The Genius Actor Who Lives Twice - Chapter 40

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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 40

“The character Ha-ru was modeled after my older sister.”

In that moment, I found myself without words.
Lee Ha-eun stared at the Script lying on the table.
As if recalling someone who existed within its pages.

“Then your sister’s name was…?”
“Yes. My sister’s name was Ha-ru too.”
……
“She was nine years older than me. She played piano from when we were young.”

She smiled faintly.

“We were very different.”
“Different how?”
“I was always complaining about everything.”

Lee Ha-eun slowly traced the edge of the Script with her finger.

“I was the one constantly throwing tantrums every day, demanding to be sent to acting school instead of playing piano. But my sister—she just played piano without complaint, doing whatever our parents asked.”

In the quiet Practice Room.
Only the faint sound of someone else practicing in another room drifted through.

“Our family was strict, so my sister had to be perfect from childhood. If she didn’t get the results she wanted at a Concours, she’d be scolded. If her practice fell short even slightly, she’d be scolded.”

She paused, then continued.

“But what was strange was that she never showed me how much she was suffering.”

At those words, I held my breath.

“Whenever I cried while practicing piano, she’d always come and comfort me.”

She spoke as if mimicking her sister’s voice.

“Ha-eun, you didn’t mess up.”
“You just weren’t in the right headspace today.”
“Try again, and you’ll get it.”

Lee Ha-eun laughed briefly, but the smile faded just as quickly.

“How… how is your sister doing now?”

As I asked carefully, hesitantly, Lee Ha-eun’s expression hardened.
I shouldn’t have asked.

“She died. A year ago.”

Silence settled between us.

“I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s fine. Don’t apologize. You didn’t know.”

Now that she’d started, Lee Ha-eun seemed determined to tell the whole story, and she continued.

“It was an accident.”

She lowered her gaze.

“It happened while Hong Young-do and I were traveling together.”
“……Sorry?”
“We’d even gotten engaged.”

For a moment, my mind seemed to stop altogether.

“It was the happiest time of her life. She’d stepped back from piano a little. She said it felt like she was finally living her own life for the first time.”

She bit her lip briefly.

“But I didn’t know it would be the last time.”
“That must be…very difficult for you.”
“The person I loved most in the world was gone.”

The memory of my father’s passing suddenly came back to me.
I knew that pain well.

“I tried to cope with losing her by throwing myself into work, by not indulging in sadness. But Hong Young-do… he wasn’t like that. It felt like his entire world had disappeared.”
“So every day he drank….”
“Yes. He wasn’t even much of a drinker before, but now he can’t sleep without it. That’s why I suggested making this film.”
“To Hong Young-do?”
“Yes. He wrote the Script himself, but I created the synopsis.”

In that instant, everything that had seemed strange finally made sense.
How the director—the one famous in the future for his strong work ethic and professional demeanor—reeked of alcohol every single day.
Why he’d been so insistent that Lee Ha-eun capture the character of Ha-ru so perfectly.
Why Lee Ha-eun was even the investor in this project.
It was all connected.

* * *

The next shooting day arrived.
Hong Young-do’s face, sitting in front of the monitor, was still dark.
He’d lost all his drive; today he seemed no more interested in the shoot than usual.
He applied a harsh standard only to Lee Ha-eun in the role of Ha-ru—projecting his dead lover onto her—while the rest of the cast barely seemed to register with him.

“Gather around, please! We’re starting!”

A staff member’s call was followed by the soft snap of the slate.

“Ready, action!”

When Choi Yeo-un’s mistakes kept repeating during rehearsal, the musicians left, leaving only Ha-ru to accompany her playing.

“A little softer…. No, with more rhythm, please.”
“…Yeo-un, you’ll have to re-match with the musicians anyway.”

Anxiety and irritation made Yeo-un brush her hair back sharply.

“My head’s already spinning just from the song….”

Ha-ru’s shoulders flinched slightly.
But she pressed her lips together firmly before speaking.

“I’m not even sure what you’re looking for anymore.”
“…Well, I suppose we’ll just have to do the original as is.”

The piano melody drifted through the room again, and Yeo-un began to sing.
But no matter how many times she practiced, there was no sign of improvement.

“Again.”
“Once more….”
“One more time, please.”

Director of Photography Lee Jae-seok felt his skin prickling at the shifting performance before him.
Her lips pressed thin and chapped, trembling faintly each time she delivered a line, her eyes bloodshot and ringed with tension. That precise, chill grip of physical strain was captured perfectly in the lens.
This wasn’t passion.
It was defeat, anxiety, lack.
Layers of negative emotion had accumulated into a twisted, relentless hunger.

“You’re sure you’re okay…?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”

After many repetitions, an exhausted Choi Yeo-un sank down near the piano.

