I Acted Once, and Now They Call Me a Genius - Chapter 250

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Episode 250
It wasn’t easy to admit it about himself, but filming Yeokjeok had sharpened Seon-woo’s eye for appreciating works in many ways.
Where the old Seon-woo had judged a work’s value by the color of a single character alone, he could now see how the colors of countless characters came together to paint a larger picture.
And to his refined eye, the script Seon-jun had just handed him looked precisely like a masterpiece.
He might describe it as the kind of overwhelming presence you’d feel standing before a great work painted on the walls of a vast cathedral.
“Like it?”
“…Yeah. I like it.”
Seon-woo answered honestly.
The title of the work Seon-jun had written this time was The Method to Kill One’s Wife.
From the title alone, it might sound like a crime thriller, but it wasn’t. If pressed to name a genre, he’d say melodrama, or perhaps drama.
The story went like this.
The protagonist, Ki-tae, is a cynical young man who doesn’t believe in love. But one day, at his university band club, he happens to meet Seon-yeong, the vocalist, and falls head over heels for her, pursuing her relentlessly.
However, Ki-tae’s love story doesn’t flow smoothly. He manages to grow close to Seon-yeong, but only to discover that she already has someone in her heart.
So Ki-tae hovers around her, giving her romance advice, sometimes even helping her pursue her unrequited love. And that very devotion eventually makes Seon-yeong aware of his feelings. They end up together, and ultimately marry.
Just another ordinary, predictable melodrama, right?
‘If that were all it was.’
If so, Seon-woo probably wouldn’t have thought of Seon-jun as any sort of genius.
But this is only one of two timeframes flowing through the work.
The Method to Kill One’s Wife unfolds across two different timelines simultaneously.
The story of Ki-tae and Seon-yeong coming together forms one timeline, while the other is set seven years into their marriage.
And that seven-year mark proved captivating indeed.
For Ki-tae and Seon-yeong are standing on the brink of divorce. The starry-eyed young man and woman from before have vanished, leaving only people worn down by reality.
And then, as they’re arranging the divorce in court, walking out the courthouse doors, Seon-yeong is struck by a truck and falls into a coma.
Ki-tae finds himself caring for the wife he was about to leave, and slowly feels the old affection he once harbored for her awakening again.
The problem is that Seon-yeong’s condition only worsens. She convulses without warning, wastes away, and the medical team suggests stopping life support.
In other words, letting her go.
The work’s title—The Method to Kill One’s Wife—refers to exactly this.
These two timelines appear in alternating fashion, casting viewers into endless confusion.
A story where you cheer for Ki-tae and Seon-yeong’s love to succeed, all while being spoiled from the start that a tragic ending awaits them.
The Method to Kill One’s Wife reaches its conclusion by presenting different scenes through these two perspectives.
Ki-tae and Seon-yeong’s wedding.
And Ki-tae ending Seon-yeong’s life.
Showing both these moments.
Seon-woo paused to imagine that scene.
He pictured the tempest of colors that would engulf it. His voice came out subdued, barely audible.
“…How do you even come up with something like this?”
“Every love has an ending.”
“…Did you come up with this right after Hye-sun dumped you?”
“Want to get hit again? Why are you bringing up Hye-sun’s name here?”
“Well, the character’s name is Seon-yeong too. You obviously borrowed it from her.”
“…When was the last time I actually punched you?”
In the end, Seon-jun landed a blow on Seon-woo.
He glared at Seon-jun while cradling his throbbing forearm.
“…You damn punk.”
“Quit whining. Who scratched first anyway? Anyway, so what about the script? Give me your thoughts. Obviously you’ll have nothing but praise, right?”
That much was true.
Seon-woo opened his mouth slowly.
“The emotion felt really strange. Of course, I don’t know how it’ll feel as film, but…knowing that these two will get divorced in the end makes their emotional arc feel really uncomfortable, you know? That’s the sense I got. It frustrated me.”
“Heh, mission accomplished then. That was exactly the reaction I wanted.”
“Are you a psychopath? Why deliberately trigger these emotions?”
“Because it’s an emotion people don’t normally feel.”
Seon-jun answered as though it were obvious.
“Since you’ve never felt that emotion before, it feels uncomfortable and bewildering. And the more uncomfortable it is…our brain naturally activates more than usual. We don’t know how to process that emotion, so we can’t help it.”
There’s no way around it.
Knowing the outcome of a love that hasn’t yet blossomed would be impossible in reality.
But film makes the impossible possible.
So viewers find themselves cheering for Ki-tae’s earnest, aching affection even as they’re seized by melancholy knowing how it ends.
They’re enslaved by contradictory emotions.
“…It’s sad.”
“What is? That they end up divorced?”
“More precisely…that they’re happy without knowing it ends.”
“That’s exactly the reaction I was hoping for.”
“That’s cruel.”
“For someone saying that…”
Seon-jun smiled knowingly.
“You’ve gotten interested, haven’t you?”
