“Really... should we film it now?”
“We should shoot it while we’re in the mood!”
“What about the costumes? The camera? The lighting?”
“We have white practice outfits at the studio. Seryeon can handle the basic makeup, and I’ll shoot handheld. We just need to bring a couple of tungsten lights. The director can hold the reflector, haha.”
Director Choi answered Seryeon’s questions with ease.
At first it sounded ridiculous... but gradually, the atmosphere began to build.
“Oh, it does sound fun. But will the footage quality be okay?”
“It won’t come out very bright since it’s nighttime. Besides, it’s supposed to feel dreamlike anyway. We can add effects and adjust things during editing.”
“Hmm... even if it’s imperfect, it’s worth trying at least once.”
Director Ki agreed as well.
This time, Yoomyeong spoke up.
“What about the location?”
“There’s a spot I’ve had in mind for a nighttime cherry blossom shot. It’s a location that’s only good through this year.”
“Why?”
“That neighborhood’s getting redeveloped. I’ve wanted to film there at least once, so this worked out perfectly.”
The conversation quickly gained momentum.
Yoomyeong and Seryeon returned to the practice room to prepare costumes and makeup, while the director and cinematographer went to gather the sub cameras and portable lighting.
Since both of them had been drinking, they reluctantly dragged the sleeping assistant director along to drive for them.
An hour later, they arrived in a neighborhood that had already been evacuated, with not a single person in sight.
There stood a massive cherry tree.
It was a weeping cherry tree, its branches hanging low like a birch. Clusters of pure white blossoms rested gracefully on each branch, like stars falling through the night.
For a moment, everyone was speechless before its mystique.
“Wow...”
“How old do you think this tree is?”
“It has to be over fifty years old. People in this neighborhood used to call it ‘the General.’”
“It’s so beautiful...”
“Take a good look. They say it’s going to be transplanted onto the private property of some chaebol family, so this view disappears after this year too.”
After staring blankly at the tree for a while, they finally began setting up.
Conveniently enough, it was a full moon, shining brightly overhead.
They only needed a little extra lighting.
Dressed in pure white practice clothes, Hwaran and Phantom slipped on their ballet shoes and stood facing each other beneath the cherry tree.
The ground was blanketed in pink petals.
The director played the music.
It was the music from the scene where Giselle and Albrecht fall in love.
“Don’t worry about the sound. We’ll dub it later. Just naturally become Hwaran and Phantom and move. Talk if you want, dance if you want... just follow the flow.”
Unlike usual, Seryeon moved first.
She seemed completely intoxicated by the beer and the moonlit atmosphere.
“Ahahaha—”
Bursting into bright laughter, she grabbed Yoomyeong by the wrist and led him along. Yoomyeong, already immersed in the role of Phantom, followed with an awkward expression.
“Here, this is my favorite place. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
Fully embracing the freshness of spring, Hwaran looked up at Phantom with sparkling eyes.
Color slowly seeped into Phantom’s irises.
“Mm- hmmm—”
Softly humming, Seryeon began to dance along with the melody.
It was pure.
Though she normally radiated jealousy, competitiveness, and desire as a ballerina, once the music began and she danced, her passion became devoutly pure.
Moved by that transparency, the Phantom, whose twisted heart had been stirred, looked directly into her eyes and removed his mask with his own hands.
Even though his face had already been exposed before, this was the first time he had willingly removed the mask himself.
‘She’ll run away.’
As Phantom prepared to sneer at the image of her screaming and fleeing...
She met his eyes and smiled brightly without the slightest hesitation.
“Would you like to dance with me?”
Those were the words Phantom had once extended to Hwaran during their first meeting.
The god of ballet had chosen her.
To her, his grotesque face meant nothing.
Devoted entirely to ballet, she loved it regardless of beauty or ugliness.
To her, Phantom and ballet existed on equal footing.
Ah...
Their hands clasped together.
Led by Hwaran’s hand, he stepped beneath the tree and tilted his head upward.
Then the wind blew.
“Close up! Close up!”
Fallen petals and petals swept up from the ground swirled around Phantom’s body.
It was a dreamlike sight.
‘I thought ballet was the only beautiful thing...’
Catching a petal in his palm, Phantom lowered his gaze toward Hwaran.