“You could try to enjoy it a little more, you know.”
“……I haven’t sung with any real enjoyment since the day I became a singer.”

Her face was a tangle of loneliness and resignation.

“How could I enjoy it? I’m so lacking as a person.”

Yeo-un’s breathing didn’t settle.
Though she sat perfectly still, her breath had become abnormally rapid and ragged.

“…Yeo-un? What’s wrong? Are you hurt…?”

Choi Yeo-un looked as though she were trapped in another world entirely.
Fear crystallized in her eyes.
The terror that her life would end just like this—pathetic, worthless.
Panic Disorder had taken hold.

“Yeo-un!”

Ha-ru reached out urgently. She pulled a plastic bag from her pocket, covered Yeo-un’s mouth and nose with it, and gripped her shoulders firmly.

“Yeo-un. It’s okay. Keep taking deep breaths.”

As carbon dioxide accumulated in the rustling bag, her awareness began to return. Ha-ru moved slowly closer and wrapped both arms around her.

“Don’t worry. I’m right here with you.”

Yeo-un couldn’t speak. She covered her face with her hands, but even that couldn’t hide the tremor at her fingertips.
The tears she’d been holding back finally spilled down her cheeks.
She bit down on the inside of her lip, stifling her sobs. She didn’t want Ha-ru to see even this much of her falling apart.
Director Lee Jae-seok quietly adjusted the zoom.
The teardrops pressing through her fingers and the stark pallor of her lips—every detail was captured tight and clear in the frame.

“You’re a good person, Yeo-un. You don’t have to try so hard. You’re already doing enough.”

Under the gentle strokes of Ha-ru’s hand on her back, Yeo-un found herself thinking.

‘If only morning could come to my anxious night, just as you say.’

That gaze—yearning for salvation at the edge of despair—pierced straight through the lens.

“Cut.”

Hong Young-do muttered the word as though it bored him.
A few days ago, when Lee Ha-eun—the sister of his dead fiancée—had performed as Ha-ru, Hong Young-do’s eyes had reddened with tears.
In that moment, beyond the monitor, the phantom of his longed-for fiancée had shimmered before him, and a forgotten sense of wonder had pierced his chest.
But that wonder had been brief. Once filming ended, he plummeted back into hell.
He couldn’t sleep without alcohol, and his body and mind withered as though they might rot and crumble at any moment.
Today, too, he merely sat before the monitor like a hollow shell, his spirit gone.

“You must be tired, Director.”

At the low, steady voice, Hong Young-do lifted his head.
Gi-jun, having just finished his scene, stood looking down at him.
His eyes still held the red flush from the hyperventilation technique he’d performed.
Gi-jun pulled a Yellow Glass Bottle from his pocket and set it down on the table beside Hong Young-do’s monitor with a soft thunk.
A vitamin drink.

“You look exhausted. Keep your strength up.”
…….

Hong Young-do said nothing.
Keep his strength up.
As if a single phrase could fill the rotting void in his chest.
No emotion stirred in him, no drive. He only traced his finger meaninglessly across the cold glass, following the beads of condensation that had formed on its surface.
Like a man with not the slightest attachment to the dream of being a director.

* * *

I found myself turning over the problem in my mind for a long time.
Director Hong Young-do was increasingly handing off work to Cinematographer Lee Jae-seok and fading into the background.
Since Cinematographer Lee Jae-seok had a strong personality of his own, it was clear the two would clash if things continued as they were.
Lee Jae-seok had already confronted Hong Young-do more than once, so a blowup could come at any moment.
The worry followed me not just to the Film Set but to School as well.

“How quickly one can shed tears—there exists a perspective that measures this as an indicator of good acting. But that’s only one technique, and not particularly important.”

Professor Ahn Chi-won wrote on the blackboard.

Experience.
Imagination.

“An actor shuttles between these two ceaselessly. Sometimes drawing from their own experiences, and when they lack experience, filling the gap with imagination.”

The students nodded.

“But there are occasionally emotions that imagination alone simply cannot reach.”

Professor Ahn Chi-won paused.

“What do we do then?”

No one answered.

“There are several methods. You can use Sense Memory, or perform improvisation.”

Professor Ahn Chi-won continued as though it were nothing remarkable.

“In any case, an actor is someone who excavates what lies deep within the soul. Acting, in a sense, borders on psychological therapy.”

The moment those words reached my ears, something clicked into place.

“Drama Therapy is a prime example—we use it quite often. For instance, we might have someone engage in dialogue with a person who’s already passed away, or we switch roles so they can become that person themselves. Many of the actors around me have found healing through Drama Therapy. The truly gifted ones excel at it.”

I’d found a way forward.
The moment class ended, I called Lee Ha-eun.

“Would you be willing to do Drama Therapy together with me?”

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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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