A man who had staked his life on acting yet remained unrewarded.
Now, his life begins again.
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An actor must live the life of the character in every moment of his acting.
— Stanislavski
“Yes, so calm down! Your suspicions are driving me crazy!!”
On the set of the drama Doom.
The atmosphere was more heated than ever as it reached the climax of Episode 17.
Just behind the leads, a faint cluster of lights drifted in the air.
‘The actors are full of energy... they’re in a good mood.’
Of course, it was not visible to human eyes.
It was an acting spirit.
An entity from another world that wandered around acting sets.
It roamed from set to set, feeding on the vibrant energy of actors—energy far stronger than that of ordinary people, especially when they were deeply immersed in their roles.
Then, it noticed something strange.
“Sir, there’s a call from the National Tax Service...”
“Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something important? Get out!!”
It was an extra who had just entered the frame.
...He was faint.
So faint that the overwhelming presence of the lead actors buried him completely.
‘What is that? Is it a human... or a spirit?’
Curious, the acting spirit followed the man, who quickly finished his lines and left.
Thump—
A rushing staff member bumped into his shoulder.
“I’m sorry.”
The man simply nodded.
But as soon as he started walking again—
Thump—
Someone else bumped into him.
He casually brushed himself off.
It seemed to happen often.
‘With such little presence, it’s no wonder people fail to notice him. How can someone like that be an actor?’
The acting spirit grew more curious.
It was a scene where the main actor, Lee Jaehoon, confronted an official from the National Tax Service.
The man from earlier appeared midway through the scene, introduced as Lee Jaehoon’s subordinate and a company insider.
He waited outside the frame. The spirit observed him closely.
“I’ve clarified the background of the search and seizure, sir.”
“What the hell is going on?!”
“They say it’s an internal whistleblower.”
“What?! Wh-who is it?!”
At that moment, the man stepped into frame.
This was a confrontation ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) between the lead and the extra.
Yet the audience’s gaze was fixed entirely on the lead.
The acting spirit focused.
The strong presence radiating from the protagonist swallowed the man’s faint presence whole.
Then the spirit pushed its own energy toward him.
Swoosh—
It was just enough.
Enough for him not to be pushed back.
The two forces met on equal ground.
“Chief Kim! What are you doing here?!”
“I am the whistleblower.”
“What?!!”
“It’s exactly as you heard... you should have known when to stop.”
The extra smirked.
His facial muscles twisted at an unnatural angle.
A grotesque expression.
“You...”
“A cornered rat will bite a cat.”
Every word carried weight.
His left hand picked up the President’s plaque, then set it down again.
He exuded a precarious aura, as if he might strike at any moment.
The spirit watched closely.
It had only supplied just enough energy to prevent him from being overwhelmed.
But the man—
absorbed it.
Clung to it.
Struggled with it fiercely, like a prisoner who had just escaped confinement.
Before anyone realized—
all eyes on set were on him.
A tense silence fell.
Then the lead actor shouted, sweeping everything off the desk.
“Cut. Okay!”
“Good job.”
“We’ll move to Scene 42. Actors, take a short break.”
“Yes~”
“Ah, but Chief Kim—what’s your name? You’re good. I didn’t notice you earlier.”
“...It’s Shin Yoomyeong! Thank you, Director!”
Yoomyeong bowed deeply at a ninety-degree angle.
“Leave your profile with the assistant director before you go.”
“Yes! Thank you!!”
His heart pounded as he pulled out the profile he had prepared in advance.
Fifteen years as an extra and minor actor—
and this was the first time a director had shown direct interest.
But more than that—
‘I felt free.’
He looked down at his arms and legs.
Whenever he stood on stage before, his body had always felt heavy.
His acting never unfolded the way he imagined.
He had thought it was simply a lack of practice.
But now—
‘I could move exactly as I wanted.’
He was satisfied with his performance.
Even with just a few lines, he had expressed the life of Chief Kim exactly as he intended.
‘Am I finally showing my potential?’
Seeing his expression, the acting spirit let out a quiet murmur.
‘His presence is weak... but his acting is... no, it’s quite remarkable.’
It melted into a shimmering liquid.
{Flashback.}
The liquid stretched thin, forming a vast screen.