The beautiful thing was...
His eyes widened slightly.
The gaze fixed upon Hwaran no longer held any objectivity.
The next day on set.
Cinematographer Choi, monitoring the dance scene between Hwaran and Phantom filmed the previous night, was completely intoxicated with self admiration.
Even after wrapping up the shoot in a hurry and having another round of drinks before parting ways, Cinematographer Choi still had the corners of his mouth raised high despite his swollen face and lingering hangover.
“I want to see it too.”
Director Ki leaned closer to the monitor.
“Should we keep filming drunk from now on, Director Ki?”
“...That’s a convincing argument. I’ll approve the expenses if you submit the receipts for the beer consumed during filming.”
Hearing the director speak with a face far too serious to seem like he was joking, Seryeon quietly snickered.
“So Director Ki can be funny sometimes too.”
“He’s probably serious.”
Yoomyeong replied with a quiet laugh as well.
While they were in the middle of preparing, Moon Soojin, Seryeon’s stand in, approached them.
“Uh... isn’t this you, oppa?”
What Soojin held out was the April issue of . Yoomyeong’s awkwardly smiling face was prominently featured on the cover.
“Ah... yes, that’s me. Please move it out of my sight. I can’t bear looking at it.”
“Wow— I thought only extraordinary people became cover models for . And now there’s one right in front of me.”
“I’m way too ordinary to be shooting something like that...”
“Ah, I didn’t mean it like that! You’re amazing too, oppa!”
Laughter burst out around them as they watched Soojin frantically wave her hands, her face quickly turning red. The atmosphere on set was so warm and friendly that all the complicated concerns they’d once had about joining the production now felt almost ridiculous.
However, once filming started, the mood changed completely.
“Cut— let’s go again.”
“Cut— one more time.”
“Cut— ah... um...”
They were already on the thirtieth take for a single shot.
Director Ki’s meticulousness intensified with each passing day. The expectations placed on Yoomyeong in particular were excessive.
Watching the growing number of takes, the assistant director became curious about exactly what the director was trying to achieve. In his eyes, every shot already looked good enough for approval.
“I’m sorry for not giving you clearer direction. Your acting is good, but something’s missing... I’m not entirely sure what it is myself...”
“No, it’s my fault. I’ll work harder.”
“No... don’t work harder!”
“Sorry...?”
Director Ki slapped his knee as if something had suddenly clicked.
“I know what it is. Your presence is too strong.”
“What?”
This was the first time in Yoomyeong’s acting career, past or present, that he had ever received criticism like this. His expression wavered.
“In this scene, Hwaran performs Giselle Act 1 well but struggles with Act 2, and Phantom demonstrates it for her, right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“What Phantom is teaching isn’t really the movements or the beauty... it’s bleakness.”
Giselle Act 2.
The part where Giselle goes mad and dies after discovering Albrecht’s betrayal.
She becomes a Wili, the ghost of a maiden who died before realizing love.
Part of the reason why is considered a benchmark for measuring a ballerina’s depth lies precisely there. In Act 1, Giselle is a lively village girl, while in Act 2 she becomes a lifeless ghost.
A ballerina’s artistry is revealed through how convincingly she portrays those two completely different states.
“I understand that. I tried expressing a kind of desolation in my own way, but is it insufficient?”
“It’s flawless for a human. But because you’re Phantom...”
Ah.
“We’ll adjust things in editing, but I want to see a Phantom who dances so beautifully it makes people wonder, ‘Is that really a ghost?’ Blurred, yet impossibly beautiful, like something no human could ever imitate.”
Yoomyeong forgot to answer.
In this life... he had never imagined there would come a day when he needed to suppress his own presence in order to act.
“Please... give me some time.”
“It may just be my greed. Honestly, if another actor had achieved this much, I would already be satisfied...”
“...No. Please give me about two weeks.”
“Alright. Don’t push yourself too hard.”
The filming for that scene was postponed.
An enormous assignment had suddenly fallen into Yoomyeong’s lap. The irony of it was almost laughable.
Yoomyeong clutched his head.
‘This is difficult.’
What Yoomyeong was trying to embody was himself from his previous life.
A person whose presence had been so faint he was almost like a ghost.
Yet that version of himself had always struggled desperately to radiate presence; he had never once tried to suppress it.
