“Huh?!”
“It’s okay. We’re the only ones here right now. Go ahead and step up.”
It felt strange.
One step, two steps.
As though committing a permitted sin, Yoomyeong cautiously stepped out of the pocket.
The grandeur permeating the performance hall made his legs tremble, even though the seats were completely empty.
Upon reaching center stage, he took a deep breath and turned his body forward.
‘Whoa—’
The seats spreading out below and above seemed to be watching him.
A stage wider than any he had ever stood on. On this stage, where only the greatest artists of this land had performed, Yoomyeong took a deep breath.
And then.
Thunk—
All the lights in the theater went out.
Before he could even discern what was happening...
Pop—
A single spotlight fell over his head.
His entire body shuddered.
Because of the contrast between the brightly lit stage and the darkened seats, he could only faintly make out the audience.
And so he imagined.
‘I am an actor. The 3,500 spectators are staring at me, not a single empty seat in sight.’
Thump— Thump—
His heart pounded as though it might burst.
Yoomyeong’s mouth opened. Licking his dry lips, he spoke a single line.
“To be or not to be, that is the question.”
The massive vacuum tube transmitted the captured line without any loss to the audience.
When his own words echoed through the auditorium—becoming the ‘actor’s words’ and returning to his ears—Yoomyeong felt a sense of fulfillment mixed with the realization of his own inadequacy to fill this place.
‘Let’s become an actor who can fill this place. I can do it in this lifetime.’
With his eyes closed, Yoomyeong heard an auditory hallucination.
An endless downpour of applause, loud enough to deafen him.
From that day on, Yoomyeong’s goal became to be a lead actor who could truly stand in the Sujeondang super theater.
“Haha, were you surprised earlier? Your expression looked so real.”
“It was a lot. Thank you, brother.”
“What for? I’m not the one paying the electricity bill.”
“I’ll become an actor who uses a lot of electricity here in the future!”
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Sungjin chuckled at Yoomyeong’s bold declaration.
He glanced at the clock—it was half past four. He had to attend a setup meeting for another performance.
“I need to leave now, but you’ll have some free time before the theater festival. Do you want to watch how a performance is prepared?”
“Huh? Can I?”
At that moment, one of Sungjin’s colleagues in the office interjected.
“Theater Festival? Are you talking about Perfume? We had a chaotic time setting up today.”
“Why?”
“During the festival, there’s a different production every day, which means we have to set up a new stage and lighting every day. But today, there was a delay in transporting one of the sets, and it only arrived this morning.”
“Ugh... just hearing that sounds awful. Were you in charge, brother?”
“Yeah. The stage director really struggled, and I had to adjust the lighting setup until 30 minutes before the performance... sigh.”
“You’ve had it tough. You look like you’ve aged about three years.”
“Yeah, I’m exhausted. I’ll leave early today. If you need to arrange a tour, just use my name.”
Sungjin easily obtained permission. The director, feeling sorry for the Perfume theater staff due to the accident, gladly accepted Sungjin’s small request.
Sungjin told him to take a good look around and left, and Yoomyeong sat in the back of the audience, watching the rehearsal while sharing mild critiques with Miho.
‘I wondered about the assembly stage, but they’ve managed to preserve its characteristics well.’
{The lead actor’s performance is subpar. He lacks the ability to play Grenouille.}
‘Isn’t it? It might improve once the actual performance starts, don’t you think?’
It was then that it happened.
One side of the stage seemed to shake.
‘Huh...?’
Just as Yoomyeong doubted his eyes, part of the stage backdrop fell and struck the leg of the lead actor in the middle of his performance.
“Aaagh—”
There was an accident.
“Turn on the lights!”
“What? What’s happening?!”
“Ugh... Ah...”
In an instant, the theater was filled with chaos and screams.
The lead actor rolled on the floor, clutching his ankle. Yoomyeong also jumped up in shock. He thought he saw something red.
“Are you okay?! Someone call an ambulance!”
“Oh... no... the evening performance... Ah.”
“Are you crazy?! You’re bleeding heavily right now. Isn’t that arterial bleeding? Can someone get a bandage?”
“Here’s a piece of clothing! Tie it with this!”
Ten minutes later.
The actor was carried out to the ambulance that had arrived.
The cause of the accident was that part of the hastily assembled stage that morning had not been properly secured and fell.
“Does anyone know Grenouille’s lines?”
“Who would memorize all that? The main character’s lines make up more than half of the script.”
“Then does anyone know them roughly?! We need to proceed with the performance!”
“Let’s give up and contact the association and the office. How can anyone memorize the blocking and lighting cues along with all the lines? It’s going to be a mess.”
“...Are we going to give up just like that? Give up on the Hyejeondang theater performance? I can’t do that.”
Sharp Busan dialect flew back and forth.
The director and actors, unable even to follow their injured colleague to the hospital, were torn between their dream performance and harsh reality, their eyes red.
{Hmm... This is interesting.}
Yoomyeong, who had been watching the aftermath of the accident in frustration, frowned at Miho’s inappropriate remark.
