An Actor Who Has Lived For 10,000 Years [EN]: Chapter 25

#7 – If It’s a Hindrance (2)

I froze at Choi Seo-bin’s words.

Aside from greetings, it was our first real conversation.

I hadn’t had many chances to talk to or meet famous actors, so talking to Choi Seo-bin felt surreal, like a dream.

I asked him again, hoping I’d misheard, but he seemed not to remember, his eyes darting around as if searching for an answer.

I carefully spoke to him, trying not to sound too eager.

“Are you talking about when we met at the script reading last time?”

Choi Seo-bin shook his head at my words, his expression thoughtful.

“No. I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere else besides then….”

Could it be….

Does he remember when we ran into each other on the terrace of HS Entertainment? It was such a brief moment.

It was just a brief moment, and I thought I was the only one who remembered it.

Otherwise, I haven’t seen Choi Seo-bin anywhere else in person. Only I have seen him on big billboards, TV, or in movie theaters.

Just in case, I asked him, my heart doing a little flutter.

“The HS Entertainment terrace… is that what you mean?”

“Ah, that’s right!”

Choi Seo-bin smiled brightly at my words and snapped his fingers, as if a lightbulb had just gone off.

“Ah! That’s right. It felt familiar, and I was wondering where I had seen you.”

I couldn’t help but smile at his words. It was flattering, to say the least.

To think he would remember me, whom he had only briefly passed by in that short moment. It felt like a lucky coincidence.

Choi Seo-bin is such a famous actor that it would be a crime not to know him. He’s practically a household name.

And when I ran into him, I was just a minor actor, barely a blip on the radar.

Of course, I’m not widely famous now either, but I’m working on it.

But he remembered me from then and said I looked familiar, which was just surprising and encouraging.

He reached out his hand and said, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“I look forward to working with you.”

I nodded and shook Choi Seo-bin’s hand, trying to project confidence.

“The pleasure is all mine, senior.”

I made eye contact with him as we shook hands, trying to convey my respect and enthusiasm.

His warm smile and kind eyes were disarming.

And even his soft voice, as if whispering to me, had a calming effect.

We only exchanged a few simple greetings, but how can he exude such a top star aura? It was palpable.

Is this what they call the ‘aura’ that comes from a star? A natural charisma?

I didn’t show it outwardly, maintaining a professional demeanor, but inwardly, I was impressed by his appearance and presence.

In a word, he was cool. Effortlessly so.

His words, actions, and even his attitude spoke of experience and confidence.

That kind of composure isn’t innate, but something that comes with fame, right? Or perhaps it’s a combination of both.

Looking at him, I was filled with the desire to learn and emulate him, to absorb some of that star power.

To do that, all I can do right now is act, hone my craft, and prove myself.

I pulled my hand out of Choi Seo-bin’s and fueled my determination, ready to give it my all.

***

“Okay, let’s go to the next scene, scene 3!”

At the assistant director’s words, Choi Seo-bin and Song Yu-na immediately walked to the set, ready to transform into their characters.

Soon, the lights came on, bathing the set in a warm glow, and the camera directors adjusted their positions, framing the shot.

Then, Director Bae’s megaphone turned on, his voice booming across the studio.

“Let’s go right away. Ready, action!”

As soon as the red light on the camera turned on, Choi Seo-bin’s expression changed instantly. It was like watching a switch flip.

I watched his acting with bated breath as he immersed himself in less than a second, completely losing himself in the role.

“Seo-hee, do you think what you’re doing is for your own good?”

Choi Seo-bin asked, looking at Song Yu-na with a wistful gaze. His voice was laced with concern.

His eyes seemed to convey both sadness and sympathy, a complex mix of emotions.

“…Or what? You know I can’t help it even if it’s not.”

Song Yu-na said in a sobbing voice, her words filled with resignation and despair.

A brief, awkward silence flowed between them, thick with unspoken feelings.

And soon, Song Yu-na’s eyes were filled with tears, glistening in the soft light.

All the actors next to me, including myself, were gaping, completely captivated by their performance.

I had already heard these two lines during the script reading, but it was on a different level than before. It was like seeing the words come to life.

The background of the scene, the costumes and makeup of that era, all contributed to the atmosphere.

Everything was perfectly in sync, creating a believable and immersive world.

Most importantly, their acting was superb. They were completely believable in their roles.

Song Yu-na’s sobbing could be heard in the breathless, quiet atmosphere, adding to the emotional intensity.

Just in time, a small green train passed by in the background, a subtle detail that enhanced the scene.

The train’s unique squeaking sound made my heart ache even more, amplifying the feeling of sadness and longing.

Song Yu-na wiped away her tears with her long sleeves, a gesture that spoke volumes about her character’s situation, and turned around as if she had made up her mind.

Choi Seo-bin’s eyes were fixed on her, conveying a depth of emotion without saying a word.

Acting with just his eyes, without any lines, was a testament to his skill and experience.