The spirit reached into the air, took out a bag of popcorn, and began chewing loudly.
{Play. This human’s life. Compress key points. 4x speed.}
A film appeared on the screen.
The protagonist was the same man from earlier.
[A large family gathers. The protagonist’s uncle counts portions. The protagonist raises his hand for fried rice. One portion is missing. The uncle tilts his head in confusion.]
[After the meal, the protagonist goes to the bathroom. The family leaves without noticing he’s gone. He returns, sighs, and looks for a public phone, as if used to it.]
The acting spirit clicked its tongue.
{A man so forgettable that even his family overlooks him... why become an actor?}
The scene shifts.
[An amateur stage. The protagonist stands among the extras. Compared to the leads, he fades—but when he speaks, people glance at him briefly.]
[He studies a script. Only one line is highlighted. Yet the entire script is covered in fingerprints. Every page is filled with notes.]
Crunch—
{To enjoy acting... to love it... that must have been everything in a life like his.}
Roles passed by in a blur.
Never a lead.
Few supporting roles.
Dozens of minor roles.
Hundreds of bit parts.
Thousands of background appearances.
Fifteen years.
The life of a man who had lived as a supporting actor.
After reviewing it, the spirit took out a bottle of cider and drank it in one gulp.
{Ugh... my throat’s dry. I need cider.}
Glug glug—
Yoomyeong drank the cider.
He tried to steady himself, but his mind remained hazy.
He looked again at the test results in his hand.
—You’re in the terminal stage of liver cancer. The cancer has already spread to other organs. You need immediate hospitalization.
—What? H-how did this happen so suddenly...?
—Usually, patients come in earlier due to symptoms like jaundice or severe fatigue...
—I didn’t have any symptoms.
He had always been frail.
Strangely, when he acted, his fatigue seemed to disappear.
Was it just his imagination?
Or was it the alcohol?
Had he been drinking too much?
Drinking to escape the anxiety of an uncertain future?
‘Ha... I don’t even know anymore.’
There was a casting tonight.
A regular performance by the theater troupe he had belonged to for fifteen years.
He had never missed one.
It paid almost nothing.
Most of his money went toward meals and drinks for younger actors.
But there—
he could at least have more than a single line.
‘I was going to try for a supporting role this time, but...’
He remembered the feeling from this morning.
Control.
Clarity.
That sense of truly grasping his acting.
For a moment, he thought he could go further.
But now—
it was meaningless.
His body could no longer endure practice.
He looked down at his phone.
[Mom]
He typed.
Paused.
Deleted.
[S][J][Y]
He selected the contact.
Ring—
Ring—
“Hello? Oppa?”
“...Jiyeon.”
“What’s going on? You never answer. You should call home more. Mom and Dad are worried—are you even eating properly?”
Her voice poured out endlessly.
He listened in silence.
He hadn’t gone home since he ran off to chase his dream.
Should he go now—
only to tell them he was dying?
His throat tightened.
“Oppa? Why aren’t you saying anything? Are you sick?”
“No. I’ll come home soon. I’m sorry.”
“Why are you being like that? If you’re sorry, call more often.”
“Okay.”
He kept his voice steady.
The performance of his life.
At least she couldn’t see his face.
After the call ended, he covered his eyes.
“What a load of crap...”
He had applied for the casting.
Even knowing it was pointless.
Still—
he couldn’t let go.
Maybe a miracle would happen.
Maybe he would recover.
Maybe he could act like he did that morning again.
Excuses.
Reality was harsher.
That feeling—
vanished the moment he stepped onto the stage.
Once again—
he was invisible.
This time—
he wasn’t even given a minor role.
“Idiot... I’m about to die, and this is all I can do.”
The words felt bitter.
Creak—
He opened the door to his small studio apartment.
A plastic bag from a convenience store swung in his hand.
The room was bare.
An old mattress.
A few clothes.
Dishes in the sink.
And—
piles of scripts.
Stacks upon stacks.
The only thing filling the empty space.
Even for someone as calm as him—
today, it felt suffocating.
‘I lived a pointless life... chasing something I never had.’
He kicked aside the scripts, sat down, and opened a beer.
Pop—
“Give me one too.”
He froze.
Turned.
“Aah!”
A fox sat beside him.
Cross-legged.
Like a humanю