“…”
Seon-woo didn’t deny it.
Truth be told, he had grown interested—quite a bit, in fact. Because he could see that even performing the same acting, the texture of the result would be entirely different in this work.
But he didn’t want to say all that just yet.
Seon-woo changed the subject.
“That said, it’s a pretty experimental film. Crossing timelines and directing it that way…investors won’t be thrilled about it, will they?”
“I mentioned this before. I have an investor who’s become my fan. They loved my work. They even said to do whatever I want.”
“…What about commercial viability?”
“The formula for success with a work like this is simple.”
Seon-jun snapped his fingers.
“It has to win at a film festival. Only then will audiences care enough to overlook the complex timeline and other issues.”
“That’s not an easy path.”
“It’s fine. The hard part was really catching the opportunity and making it this far. Now all that’s left is filming…”
Seon-jun grinned.
“And that’s not the hard part—it’s the most fun part.”
It was an arrogant thing to say.
But Seon-jun had always been that way. The kind of person who could strut with confidence even when he had nothing to show. The kind who could be bold as a millionaire with empty pockets.
The kind of person who could seem wealthy despite having nothing.
Honestly, if Seon-jun hadn’t been his older brother, Seon-woo might have admired him quite a bit. His execution, his confidence, his talent—there wasn’t a single thing in him that Seon-woo wouldn’t respect in another man.
Even as a rising star doing well for himself, Seon-woo still found himself becoming nothing more than an ordinary younger brother in Seon-jun’s presence.
That was a strange feeling. Pride was wounded, yet not entirely unpleasant. In fact, if the day ever came when Seon-jun seemed small in front of him…that might be harder to bear. The feeling that such a day would be unbearable.
Sibling relationships were complicated like that.
“…Have you thought about casting?”
“We’re discussing it now.”
“When’s the shooting schedule?”
“Looks like we’ll start sometime this year.”
Seon-woo paused to think.
He’d been swamped with work lately. He had filming scheduled for Red Zone Season 2 and Yeokjeok Part 2, plus he needed to appear in the Drama Theater Competition, and he was even looking into acting schools on top of everything else.
If he added another project on top of that…honestly, he’d be ground to bone meal.
And yet Seon-woo found he couldn’t easily let go of his attachment to The Method to Kill One’s Wife.
If he could become Ki-tae, if he could perform that affection destined to wither under bitter reality…
Seon-woo swallowed hard.
“What if I said I’d do it…?”
“No.”
His expression turned dumbfounded as he stared at Seon-jun.
He hadn’t expected this reaction.
“…Why?”
“Why what? You thought I’d obviously give you the role just like that? I get that you’re doing well these days, but it won’t work.”
Seon-jun shook his head.
“You don’t suit Ki-tae.”
It was an assertion that needed no deliberation. Seon-woo looked at Seon-jun with an aggrieved expression.
“Why not? What’s wrong with me?”
“You’ve never been in love.”
“…How would you know?”
“I can tell. Love shows on a person’s face. I’ve seen you in a few relationships that barely qualify as dating. But that won’t convey this emotion.”
“You didn’t watch Red Zone? I got a lot of praise for handling the melodrama decently there.”
“That’s a kid’s romance.”
Seon-jun was firm.
“It won’t cut it here. You might pull it off with that sensibility in the college timeline, but for the divorce timeline it’s not enough. Can you express that emotional line—burned down to ash, leaving only embers—better than seasoned thirty-something actors?”
“…”
Seon-woo didn’t answer.
Sure, of course he could express it. But the real issue wasn’t whether he could express something—it was how deeply he could express it.
“Ripen a bit more before you come back.”
“…Why show me this if you were just going to say no?”
“To show off.”
“This is too much, seriously…”
Seon-woo sighed.
When Seon-jun showed him something like this, he naturally thought it meant Seon-jun was planning to offer him a role…
But Seon-jun’s words were hard to argue against.
Could he truly express the parched emotion of a married man, seven years into marriage and resigned to divorce?
In the past, he might have insisted he could somehow pull it off.
But filming Yeokjeok had taught Seon-woo how profoundly experience shaped an actor.
He now understood that reality didn’t support the claim that you could express something deeply without having experienced it yourself.
Still, he couldn’t easily surrender.
Seon-jun noticed something in Seon-woo’s expression. He looked at him with a peculiar smile.
“…You really like it that much?”
“Yeah.”
Pride be damned—a man admitted what he needed to admit.
Seon-woo had been captivated by Ki-tae, or more precisely, by the picture this work painted. A certainty bloomed in him that if he could become part of that picture, it would be transcendent.
“Then show me something.”
“What.”
“Why you could beat thirty-something actors.”
“…”
Seon-woo paused to think.
No answer came to mind immediately. Instead, an answer that would irritate his brother came to him.
Swallowing back a flash of embarrassment, Seon-woo cupped his chin with his hand.
“Youthful freshness?”
He got hit again.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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