In an instant, Kim Ryu-jin realized he had tripped over the thick grass. His body tilted naturally toward the ground, moving with a fluidity that could rival any scene from Exorcism.
But the sigh that escaped after he barely regained his balance didn't come from Kim Ryu-jin. It was Kang Woo-jin.
"Damn it… so embarrassing."
Mistakes happen to everyone, and they always come when you least expect them. Woo-jin couldn't shake off this one, not in a moment this critical. Was it the pressure of his first lead role? Nervousness? Or the fact that this was his first real live-action shoot? Maybe none of it—he couldn't tell.
Even a seasoned actor with thirty years of experience has his off days.
For performers, tripping over a line or bursting into laughter is nothing unusual—a NG, a "No Good." But NGs are not failures. They're steps toward perfection. Yet Woo-jin had yet to fully understand this. On the surface, he might appear monstrous, but in truth, he was just a rookie, barely a month into his debut.
"Did I ruin this?"
Straightening his knees slowly, Woo-jin's expression hardened. He remembered the arrogant mask he'd carried until now. How did I get here? Did one tuft of grass just undo everything? It felt cruelly unfair.
He cast a glance at the ground, then lifted his eyes to the villa.
His heart thumped like he'd been caught in the act of something forbidden, but he masked the tremor in his face. Cameras were positioned beside him, behind him—like he was trapped in a web of CCTVs.
"What now? I fell hard… Will the director signal me? Or should I wait?"
But strangely…
Silence.
No shout, no cue. Only the still, almost sacred quiet that blankets a film set. Odd. This wasn't in the script. Yet Director Shin Dong-chun didn't call NG. Both cameras continued filming Woo-jin, capturing every movement.
The reason was simple. Shin Dong-chun knew, even at that moment…
"Kim Ryu-jin was meant to glance at the villa with concern. A short scene on paper, yet the depth he conveys—astonishing."
Shin Dong-chun swallowed in awe. Woo-jin didn't know it, but instinctively, he felt it.
"If I keep moving, I'll see where this goes."
He assumed he'd be scolded afterward. That was Kang Woo-jin, through and through.
—Take it in stride.
He quickly became Kim Ryu-jin. This process was familiar now. As if memorized a thousand times, he summoned the lines from the void. Ryu-jin's emotions spread into him, his senses merging with the character. The more he repeated the role, the richer and more complete it became. Acting felt seamless; revealing Ryu-jin in all his facets took less and less effort.
The world of the role, forged by the void, was becoming Woo-jin's own.
In a heartbeat, he transformed. The villa, once mundane, now loomed like a haunted house. Chills coursed through him, an invisible fear clung to the air, and even his breath seemed trapped in terror.
It had started after the corpse was moved.
Ryu-jin's shallow breaths quickened, trembling like pistons. His body felt rooted to the grass, heavy and resisting.
"Ha—"
He exhaled sharply. The camera capturing his profile swung to face him, framing a chest-up shot. On the monitors where Shin Dong-chun and Hong Hye-yeon watched, every detail of Ryu-jin's face came into sharp relief—pain etched across his features, eyes darting with restless fear.
Hong Hye-yeon covered her mouth, awe etched in silence.
He was terrified, yet couldn't retreat. Clumsy but relentless, even in a fall, he captured the essence of the character.
Ryu-jin's performance transformed fear into reality, exactly as the director intended. That was the actor, raw and alive.
Then—hiccup.
Ryu-jin shifted forward slightly. His decision solidified. He thrived on seeing truth for others, on uncovering secrets. Even strangers often confided in him.
Trust deepened when work bound them together.
He valued hidden truths over money. But this time, it was a murder. How often would he witness such scenes in life? That drove him forward.
Being a witness was rare.
Without realizing it, Ryu-jin quickened his pace.
—Thump, thump.
At the villa's front door, he raised his hand and whispered,
"Damn… how do I survive this?"
But then—
—Bang.
Locked. Damn. Ryu-jin glanced at the nearby camera—not really at the lens, but at the path his wife's car had taken. Silence surrounded him. Instinctively, he scanned the windows.
Then—
—Creak.
A gap in the window caught his eye. Simultaneously, the scent of the sealed villa wafted in.
"Too… good. Too overwhelming."
Surprisingly pleasant for a place of death, as if the villa claimed innocence. He clicked his tongue, climbed toward the window, and paused. Life and death seemed divided by this thin glass. His lips dried.
Yet he entered.
As the line between life and death blurred, one camera followed him, another framed the outside. Full-body and chest-up shots captured his silent survey of the living room. Ordinary, aside from leftover food.
Shin Dong-chun watched, decision made.
"This should have ended here, but the energy… let's do a long take."
In the basement, Ryu-jin discovered another body—or a living person? From upstairs, faint voices reached him. Though nothing was audible to anyone else, Ryu-jin heard them clearly.
