“Ah, is there no one else left to break? If not a person, then perhaps a cat.”
Yoomyeong delivered his lines while intoxicated by dark pleasure.
Playing ‘Hide’ felt different from playing Hyde.
HIDE.
Yoomyeong named the character Hide—the pure evil interpreted by Seo Ryu Shin. Even with the same scenes and the same lines, Hyde and Hide carried completely different emotions.
Both took pleasure in wicked acts, but while Hyde delighted in the thrill of others’ fear, Hide found satisfaction in destruction itself.
Even while speaking identical lines, there was no confusion.
He was completely immersed in Hide’s persona.
In the process of building a character for a role, actors usually experimented with many interpretations before settling on the strongest version for rehearsal. Creating two separate characters for a single role with this level of depth was a first even for him.
It was a uniquely exhilarating experience.
Smiling brightly, Yoomyeong snapped each finger on Sir Carew’s corpse one by one.
That cruel yet innocent face left the audience’s palms slick with sweat.
Wahhhhhhh—
The performance ended in triumph.
It was a groundbreaking success that left a lasting mark on Oedipus.
Those who attended remembered both Seo Ryu Shin and Shin Yoomyeong as exceptionally talented actors.
But anyone who had seen the performance more than once came away with a different impression.
And there was one actor who was deeply shaken.
After the afternoon performance, Ryu Shin had suppressed his thoughts, telling himself, ‘That can’t be.’
But after the evening performance, it became undeniable.
Yoomyeong had built his performance around Ryu Shin’s characterization.
Why did you act that way?
He wanted to rush over and demand an answer from Yoomyeong.
If that had been the plan, why hadn’t he suggested alternating between my version for the afternoon performance and your version for the evening performance?
But he simply could not bring himself to say those words.
‘Could I have portrayed his version as perfectly as Shin Yoomyeong portrayed mine?’
To fully realize the same role as two entirely different characters was impossible for an ordinary actor.
Even if Yoomyeong had proposed it, could he himself have achieved that level of quality?
No matter how favorably he tried to judge himself, he could not answer yes.
And so, Ryu Shin could not question him.
It would have been cowardly to ask why he had not been given a task he was incapable of doing.
But then how was he supposed to handle this growing sense of defeat?
Han In Young approached Ryu Shin, who stood there with wounded pride.
“Excuse me... hello, Mr. Seo Ryu Shin.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Baek Lee-shin. I’m the casting director for the July theater company.”
A man who appeared to be in his early thirties handed over a business card.
“Your performance was very impressive. I think you would suit July very well.”
Baek Lee-shin had originally come to the performance to see Yoomyeong, only to be blindsided by another standout actor.
Of course he had been astonished watching Yoomyeong perform two completely different versions of Jekyll and Hyde, but there had also been another actor on stage capable of matching the intensity of the renowned Shin Yoomyeong.
“I’m sorry.”
Yet even that actor declined July’s offer.
And with that, another life path shifted.
In his previous life, Seo Ryu Shin had remained a star actor in the July troupe because of his deep attachment to stage acting. But influenced by Shin Yoomyeong’s ambition to challenge himself with diverse roles, he chose a different road this time—conquering every field of acting where he could compete against him.
The origin of that change lay in the defeat he felt now.
From afar, he glared at his rival, who was smiling brightly.
The stage was empty now, everyone having gone to remove their makeup and change costumes.
A cool breeze swept in a wide circle across the stage.
The lingering heat and afterimages remaining there dissolved smoothly into the wind.
{Sigh, this feels nice.}
It rummaged through the air as though searching through pockets, absorbing the lingering tension and atmosphere before stopping in the middle of the stage as if intoxicated.
{He... he still doesn’t realize the extent of his own talent, kyung.}
Even a being that had lived alongside acting for a thousand years acknowledged his talent.
Though it was still merely ‘human-level.’
Unexpectedly, the reason the spirit fox had become more relaxed lately was because watching the human’s growth amused it.
A man who did not even realize he was a genius had struggled for fifteen years before finally allowing his talent and hard work to bloom.
And just as the spirit of acting loved acting itself, it also loved watching stories unfold.
{But... why does he seem bigger somehow? He couldn’t have grown taller in such a short time... maybe it’s because he’s moving more actively?}
Miho tilted its head, ears twitching.
Twitch—
Its long fox ears perked up when it sensed a lingering flow of acting energy behind the silkscreen in Dr. Lanyon’s office—something it had not noticed before.
Delighted, the spirit fox swiftly flew over.
And once it arrived, Miho burst into laughter.
{As expected. He was practicing even behind the scenes, where the audience couldn’t see him.}
Miho could clearly see the afterimage lingering there.
The smooth facial transition from Hyde to Jekyll that Seo Ryu Shin had shown in yesterday’s performance.
He had practiced and performed that transition even backstage, hidden behind the set where no audience could see his face.
Goodness... when it came to acting, he truly was absurdly sincere.
{What an entertaining fellow. Well, there’s still plenty of time.}
The spirit fox savored the remaining traces, licking them up as though it had discovered leftover ice cream in a refrigerator.
A young man with thick hair and horn-rimmed glasses quickly held out a business card.
“This is who I am.”
[Film Director Ki Do-han]
Yoomyeong flinched and looked at the man’s face again.
Ki Do-han... was it really that Ki Do-han?
The only Ki Do-han Yoomyeong knew was the version in his forties, with a thick beard. It was hard to connect that image with the clean-shaven young director standing before him.
“Ah, hello.”
“I really enjoyed the performance. It was extremely impressive.”
The man’s eyes brightened the moment they began talking about the play.
‘It really is Director Ki Do-han.’
