Who Leads the Scene?
The answer to this question is clear.
The actors and the director.
Through the director's guidance and the actors' performances, the story reveals itself to the world.
However, there is one critical gateway it must pass through to come to life—
the camera.
No matter how brilliant the directing is,
no matter how extraordinary the acting,
it is meaningless if the lens fails to capture it.
This is why the role of the cinematographer is so crucial.
The same goes for lighting.
In other words, a good film emerges only when every element harmonizes perfectly.
But achieving that harmony is no small feat.
Getting dozens of people to coordinate seamlessly to create a finished product?
It’s a challenge on a whole different level compared to something like team jump rope from school days.
But if there’s a powerful leader—
someone who can dominate and bend everyone to their will—
then the difficulty decreases exponentially.
And that’s exactly what the set of True Hero felt like.
“I’ve been a stuntman for years, but this is the first time I’ve been scared of an actor.”
Even though break time was officially over,
everyone remained tense, their eyes fixed on the van.
The space where Kim Donghu was resting.
Everywhere else on set felt stiff and rigid, as though the atmosphere had frozen solid.
“He’s not just an actor, after all.”
“Seriously... Even the cinematographers couldn’t breathe while filming him. They were so cautious, like their lives depended on it.”
Kim Hyunsoo, the leader of the Let’s Punch stunt team, nodded at the comment.
“That’s all calculated.”
“What?”
“When you’re filming action scenes, you know everything has to happen within the camera’s frame.”
Despite appearing freeform, action is anything but.
You have to move within the boundaries of what the camera can capture,
as if you’re dancing your heart out inside an invisible cage.
“Kim Donghu? He adjusts his movements perfectly while keeping the camera in mind.”
“Wait, that’s possible? Moving like that and staying camera-conscious?”
The stunt actors, recalling the scenes they’d just filmed, couldn’t hide their disbelief.
“When he threw those knuckle combinations... I honestly thought he wasn’t holding back. Scared the hell out of me.”
“Seriously, you too? I was terrified, man. He’s insane.”
He wasn’t just an actor.
That wasn’t hyperbole or an exaggeration.
He truly wasn’t just an actor.
Olympic heavyweight boxing gold medalist.
A monster who defeated an opponent under the influence of performance-enhancing drugs.
A hitman who crushed corrupt referees and judges into oblivion.
That was Kim Donghu.
What kind of impact does it have when someone like him insists on performing all his own stunts?
The stunt actors had just learned the answer firsthand.
“It’s like... it felt like he became the character.”
“Yeah, I get what you mean.”
While stunt actors are performers too, their focus typically revolves around action.
But when Donghu took over the scene, a completely new sensation overtook them.
It was like stepping directly into the world of the film.
Like becoming the character written in the script.
The level of immersion they felt was something they had never experienced in all their years of stunt work.
“To be honest, it was just too terrifying. There was no avoiding it.”
He was an Olympic heavyweight gold medalist.
Frankly speaking, it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to call him the strongest human being.
So, when someone like that acts as though they’re hitting you? It’s weirder not to be scared.
“He seemed like he was pulling his punches, but the sound of the air cutting was terrifying.”
“The knuckles were props, sure, but still... wow.”
And the most terrifying thing of all—
“His eyes. That look in his eyes.”
It was a gaze that stared at you as though you were trash.
Like you were filth that needed to be eradicated.
If that gaze caught you, your legs froze, and your entire body stiffened.
“They’re going for a one-take again, right?”
“Apparently it’s going to be around seven to ten minutes this time.”
“What? That’s insane—to do a single action sequence for that long?”
At that scale, it might as well rival Hollywood.
The stunt actors couldn’t hide their excitement at being part of such a monumental scene.
Even someone with no sense would get the feeling.
“This clip might hit ten million views on YouTube or something.”
“Oh man, if that happens, our careers will skyrocket. I’ll brag about it every day.”
As the stunt actors began wrapping up their break and returning to the set—
Crrrk.
The van door opened.
All eyes turned toward it.
The brutal hero who would lead the scene had arrived, and everyone instinctively held their breath.
“Thank you for your hard work.”
As always, Kim Donghu’s words were polite and courteous.
But today, for some reason, they felt like they carried a different meaning.
"Don’t get in my way."
Inside the van.
‘That performance earlier felt... different.’
I felt like I was acting in an entirely new realm.
It was a sensation that went beyond the method acting I had relied on until now.
‘It wasn’t just method acting... It was something more. Immersion, maybe?’
It felt like I wasn’t just pulling the character out of the script,
but that I was completely dominating the space around him as well.
Perhaps the script for True Hero combined with my own experiences to create this result.
It wasn’t just about having the talent to embody the character.
It felt like all the skills I’d gained through Sims had merged, producing something natural.
That unparalleled level of immersion had naturally created a flawless one-take.
“Thank you for your hard work.”
After offering a light greeting, I walked back to the set to prepare for filming.