‘If emission is possible, then contraction should be possible too.’
That was what Miho had said.
Even though it was the same presence, one’s own presence was apparently something that constantly smoldered and shifted dynamically.
Thinking about those words in reverse meant suppressing his presence shouldn’t have been impossible...
Yoomyeong stared at himself in the mirror.
‘It seems to be working a little... but not nearly as much as I expected...’
The end of the two week period was rapidly approaching.
During that entire time, aside from filming and the bare minimum amount of sleep, Yoomyeong had devoted himself completely to this issue. Yet he still hadn’t achieved satisfactory results.
The more he thought about Director Ki’s words, the more correct they seemed.
That scene needed to overwhelmingly emphasize the difference between a human ballerina and the Phantom.
‘Even with editing helping...’
Still, he wanted to realize it through acting itself as much as possible.
This scene vividly revealed the essence of the role called ‘Phantom.’
Swoosh—
Miho was curled up on the bed, licking its fur.
Yoomyeong glanced in that direction.
If the issue was [N O V E L I G H T] presence and vitality, then a true expert was right there. He had tried to figure it out on his own somehow, but he was out of time now.
Even if it meant making a deal...
The moment that thought crossed his mind, Miho abruptly lifted its head.
Yoomyeong flinched slightly.
{It’s not going well, kyung?}
“Huh? Uh... yeah.”
{It won’t be possible, kyung.}
“What?”
{The minimum amount of presence or vitality necessary to sustain life can’t be controlled. That amount is around twenty for each person.}
“Re...ally?”
{And you also cannot control the presence I gave you. In other words, from your original presence of twenty nine, if you exclude the amount necessary to sustain life, only nine remains. That is the only portion you can actually control.}
“Huh? But you said my presence dynamically smolders. Wasn’t I controlling that too?”
Confused, Yoomyeong asked again.
Miho pondered briefly before reciting a spell.
{Miniature.}
A small silver sphere separated from Miho’s body, floated lightly into the air, and transformed into the shape of a tiny human figure.
As always, Yoomyeong found himself marveling at Miho’s abilities while watching the figure closely.
{This is you. Your presence of twenty nine surrounds you.}
A thin red membrane appeared around the silver figure.
{Now add the twenty seven presence I gave you.}
A blue membrane layered itself over the red one, and the two energies mixed together, gently undulating.
{When you act from here...}
Among the swaying energies, part of the red presence began dancing. It surged and rippled like waves, occasionally bursting outward with a pop.
{It makes your presence appear much larger, see?}
Yoomyeong nodded numbly at the dynamic spectacle.
{Now let’s try extinguishing that presence.}
Part of the red presence curled inward and sank into the silver figure.
However, most of the red presence and the overlapping blue presence remained unaffected, continuing to swirl around the figure.
The total amount of presence had decreased slightly, but not by much.
{This is your current state. As I said, you cannot control the presence I gave you or the amount necessary to sustain life. It seems you have already mastered the method of gathering the remaining presence.}
“So... no matter how much I practice, there’s no way to suppress my presence beyond this?”
{That’s right.}
“Isn’t there... some other way?”
Yoomyeong bit his lip.
What Miho had just explained meant that no matter how much he practiced, he could not lower his presence beneath the forty six remaining after reducing his controllable presence to nine.
It also meant that, at least for this type of acting, he would remain inferior to ordinary actors.
And beyond Phantom, what if there were more roles requiring this kind of performance in the future?
That... was a problem.
{There is a method... but it is difficult.}
“Difficult means... there is a way, right?”
{If I transfer control over the presence I gave you, then you would be able to manage it. However, that would be an enormous loss for me.}
“Please explain in detail.”
{Although I shared my presence with you, I did not transfer control over it. For example, if you were suddenly to die, the presence I gave you would return to me. However... if I transfer control completely, then the presence would become entirely yours, and there would be no way for me to retrieve it even in an emergency.}
After hearing the explanation, Yoomyeong understood why Miho would hesitate.
But Yoomyeong was desperate as well.
“So if I do something for you... can you transfer control? When you say ‘difficult,’ that means there are possible terms for a deal...”
At those words, Miho’s eyes sparkled brightly.
“Obtain three additional presence for me.”
“Three presence?”
