The Genius Actor Who Lives Twice - Chapter 31

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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 31

It was an unexpected offer.
Kim Su-ho belonged to a Major Management Company that boasted top-tier actors in its ranks.
The kind of dream agency where even getting a profile in their roster was nearly impossible for newcomers or obscure performers.
And later, there hadn’t been any scandals or incidents either.

“You can think of it as meddling if you like. But having seen your acting, I didn’t want to leave you spinning your wheels alone with just a profile. I’ll speak to the director myself and arrange an audition slot. Let me know if you’re interested.”

The fact that Kim Su-ho was making such an offer at all meant he recognized my talent as an actor, and that feeling wasn’t bad at all.

“I’ll make sure to speak well of you so we can get you under contract for actual work without the trainee period.”

If I hadn’t joined Nabi Actors, I would have accepted this offer without hesitation.

“I appreciate the offer, but I already have an agency.”
“Which one?”
“Nabi Actors. It’s small now, but it’s a place that’s going to grow tremendously down the line.”

Kim Su-ho hesitated for a moment before speaking.

“Are they properly supporting you there? You’re not getting looked down on as a newcomer or anything like that? If it’s a place without any real vision, then….”
“It’s not that kind of place.”

I cut him off firmly.
Perhaps because of that, Kim Su-ho didn’t press the matter again about joining his agency.

“If you trust your agency, then focus on increasing the number of projects you take on. Someone of your caliber shouldn’t be treated as a newcomer anymore.”

It’s a truly humbling thing to have someone recognize your acting like that.

“Let’s stay in touch, Gi-jun. Whether at the school workshop or on set.”

With that, Kim Su-ho rose from his seat.
I felt something peculiar settle in me as I began planning how to shoot the project.

* * *

That’s how I came to understand what we’d need.
First, I had to rent a camera from the school, but all I got back was word that the fourth-year students had already taken them for their graduation films and nothing was available.
I heard that Seoul also loans equipment separately, so I looked into that too, but apparently another independent film crew had already taken what they had.

“I think I can solve that for you.”

Kim Su-ho pulled out his phone and called someone.

“Yeah, hey. That thing you mentioned having last time. Can you still use it? Yeah, that’s right. Your crew’s equipment.”

After the call ended, Kim Su-ho spoke as if it were nothing.

“I found us a camera.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. A cinematography team I worked with before said they’d lend it to us.”

At first, I thought he’d just borrowed a single camera.
But the next day.
What emerged from Kim Su-ho’s car when he arrived at the school exceeded anything we’d anticipated.
Multiple camera bodies and lenses.
Tripod and gimbal.
Lighting equipment and audio equipment too.

“I asked people I’d met while working on projects before. They said they weren’t using them anyway, so they were happy to lend them to me.”

The problem was that the equipment was far too professional.

“……Does anyone here know how to use this?”

Han Seo-hyun asked hesitantly, staring at the camera.
What I’d expected was a basic model borrowed from the school.
But what Kim Su-ho had brought was gear from professional film sets, and none of us knew how to operate it.

“Su-ho, do you happen to know?”

Kim Su-ho, too, hadn’t thought things through that far—his face showed it.
We all stood frozen in front of the camera.
That’s when Baek A-rin stepped forward.

“Start by setting the white balance to adjust color temperature. Frame rate at 24. Since we’re shooting in log, we just need to nail the exposure.”

We stared at her blankly.

“Better to go with 35mm. We need to preserve the sense of space……Why are you all looking at me like that?”

When we asked how she knew so much about shooting equipment and could handle it so confidently, she answered simply:

“I’m a YouTuber.”

Unlike the worries we’d had before starting, our ultra-luxe group project was moving forward smoothly.

* * *

Before the semester began, Baek A-rin prayed in earnest.

‘Please, just let me pass with a D this semester!’

She wasn’t asking for anything more than that.
Last year, when she first entered Korea National University of Arts, she’d genuinely wanted to be an actress.
Standing in front of the camera felt good, and performing in front of a crowd was fun.
The problem started after she enrolled.

-“A-rin, what do you think about trying YouTube?”
-“Huh? All of a sudden? Why?”
-“You know how the actress Mom worked with last time is a YouTuber with three million subscribers? We ended up casting her because while scrolling through YouTube Shorts, I saw her daily vlog, and it looked similar to our lead character.”

After her mother said that, she’d carelessly agreed to give it a try.

“Hi everyone! I’m A-rin, an actress. Yeon A is here! Today…….”

It turned out to be more fun than expected.
Perhaps because of her mother’s profession, she’d picked up a lot about filming equipment without meaning to.
Making videos suited her far better than she’d thought.
More thrilling than receiving the gaze of hundreds on a stage was watching the numbers climb on a small screen.
The sense of accomplishment each time a subscriber was added was greater than she’d anticipated.
Before long, acting naturally took a back seat.
Assignments?
She did the bare minimum. There were other people in the group project anyway.
Attendance?
She just didn’t go. She was out filming YouTube during those hours instead.
After a year of classes, C’s and D’s were the least of his worries—F’s bloomed across his transcript like weeds.
He’d told himself it didn’t matter, that he’d found his calling anyway.
But when he received an Academic Warning last semester, his mother’s ultimatum—shape up or be cast out after graduation—left him with no choice but to retake the course.
All he needed was a diploma.
He’d aimed for nothing higher than a D, coasting through on the bare minimum.