‘Kicking open the door, smashing the lights, then launching into the action.’
It all had to be completed in a single take.
Everyone understood this,
which is why I could see them meticulously arranging the camera’s movement and props.
There was no room for mistakes.
A one-take scene was a battle of stamina and focus.
While watching the set preparation unfold—
“...It must’ve been a tough decision to make, but thank you for stepping up.”
“Sorry, what?”
Director Lee Seong-deok suddenly approached and offered his thanks out of the blue.
“To take things to the next level for the sake of the film...! It’s truly something I’ve always dreamed of—actors and directors collaborating as one to create something great...!”
I immediately understood what Director Lee was trying to say.
‘There’s no way I can pass this off as something that just happened naturally, huh?’
In that case, I had no choice but to play along.
“Exactly! I’ve always wanted to make this film the best it can possibly be.”
I had no choice but to brazenly stick to my story.
***
After a Brief Conversation
Actor Ju Seonghwan exhaled deeply as he moved to his designated spot.
"I bought us about three more minutes."
His heart was still pounding uncontrollably, making it impossible to fully calm down.
"A one-take action scene... and my first time at that."
Despite his extensive experience, Ju Seonghwan had never attempted a one-take action sequence before, let alone one lasting seven to ten minutes.
It was an incredibly risky endeavor.
One small mistake could waste hours without producing usable footage.
Even if they managed to shoot something, it often ended up being a compromised version, settling for "good enough."
This tendency was even more pronounced in action scenes without CGI.
Pure, unadulterated action—no enhancements, no tricks.
It sounded great in theory, but in practice?
"No, they wouldn’t attempt it if they didn’t think they could pull it off."
Twenty seconds before the shoot began, Ju Seonghwan pictured Kim Donghu waiting outside the warehouse.
A monstrous actor.
The thought alone made him nervous, his heart racing.
But the excitement of being part of a once-in-a-lifetime action scene refused to subside.
And then—
"Action!"
The call echoed across the set.
Bang!
The rusty steel door crumpled like paper once again, and Kim Donghu—or rather, the Hero—stepped inside.
"Who the hell are you, you bastard?!"
"The Hero."
A more concise line than earlier, immediately followed by—
Crash!
A baseball hurtling through the air shattered a light in an instant.
The timing of the throw and the breaking of the light—every moment was captured on camera.
No special effects.
Every movement was executed entirely by the actor, 100% authentic.
It was hard to believe.
How could he even throw a baseball that perfectly?
"Just how many things is he good at?"
The amazement was fleeting.
Snap.
The sound of the Hero putting on leather gloves and knuckles was unmistakable.
It was nothing short of a death sentence.
"What the hell? What’s going on with the lights?!"
"That bastard turned them off!"
"This crazy son of a bitch! Get him!"
At the order of Ju Seonghwan—or rather, human trafficker boss Ji Hyuntae—the group rushed toward the Hero.
One against many.
If his leg was caught, it was over.
If he was struck from behind, it was over.
The odds were overwhelmingly against him.
Crack!
Thud!
Unjust violence turned the tide of numerical superiority.
His movements were calculated to kill.
Every strike was designed to drag a person into hell.
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"Please, spare me! Spare meeeee!"
"Stay back, stay the hell away!"
Cold weapons are merciless.
When one person kills another, they do it while looking them in the eye.
And the Hero did exactly that.
Brutally.
Agonizingly.
He drove his fist back into broken ribs.
Twisted his wrist so bones would puncture lungs.
"K-Kugh...!"
No words could be spoken.
Yet the Hero calmly gazed into the eyes of the bleeding criminal.
"Ugh... ughhhh..."
The criminal—or rather, the stunt actor—trembled the moment their eyes met Kim Donghu’s.
It was clearly just acting, and yet—
"It’s not acting."
The fake blood flowing from his knuckles, applied by special effects, looked frighteningly real.
The aura he exuded was so lethal it made one wonder if he had killed before.
Even in the throes of death, the hands instinctively clasped together.
"P-Please... spare me... h-help..."
Despite knowing he shouldn’t, the criminal begged for his life,
driven purely by instinct.
But.
"It’s too late."
The Hero decisively snapped the criminal’s cervical vertebrae.
One human killing another with their bare hands.
With fists encased in knuckles, he mercilessly crushed his opponent, piece by piece.
"So, you’re the head of the snake."
How many bodies had he dismantled at this point?
At last, Ji Hyuntae and the Hero stood face-to-face.
The Hero, drenched in blood.
Ji Hyuntae, trembling in fear, clutching a lone gun.
Who was the criminal, and who was the judge?
In the midst of that horrific scene—
"He’s coming."
Ji Hyuntae’s gaze remained fixed on the Hero.
Was this what a true hero looked like?
No, it wasn’t.
The heroes he remembered from his childhood never looked like this.
This was something else entirely.
This was the very embodiment of fear.