In his early thirties, Director Ki Do-han had started attracting attention in the mid-2000s because of his exceptional talent and instinctive sense. His most famous work was the 2014 film The Devil, starring Seol Soo Yeon and Bang Ji-hwan. That film earned him the title of a director with ten million viewers.
“I’m currently preparing my next project and casting for it. Although it’s technically a supporting role, it’s deeply intertwined with the female lead, so its importance is practically equal to a lead role.”
For someone who had not even debuted yet, it was an overwhelmingly generous offer.
“The working title is Phantom of the Ballet. It’s a work inspired by The Phantom of the Opera and tells the story of a ballerina. The role I want you to play is the Phantom.”
“Why me?”
“The Phantom role is absolutely crucial. We need an actor who can genuinely convey the aura of an absolute being—something uncanny, almost inhuman. So I’ve been searching through performances featuring characters with otherworldly qualities. And today, I finally found what ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) I was looking for.”
Their gazes locked.
Ki Do-han’s sharp eyes intertwined with Yoomyeong’s.
“Why specifically seek out an unknown theater actor? Is it because of appearance fees?”
“No, the budget is actually fairly generous. The truth is...”
Ki Do-han hesitated slightly before continuing, as though confessing something.
“It’s a passion project.”
“A passion project?”
A self-funded film.
Projects made with personal money, often regardless of profitability.
Such productions were uncommon because of the enormous costs involved. Usually, they were financed either by wealthy investors convinced their ideas were extraordinary or by successful actors who wanted to make films of their own.
So what exactly was happening here?
“The screenwriter is the daughter of a major investor in the film industry.”
“...”
“And... the writer herself is also the female lead.”
The situation grew increasingly bizarre.
Reading Yoomyeong’s expression, Ki Do-han hurriedly added an explanation, almost defensively.
“I know how this sounds. If I claimed that, as a rookie director, I never considered the advantage of having unlimited funding, I’d be lying. But... if the script hadn’t been good, I never would have agreed to make the film.”
“You’re saying the script is good?”
“Yes. And the role of the Phantom genuinely requires strong acting skills. Today, in your performance as Jekyll and Hyde, I saw qualities almost identical to the Phantom I envisioned.”
He did not appear to be lying.
Yoomyeong asked another question.
“You said you watched both performances today. Then why me?”
“To be honest, I couldn’t decide after the afternoon performance. Seo Ryu Shin’s acting was outstanding as well. But during the evening performance, I realized something.”
Ki Do-han tapped his temple.
“This wasn’t a mutually coordinated performance. It was a performance coordinated unilaterally by you, Mr. Shin Yoomyeong.”
Yoomyeong was startled.
“...In what way?”
“When you look at Jekyll and Hyde, both the afternoon and evening performances fit together naturally. But when I mentally separated and compared them...”
Ki Do-han tapped his temple again.
“For Mr. Seo, the divided and merged scenes connected perfectly like a single piece of work. But in your case, there was a slight mismatch. Like the tiny jump you see when two copied film reels are spliced together. That’s when I realized you must have been the one adjusting your performance alone.”
“...”
“I’m very curious what your performance would look like if you weren’t adjusting yourself to someone else.”
Yoomyeong was awed by a kind of genius he could not fully comprehend.
Director Ki Do-han might still be unknown, but talent like his would not remain hidden for long.
He was someone worth talking to.
“I need to go help clear the stage. I’ll contact you later.”
Yoomyeong decided to hear him out.
In contrast, Changcheon’s main production, once again featuring Choi Cheol-joo, had performed disastrously in comparison. But that detail was hardly important anymore.
What mattered more was that the aftermath of the performance was stronger than anyone had expected.
“Do you see those people? I think they keep glancing over at you.”
“They’re probably just looking this way.”
“But they’ve been whispering and pointing at you this whole time.”
Jun-ho kept making strange remarks like that, but when Yoomyeong stood up with his tray to leave, one of the students cautiously approached him.
“Weren’t you the lead actor in the Oedipus performance?”
“...Yes, that’s right.”
“Wow, I really enjoyed it. Your acting was amazing. Are you planning to continue acting after graduation?”
“Ah... yes.”
“I knew it! I’m going to keep supporting you as a fan. Could I get your autograph?”
“Yes? I don’t actually have an autograph yet...”
“Oh really? Then could you at least write your name? Looks like you’ll need to come up with an autograph soon...”
The blushing student eagerly held out her diary.
Flustered, Yoomyeong carefully wrote his name: Shin Yoomyeong.
“Please write ‘To Min Seon-hwa’ too!”
The demanding student finally got what she wanted and left happily.
“Wow... you’re really becoming a celebrity now. Your name truly suits you.”
“Jun-ho, are you teasing me too?”
“Hehe, sorry. But seriously, you should prepare an autograph. A while ago someone else even pulled out a notebook. They looked like they wanted your signature, but then put it away.”
Although he spoke teasingly, Jun-ho genuinely admired his friend.
He felt proud to know someone like him.
‘That Jekyll and that Hyde... both versions were incredible.’
Whenever he thought about Yoomyeong, new ideas for plays constantly sprang into his mind.
To Jun-ho, Yoomyeong was practically a muse.
At the same time, he worried that such overwhelming early expectations might become a burden later on.
“To make an autograph easily, you should separate all the consonants and vowels in your name— Oh? Your phone.”
Yoomyeong’s Motorola began ringing on the table.
Giving Jun-ho a look that said wait a second, he answered the call.
“Hello?”
{Is this Mr. Shin Yoomyeong’s phone?}
“Yes, who is this?”
{Hello, this is the editorial department of University Tomorrow.}
“...Sorry?”