‘Interesting? What do you mean...?’
{I’ll use ‘that’ thing I’ve been keeping.}
‘Huh?’
Before Yoomyeong could understand, an alert rang.
The spirit fox wants to use the contracted reward, ‘Possession (0/1)’.
Your ego is causing a rejection response.
You cannot refuse. It will be enforced.
And then, Yoomyeong felt the strength draining from his body.
He had lost control.
{Wh... What is this...? Miho! Miho!}
Yoomyeong shouted with all his might, but no sound came out. His body, no longer under his control, suddenly rose and slowly walked forward.
“What if I play that role?”
‘Ah, this person is an actor.’
His gait, the resonance of his voice, and the strong presence he exuded made it clear to everyone that he was an actor.
However, no matter how exceptional he might be, taking on the lead role with less than two hours before the performance was another matter entirely.
“Director, who is this person?”
“He’s the one the Hyejeondang theater staff mentioned—the person who would be watching the rehearsal. Uh... are you, by any chance, an actor?”
“Yes.”
{Hey, what are you doing?! Have you gone crazy?!}
Yoomyeong panicked, but Miho didn’t respond. Instead, it made an even more provocative statement.
“There’s an hour and thirty minutes left. That’s more than enough. I can deliver a much more satisfying performance than the original lead. And of course, I won’t take any performance fee.”
Holding back the uneasy members, the director spoke.
“Your line timing is laughable, but given the situation, I’ll ask out of desperation. What about memorizing the script?”
“Ah. The script. I’m a genius, so I’ll memorize it quickly.”
“Excuse me?”
“May I see the script?”
The director handed it over with a trembling hand.
The man flipped through it at a speed that made one doubt whether he was truly reading. In the roughly ten minutes it took to go through the entire script, the tension in the theater became suffocating.
Thump—
Closing the script with a thump, the man spoke cheerfully.
“I’ve memorized it all.”
“What? This crazy bi—”
“Yeonho, wait! The third act of the second part—how does Grenouille’s line start?”
Without hesitation, the man spoke.
“There are two paths to Grasse. A shortcut through the city and a detour through the mountains and fields. Naturally, I chose the second. A place without the stench of humans. The fewer people there were, the fainter the stench became. Apart from the faint smell of earth and wind, it was perfect odorlessness. Ah—I felt ecstasy.”
“...Then... what about the last line in Act 3, Scene 6?”
“With this, 24 perfumes have been completed. All that remains is Laure Richis, the owner of the most captivating scent. For the completion of the world’s most perfect perfume, you too must die.”
“No way... how could you...?”
“Is this even possible...?”
The members groaned in astonishment.
“Wow. You’re incredible. Who are you? No—let’s discuss that later. Please, do well!”
“Do you have the cue sheet and blocking diagram?”
One member hurriedly brought over the materials left behind by the injured lead actor.
Yoomyeong—no, the spirit fox—quickly scanned them and nodded.
“We’re short on time, so let’s proceed with a technical rehearsal. Just check anything that doesn’t match and let me know.”
The rehearsal began immediately.
The spirit fox followed the actors backstage.
The actors, filled with awe and curiosity, stole glances but couldn’t bring themselves to speak.
Soon, the theater lights went out and ominous BGM began to play.
Thump— Thump—
As the sound of pounding echoed, the music abruptly cut off and the lights came on.
A butcher pounded leather at center stage. A wet nurse appeared from the left pocket.
“Okay, next—”
The wet nurse took the money from the butcher and tucked it into her apron. The lights went out.
“Okay, next scene—”
In a play, there is something called a ‘cue’.
It is a signal that controls the lighting and sound.
In this scene, the sound of the butcher pounding leather was the cue to cut the sound and bring up the lights, and the cue to end the scene {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} and black out was when the wet nurse put her hand into her apron pocket.
During a technical rehearsal, changes in sound, lighting, and set are rapidly run without acting, aligning each cue. A strong understanding of the show’s flow is required, and even experienced actors can falter if they miss their cues.
Therefore, it was absurd to think that an actor who had just appeared could follow all the cues based only on a cue sheet.
However...
{Trace cues, blocking.}
As the spirit fox, waiting in the pocket for its entrance, muttered to itself, blue glowing lines appeared on the stage.
Some shone brightly, others faintly.
These were the lingering traces from the earlier performance.
Without hesitation, Miho stepped onto one of the lines.
“I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me too.”
“Do people like this really exist? Seoul really is different.”
Without deviating from the planned path or missing a single cue, the technical rehearsal finished in just 30 minutes. But what was truly astonishing was not only the near-miraculous ability to memorize the script in one pass, nor the precision in following cues of a show seen for the first time.
‘I... I can’t take my eyes off him.’
He wasn’t even fully acting yet—only running through cues—but his presence on stage was overwhelming.
Everyone wanted to ask who this actor was and how this was possible, but there was no time.
“Rehearsal OK! Everyone, move!”
The countdown to the performance had begun.
