent surpassed that. The performance was one even a fool could recognize—a genius’s acting. Minor issues like insufficient blocking and slightly shaky gaze could easily be improved with guidance.
“Seo-yeon, how old are you…?”
“Seventeen.”
“Are you in the first year of high school?”
“Yes.”
Her calm replies contrasted sharply with her performance moments before. The faded light on her face returned anew.
“Hmm.”
Jo Do-yul looked at the paper and pen in his hand. Unconsciously, he had scribbled some notes.
“First of all… Is this done?”
Such glances were exchanged. Among all the actors Jo Do-yul had seen today, none suited the character of Hong Jeong-hee as much as this one. The faces of the actors waiting patiently for their turn spoke volumes. They were overwhelmed by her performance and couldn’t hope for a comparable one.
Pencil taps echoed as Jo Do-yul nodded.
“That was truly remarkable. Originally, I had a few questions to ask, but…”
She had answered them all through her acting: her understanding of the character Hong Jeong-hee and the reason for her wearing the uniform.
“Your performance doesn’t seem like it came from a seventeen-year-old. Did you continue acting while on hiatus?”
“I kept attending acting classes.”
“Acting classes? Hmm, where exactly…”
Other judges asked questions, and she responded calmly, like an emotionless child. Some thought she might lack emotion, but the act she had just shown clearly disproved that.
Aren’t child stars known for emotional acting?
“As for that…”
All the questions ended, and Seo-yeon returned to her seat while the next actor called for audition visibly turned pale.
“…It’s unfortunate.”
Seo-yeon wiped her face with her palm. She believed she had performed well. The judges’ reactions were good.
Should she have expressed more emotion? Despite all the practice and taking advice from instructors and other actors, there were still lingering doubts since she had never performed in front of a live audience.
After all, she has never seen or participated in theater, even in her previous life.
“Despite misleading the line paths as much as possible…”
Everything praised her performance, but Seo-yeon recalled a few mistakes in this act. She yearned to add more emotions. But if she had gone deeper into the emotional realm of method acting, she’d have made twice as many errors.
In mask-like emotional impersonation, theater acting was sufficient.
And yet, she couldn’t help but feel unsatisfied.
“Perhaps, I wonder how it would turn out.”
Seo-yeon felt tense. Despite the judges’ praise, she noticed the stillness of someone sitting quietly among all the admiration: Ji-woo Pyo.
She had been watching Min Se-ho the entire time, as though ignoring Seo-yeon’s performance altogether, but a moment later, her gaze finally landed on Seo-yeon.
“…Smiling?”
A sly, sinister smile carrying a strange emotion. Ji-woo’s look revealed her unwavering determination not to lose this role.
“Finally, Miss Ji-woo.”
“Yes.”
But her composed demeanor changed as she stood up at Jo Do-yul’s call. Her shaky steps immediately evoked the image of ‘Hong Jeong-hee.’
“Starting now.”
After a few preliminary questions, Ji-woo began her acting. The exchange was ordinary, no obvious flaws apparent.
Though the oddity in her performance went unnoticed by everyone present, even Min Se-ho. But one person knew:
Seo-yeon recognized her.
Not from theater or film, but ‘news.’
“Hm… L… Lies.”
The body bent forward, her wavy hair flowing like seaweed covering her face. The eyes peeking through were filled with a disturbing madness.
“S-shiver…”
Min Se-ho, playing Bae Sung-hak, felt chills run down his spine at the sight of her piercing gaze.
Because he plays Bae Sung-hak?
“Method acting!”
Jo Do-yul instinctively tensed. In an instant, Ji-woo’s entire atmosphere changed.
A spine-tingling darkness spread.
Hong Jeong-hee was the type of character one encounters in real life—a disturbing, unpleasant type. It exudes fear.
If Seo-yeon’s performance focused on the sinister, Ji-woo’s hit the unpleasant.
The visceral discomfort of facing a real Hong Jeong-hee. The fear one wants to shake off.
“Find a way, find a way to eliminate that woman, that despicable woman.”
Seo-yeon clenched her fists watching Ji-woo’s performance. Yes, this was it.
It feels like a real Hong Jeong-hee is right in front of her.
Method acting? It’s aptly described that way.
‘This is the performance that led her into the film industry.’
This madness praised by all—it’s real.
Ji-woo, the real-life stalker of actor Min Se-ho, playing ‘Bae Sung-hak,’ even went uncaught until the very end. ‘And her acting skills… are also real.’
Her handling of gaze, stage movements, and blocking were all excellent, surpassing even Seo-yeon’s. Having already performed in several plays with the singular ambition to act alongside Min Se-ho, Ji-woo was no stranger to this world. Though the reviews of her previous performances were lackluster, since she hadn’t been genuine in those roles before.
But this time was different.
Hong Jeong-hee was Ji-woo’s true self.
If previous performances were practice, this was her goal to achieve.
“…I’m finished.”
When Ji-woo’s performance concluded, an unexpected chill enveloped the room. An unforeseen dark horse had emerged, and the intensity of Ji-woo’s near-mad performance stunned everyone.
“Ph.” Ji-woo smiled contentedly, while the judges looked lost in thought.
“The role suits me more, doesn’t it? I am Hong Jeong-hee.”
She knows this fact. It’s the role fate granted her. To connect her with Min Se-ho.
Thus, even the so-called prodigy child star couldn’t possibly block her path, not when filled with such purpose.
She gazed at the talented prodigy child with this thought in mind.
“!”
Joo Seo-yeon.
As she looked at the girl whose presence alone was dazzling, Ji-woo froze. The expressionless Joo Seo-yeon was staring back at her from the shadows outside the spotlight.
From the dimness, faint red eyes glowed, radiating a quiet yearning, an unyielding hostility.
The fierce emotion compelled Ji-woo’s body to stiffen.
“Hmph.”
Behind Ji-woo’s back, as she was turning away, Jo Do-yul’s voice called out.
“A scene between the two needs further observation?”
A judges’ discussion. Though murmured softly, it reached Ji-woo, standing close.
Seeing this, Joo Seo-yeon’s neutral face had a faint curl at the lips.
A mocking grin, directed at Ji-woo who had been smugly grinning earlier—a perfect replication and retaliation.
Enraged, Ji-woo bit her lower lip.
An impudent girl trying to steal the role fate destined for her.
Of course, she believed she had already won. So why?!
“Right, so that’s how it is.”
Ji-woo’s and Seo-yeon’s gazes clashed mid-air. Naturally, neither would give way.
Both are ready to fight for the role with all they have.
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