Audio would be added later.
He acted on imagination and hallucination alone. Exorcism thrived on sound—sound as fear. The unseen tightened around him. The heart of the film: Ryu-jin's claustrophobic terror.
He hid among broken furniture.
The basement door opened again. A man and woman's conversation followed. Empty basement, yet Ryu-jin heard them.
"What do we do with him?"
"Why's he still alive?"
"No witnesses can remain."
Metallic, scraping tones carried the word "witness." Another observer lurked.
The camera zoomed in on the witness. Ryu-jin suppressed tremors, fingers gripping the floor, calves and thighs quivering. His body shivered uncontrollably, mocking him.
Stop… please stop. Breath caught, silence crushing him. His eyes rolled, searching, desperate. Gray floor offered nothing, yet his gaze flitted frantically.
Damn it… just leave.
He might urinate. Muscles tense, body stiffening. He focused solely on sound.
Every detail captured. Actors on the monitor gaped.
"....."
No one could speak. Judging the performance was impossible; even understanding with glances or nods was a struggle. Some simply could not comprehend.
Were they insignificant?
Yet what caused this incredible difference? Shin Dong-chun, smiling wildly at the monitor, whispered:
"This… might not be a dream. No, this will happen."
Hong Hye-yeon whispered beside him:
"The Mise-en-Scène Short Film Festival will be overturned. Any other winner after this? Corruption."
She smiled at the frozen actors.
Meanwhile, at writer Park Eun-mi's studio…
Park Eun-mi and PD Song Man-woo watched a scene from a recent reading on a large TV.
"Hmm—"
Park Eun-mi loosened her headband, clicking her tongue.
"On set, it was like this. Seeing it here… clearer. Tell Tae-san he has to catch up."
Song PD stroked his beard.
"I called. He's in seclusion training. Since the reading, he's been relentless. Manager Kim said he hasn't seen such passion in a while."
"I need to see. Energy's good, detail's lacking."
At that moment, Park Deputy—Kang Woo-jin—appeared on TV. Park Eun-mi leaned forward.
"That unique spark from reading day… voice, articulation… brilliant. Seeing it close-up, truly excellent."
"Crush?"
"Expression control, pacing—amazing!"
"I saw something else."
"What?"
"He's still growing," Song PD said. "Raw, unfiltered. Practicing relentlessly. Risky, but alive."
Learning alone. Directing isn't just filming.
Observation is key. Woo-jin's not easy; interference might harm.
Thanks to him, actors improved. Public eye exact. Next to Woo-jin, sloppiness is obvious.
Unknown actor, dominating major role. Remarkable.
"A hundred-year-old tree is strong," Park Eun-mi said.
"Woo-jin, metaphorically?"
"Yes. Appears suddenly, quietly. That's Woo-jin."
Song PD smiled. "How much bigger will he grow through this project and Exorcism?"
Some actors awaken ambition in directors. Woo-jin thrives across genres—thriller, comedy, rom-com, action.
"…I want them all."
If possible, even one.
"So I can't quit directing," Song PD admitted.
"Why?"
Time check. "'Exorcism' filming must be underway."
"Curious about the chaos."
"If our project succeeds… what then?"
"Kang Woo-jin becomes a totem."
Song imagined the future: incredible acting, elevating all around him. Casting priority. Not every work succeeds, but…
"Then a Woo-jin religion might emerge. Balance-breaker."
Park Eun-mi smiled. "Fine—we're linked to that character."
Laughter shared.
PD Song patted her shoulder. "Thinking of casting Woo-jin next?"
"Weren't you first?"
Indeed, Woo-jin intertwined with these two giants' futures.
"How refuse a totem?"
But that future was full of misunderstanding.
Meanwhile, at a major film company…
Two men at a round table. Short man in 40s, elder with white-streaked eyebrows.
"Director! Found another insane person!"
Short man standing, shouting.
"Remarkable! Acting or real?"
Elder stroked chin. "Chief Choi approved—excellent."
"Everyone at reading agreed. Deputy Park—sociopath act? Most vivid ever. Overshadowed others."
"Perfect for your work?"
"Yes! Like a lightbulb went off!"
Elder sighed.
"Name?"
"Kang Woo-jin!"
"Insignificant?"
"Yes, but will succeed. Cold, yet special aura. Oddly arrogant, yet relatable."
"Experience?"
"Acts like veteran. Natural before hundreds. Self-taught."
"Insane. Learning alone?"
Elder chuckled, continued:
"Checked agency?"
"None."
"None? Strange."
"Let him audition! Guarantee!"
"Business card?"
"Yes! He saw company name, will contact. If not, I'll contact PD Song."
Elder rose, nodding.
"Good. Bring him in."