The camera zoomed in on his face as if possessed, capturing every nuance of his expression, and various emotions seemed to be mixed in his eyes.

And then, as if determined, he bit his lower lip tightly and reached out his hand towards Song Yu-na, a desperate plea.

“Han Seo-hee!”

Song Yu-na’s wrist was caught in his hand, stopping her in her tracks.

She slowly turned her head, her eyes meeting his, and Choi Seo-bin moved his lips and said, his voice barely a whisper.

“…Don’t go.”

Those three words resonated deeply, carrying a weight of emotion that was palpable.

I got goosebumps on my arms without realizing it, a physical reaction to the power of their performance.

As expected, he was an actor who was good at acting. A true professional.

Everything from the diction to the expressions was close to perfect, a masterclass in acting.

“Cut! Okay.”

Director Bae got up from his seat, satisfied, and shouted loudly, his voice filled with enthusiasm.

And he clapped his hands and said, praising their performance.

“That was great. Let’s go for a bust shot [a close-up shot focusing on the actor’s head and shoulders] right away. Just like now!”

The camera turned again right away, and I focused on their acting again, eager to learn from their example.

Then I tilted my head in confusion, a puzzled expression on my face.

Choi Seo-bin and Song Yu-na definitely acted well enough to give me goosebumps. Their talent was undeniable.

But strangely, I didn’t feel like I was being drawn into the scene I had seen in my dream. It lacked that certain something.

They portrayed the Japanese colonial era so well, with attention to detail and historical accuracy, but I didn’t feel like I was entering that era while watching their acting.

Is it not related to acting well? Perhaps it’s something more intangible.

Or did they act so well that I couldn’t think of anything else, becoming too focused on their technique?

It was strange, a nagging feeling that something was missing.

***

Around the time the sun was shining brightly, casting long shadows across the set.

After a few scenes, my turn was approaching, and I felt a mix of excitement and nervousness.

I stepped aside to review my lines, pacing back and forth, until I was called by the assistant director.

I had memorized them perfectly, but even so, I had to practice and practice until I could pour out my emotions if someone poked me before the shoot. Repetition was key.

Soon, I saw the assistant director shouting from afar, waving his arms to get my attention.

“We’re going to scene 12!”

“Yes!”

I shouted loudly so he could hear me, and then ran straight to the set, eager to get started.

Before my co-star arrived, I closed my eyes and took calm breaths in and out, centering myself.

As I calmed my breathing and warmed up my voice, Song Yu-na arrived, radiating confidence and grace.

This scene was about Song Yu-na, a dancer, appearing on stage while I was sitting alone at a table, lost in my thoughts.

Song Yu-na talked to the assistant director, discussing the scene and her movements, and then walked to the side of the stage, preparing to perform.

The filming began with me walking to my seat, setting the scene.

“Ready, action!”

I opened my eyes at Director Bae’s shout, feeling the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

The cameras filming me, their lenses focused on my every move.

And the red light pouring fiercely from the cameras, a signal that it was time to perform.

After taking a long breath, I walked to my seat, embodying my character.

I was filming a scene of me entering a bar, dragging my tired body after working all day, so my shoulders were slumped, my movements heavy.

The table and the old fabric sofa in front of me, familiar and worn.

As I walked slowly, the surroundings began to sway strangely, a subtle shift in perception.

What is it? A feeling of disorientation.

My face was distorted, reflecting the character’s inner turmoil, but since it was no different from the character’s facial expressions, I naturally made a difficult expression, masking my confusion.

I raised my right hand slightly, signaling to the bartender.

“I… I’ll go to my usual seat today.”

“Okay, sit down.”

The owner who was passing by bumped into me and passed by, barely acknowledging my presence.

In that moment….

The staff and cameras that were around me disappeared from my sight, fading into the background.

The bar I had seen in my dream materialized around me, vivid and real.

I felt like I had been sucked into it, transported to another time and place.

But there was no change in expression, such as being surprised or widening my eyes. I remained in character, unfazed by the sudden shift.

Because all of this didn’t feel foreign at all. It felt strangely familiar, like coming home.

Just a feeling of immersing myself quickly and deeply, losing myself in the role.

My body moved naturally in the air and flow felt here, as if guided by an unseen force.

As I leaned back on the old fabric sofa, Song Yu-na soon appeared on stage, bathed in the spotlight.

As she climbed the stairs step by step, I couldn’t help but exclaim, my voice filled with admiration.

“Beautiful. How could such a lovely woman appear before my eyes….”

I said it as if talking to myself, but it was all in the script, a line I was supposed to deliver.

But instead of thinking about the lines and saying them, they came out naturally after seeing Song Yu-na, as if they were my own thoughts.

I felt like I was possessed and the lines were pouring out, unbidden and effortless.

“Hello. I’m Seo-hee. There’s always sadness and joy. Today, everything….”

She glanced at me once and continued speaking, scanning everyone in the bar, her voice captivating and alluring.

As I looked at Song Yu-na, my head suddenly ached, a sharp pain that momentarily distracted me.