‘Damn, these guys are really good-looking.’

The moment he saw Kim Su-ho and Yeon Gi-jun, his plans shifted.
He’d befriend them, get them to appear on his YouTube channel.
But for that to work, he’d have to ace this course himself.

“Mom, Mom! I’m heading home this weekend, and I need you to grab some fake blood from your film set for me, okay?”

Baek A-rin spoke into the phone, her mother’s voice crackling on the other end.
Shoot day was closing in.

* * *

The title of my work had been decided.
.
A term for an actor favored by a particular director, one who appears repeatedly in their films.
At the same time, it meant “social mask”—the face we show to others and society.
Min-woo, consumed by a vicious hunger for recognition, dons the mask of a murderer from the script, a monster that gradually fuses with his own face.
And that mask never comes off.
To become the director’s perfect Persona—the one who abandoned him—Min-woo descends into genuine madness, transforming from actor into the very killer he pretends to be. There was no title more chilling, more fitting than this.
The first day of shooting .
We needed a space that could pass for Min-woo’s apartment, so we made our way to Baek A-rin’s rented room near campus.

“Come on in, everyone!”

She greeted us in a comfortable sleeveless shirt.
The one-room studio was smaller than I’d expected.
A single bed. A single desk.
It reminded me of the gosiwon I’d lived in before returning to this timeline.
Tripods unfolded. Lighting equipment migrated toward the walls.
The narrow room filled with the rustle of reflectors and the sharp tear of tape being ripped free.
Once all the rigging was done—

“Rolling! Scene Number 3! Min-woo gets his callback!”

Baek A-rin called it out.

The first shot: Min-woo receiving a phone call. The news that he’d passed the audition.

“Wait, I passed? Really?”

His voice trembled with the weight of the news crackling through the receiver.
Within seconds, his eyes reddened.
Not the innocent, childlike joy he’d shown during the actual audition—this was something deeper, a welling surge of vindication.
It was a performance steeped in the new interpretation Baek A-rin, in her director’s role, had asked him to find.

“God… thank you. I don’t even remember how long it’s been since my last callback.”

Behind the lens, Baek A-rin swallowed her awe in silence.

‘At first, I couldn’t understand why they picked him instead of Su-ho. But now, watching him work… I get it.’

All Baek A-rin needed to do was hint at a direction, and Yeon Gi-jun would absorb it like a ghost, completely reinterpreting it as his own.
The process was so smooth and natural that it sparked the illusion that Yeon Gi-jun had actually lived years as a nameless bit-part actor scraping by on the bottom.

“Right. Breathe. First, I need to become the killer.”

He stared into the mirror and forced his expression into something menacing.
Acting without skill.
His eyes went wide with effort, his jaw clenched artificially.
His mouth twitched into a crude grimace as rough breath scraped from his throat—but it was nothing but a cheap facade, clumsily mimicking the surface.

“No. That’s not it.”

A hollow core and an imitation of the surface.
His face wore frustration—the look of someone lost in how to act at all.

“Cut! Let me stop here for a moment.”

The moment Baek A-rin’s voice rang out, Yeon Gi-jun shed the character of Min-woo like a second skin.
Watching him do it, Baek A-rin felt a chill run down her spine.
During filming, she’d only thought that the role of Min-woo felt similar to Yeon Gi-jun himself—that they fit well together.
But seeing it now, there was a stark difference between Min-woo and him.

He’d erased himself completely and worn the character’s shell instead.

If that was all just acting, then what would happen if he truly became a killer?
How much would his performance change then?
Baek A-rin called out eagerly.

“Scene Number 8! Min-woo returns home after being cut from the role!”

Min-woo, cast out from the filming location and back home, stood motionless in the dark for a long time.
Moonlight, faint through his slumped shoulders, fell across his forehead.
Then Min-woo walked slowly toward the mirror.
A tired face stared back at him from the glass.
Min-woo gazed blankly at his reflection, then began crafting expressions again, seized by obsession.
He tensed his eyes, then released them. He lifted his mouth, then forged a cold stare.
But it crumbled instantly.

“No…”

Min-woo shook his head, his voice hollow.

“That’s not it…”

He tried again.
What face would someone wear if they took a life?
What eyes would they look through?
But no matter how hard he tried, the mirror reflected not a killer, but an actor who’d failed to perform.
Beep-beep-beep!
Then his phone rang.
Min-woo stared blankly at the screen before answering.

“Hello?”

After a moment, listening to the voice on the other end, Min-woo’s expression froze.

“…What? Father… passed away?”

Min-woo couldn’t speak.
The phone slipped from his weakened grip and tumbled to the floor, rolling helplessly across it.
The call had ended, but he remained in the darkness for a long time, gazing quietly at his own reflection in the mirror.

“……So this is the face I make when I’m sad.”

Something unsettling flickered through those words.
He was using his grief over losing his father as material for his craft.

“And despair looks like this.”

As if something had snapped at the edge of despair, a pitch-black emptiness and an eerie silence bloomed from the depths of his eyes, spreading across his entire face.

“So when I play a murderer…….”

Min-woo’s hand moved slowly toward the desk.
What his fingers found was an ordinary ballpoint pen.
But the gesture of picking it up and closing his fist around it was already that of a murderer gripping a knife handle driven deep into someone’s throat.

“Ah, so that’s it.”

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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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