It felt like memories of the past were flowing into my head, fragments of images and emotions.

That stage, her face, even her voice, all triggered a sense of recognition.

I definitely felt like I had seen and heard it somewhere, a feeling of profound familiarity.

It’s not the scene I saw in my dream, but something else entirely.

What is it, déjà vu [the feeling of having already experienced the present situation]?

It’s not déjà vu because the era doesn’t match at all, so what is this situation? It was perplexing and unsettling.

“Cut, okay.”

팟-! [Sound effect for snapping back to reality]

At Director Bae’s okay, I came back to my senses as if possessed, jolted back to reality.

The cameras and numerous staff that I hadn’t seen until just now reappeared, surrounding me.

The sides of the stage were blurry when I looked at Song Yu-na, but now the staff is full, bustling with activity.

What is it? What just happened?

This was my first time experiencing this, this strange sense of immersion and detachment.

But when I was immersed and when I came out, I didn’t feel any foreign feeling at all. It felt seamless and natural.

To put it simply, it was like having a past life experience? A glimpse into another existence?

Is it because I was too immersed in the role, losing myself in the character’s psyche?

I tilted my head and got up from my seat, still trying to process what had just happened.

Director Bae shouted at me, his voice filled with enthusiasm.

“Hee-sung, your expression, voice, and tone were all so good. That’s it! Perfect!”

I nodded blankly at his words, still feeling disoriented.

“Thank you.”

***

“This is the last scene today. Let’s finish it in one take and everyone go home!”

“Yes!”

Director Bae shouted to the actors, holding the megaphone, his voice filled with encouragement.

“Let’s squeeze out the last bit of acting. Let’s go.”

He sat down in the chair next to the main camera and shouted, his eyes focused on the monitor.

“Ready, action!”

Director Bae turned off the megaphone power button, his attention fully on the scene.

A more cautious face than ever, reflecting the importance of this final shot.

He stared at the monitor with sharp eyes, scrutinizing every detail.

The person reflected on the monitor was Jin Hee-sung, his image filling the screen.

He drew Director Bae in with his eyes and facial expressions even before he started his lines, captivating the director’s attention.

“Are you going up here again today?”

Moist eyes, filled with concern and worry.

His face was full of worry for Song Yu-na, a genuine expression of care.

A staff member who was immersed in Jin Hee-sung’s acting swallowed a sigh with drooping eyes, moved by the performance.

Song Yu-na squeezed her eyes shut and nodded, her face etched with sadness.

“I am always in this place.”

“I have been waiting for you to come.”

At Jin Hee-sung’s words, Song Yu-na opened her closed eyes and looked at him, her gaze filled with a mixture of hope and despair.

“But I think your existence is too great to stay in this place alone. Everything is too small to fully contain you.”

Director Bae, who had been leaning back, sat up towards the monitor, his interest piqued.

Then he tilted his head and stroked his chin, a thoughtful expression on his face.

‘That’s not a matter of acting well or not. It’s like he’s just a person from that era.’ He thought to himself, impressed by Jin Hee-sung’s authenticity.

Song Yu-na moved her body expressionlessly and began to dance, her movements graceful and melancholic.

Jin Hee-sung, who was watching her, opened his mouth in a low voice, his words filled with a sense of helplessness.

“I can’t leave her like this.”

Director Bae leaned his head next to the monitor and stared intently at Jin Hee-sung, analyzing his performance.

Song Yu-na was dancing on the stage, her movements telling a story of sorrow and resilience.

As time passed, the assistant director next to him quickly looked through the script, trying to follow along.

The script was all over, marked with notes and annotations.

When the assistant director looked at Director Bae, Director Bae finally realized that it was over and shouted, his voice filled with surprise.

“Cut, okay!”

The assistant director quickly ran to Director Bae, eager to get his feedback.

“Director, I thought you weren’t cutting because you were going to shoot again. You seemed completely engrossed.”

Director Bae nodded without saying anything at the assistant director’s words, still processing what he had just witnessed.

“Director…?”

Director Bae finally answered the assistant director, his voice thoughtful.

“Seong-woo, was he originally this good?”

“Yes?”

“I’m talking about Jin Hee-sung. He has immersion, but I don’t think he was this good….”

The assistant director raised his eyebrows as if he greatly agreed, impressed by Jin Hee-sung’s improvement.

“I guess it’s the on-site style. I was a little surprised when I saw his acting just now.”

“Right?”

Director Bae said, making a tsk sound, a sign of his admiration.

“I missed the ending timing just now and only watched the acting? I was so captivated.”

He looked at Jin Hee-sung and twisted one corner of his mouth, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

“I think I picked him really well at the audition?”

The assistant director nodded vigorously, agreeing with Director Bae’s words.

“I think so too.”

Director Bae narrowed his eyes and muttered in a low voice, his mind racing.

“He definitely has a different kind of potential….” He recognized the spark of something special in Jin Hee-sung’s performance.