I Don’t Want to Play Villains Anymore - Chapter 39
I’m a bit of an expensive Buram.
Bubongrama.
Unlike the Bubongrama distributed on TV or streaming platforms like Netflix, videos uploaded on platforms like YouTube.
Of course, it’s called Bubongrama, but it’s recognized as a culture meant for light enjoyment, with a length of about ten minutes.
You might wonder what can be shown in just ten minutes.
However, it’s possible to create dozens of episodes via a Siri-style setup, and it’s easy to incorporate PPs naturally, making it a market that companies are targeting.
To list its advantages: discovering new actors and directors, relatively low budgets, and… freedom.
Unlike broadcasts that censure for even smoking, the kind YouTube allows for quite a bit, exposing down to underwear doesn’t draw any complaints, resulting in explosive popularity among certain consumers.
Of course, as clear as the advantages are, the disadvantages are equally clear…
“Can I cast you?”
“Uh… yeah…”
The point where it’s suggested that I’d be a cost-cutting measure turns the advantage of being inexpensive into a disadvantage.
After the orientation, we were at the steps of the entrance.
Ji-woo and I were in a private conversation for more detailed discussions.
“I hate to say this… but I’m a bit expensive.”
“Of course! The genius actor who had a gap of over ten years will definitely bring an influx of attention…!”
“… Yeah. Expensive. Me.”
Don’t say it twice with your mouth…
“I can’t deny that…”
Ji-woo muttered softly.
Ral frowned.
That kid looked up, staring at me very clearly.
“But, I wanted to try.”
“… Try what?”
“Just… whether it works or not. Let’s give it a shot, that was the whole point.”
There was no calculation in those words.
It was reckless, irresponsible, and naive speech.
So, persuasion felt even more difficult.
“Haneul is… an actor.”
That line was a bit ridiculous.
Yeah.
I am an actor.
But a real actor, you know.
When seeing a ‘truly good script,’ they prioritize ‘casting and budget and profitability.’
I am a true actor.
Being such an actor, I was now confronted with Ji-woo’s gaze, feeling an urge.
‘This could be fun, right?’
This kid’s passion was strangely amusing.
That pure foolishness was kind of cute.
Reckless dreams seemed pitiable.
“… How long are you planning to sh**t?”
Ral spoke up.
Ji-woo’s eyes sparkled.
“Really? Seriously…!”
“How long are you planning to sh**t? I’m busy if you put me in the middle. Plus… I’m currently in the process of choosing a project.”
“Three weeks! We’ll sh**t everything in three weeks. Ten episodes total. Eight to ten minutes each.”
Ten episodes, huh.
Considering there isn’t much to do these days, it isn’t bad.
“Then it’s like one episode of Bubongrama.”
“Yep! We can add some PPs… We can borrow a café for filming… I’ve already received cooperation from a few places, and school permission has been granted.”
“The script?”
“I’m writing it now. The genre… a fresh youthfulness? But it’s the kind of Buram that can take on—”
“Hmm…”
It was a vague word that was making me anxious.
Well, whatever.
“Anyway. Cast members?”
“… Please do!”
So assertive.
At those words, I chuckled.
This kid. Really has nothing at all.
“Insane…”
“Yeah. I’m crazy. But I’m serious.”
That response was so firm that I couldn’t avoid meeting those eyes.
That energy was alien to me. Reckless, raw emotion.
I knew too much.
I calculated too much.
I hesitated too much.
“Ha…”
After a small sigh, I slowly nodded.
“Okay. I’ll give it a shot.”
“Really?!”
“I have conditions.”
“Uh, okay!”
I leaned against the side of the stairs and crossed my arms.
And spoke clearly.
“Don’t ever reveal that Ral is part of this project. Not until the teaser goes up.”
“Oh, got it…! Soon?”
“Then… Buram won’t see it as your project.”
At that, Ji-woo froze.
Ral spoke again.
“It has to be your project. It can’t be about me riding the wave; instead, it should be a structure where you lift me up.”
Using Ral’s name will always land it in the spotlight…
It will have to face the scrutiny of a sharper public gaze.
At those words, Ji-woo took a long breath.
And very slowly lowered her head to say.
“… Yeah. I’ll make it that way.”
I nodded.
Light spilled onto the landing.
Sunshine flowed through the gaps, trickling down to Ji-woo and me.
Just one Bubongrama.
Yet this moment felt more significant than any grand project.
Perhaps this was the first time.
Ral was drawn not to the stage, but to Buram.
Regardless of how immature or unsophisticated.
The sincerity embedded within could not be hidden.
And I am weak to sincerity.
“… But.”
Without finishing my sentence, I slowly turned my head.
Ji-woo. Video production major.
Ponytail and thick glasses. Neatly arranged tie and noticeable creases in her formal uniform.
And,
A peculiar, unstable glow in her eyes.
Those eyes were only chasing cues in dialogue and language.
How much was rehearsed and how much was real.
Like a Buram reading sheet music purely from the flow of the wind.
“Is that me soon?”
“Uh?”
“Are you about to cost-cut me? The budget must be tight.”
Ji-woo tilted her head.
For a moment, she blinked—literally, sparkled.
“Oh. I’m your Kang!”
“………”
“I’m really Kang! Haneul! The White Sky Café is rated Haneul level!!”
My dad said such things should be prepared in advance, and so he officially set it up as a café.
“… There’s still a Buram that uses that.”
“There is! It’s totally alive! These days it’s revolving more around Neoscript than regular writing, the Yeomra acting Neoscript is almost a thesis!”
I closed my eyes without a word.
And took a deep breath, slowly exhaling.
… I was already keeping my distance from the interview.
“By any chance, are you the one who wrote that weird description like ‘actor who can interpret cost-cutting with just a sigh’?”
“You saw?!”
“I did.”
That was printed out by Ral’s mom and stuck to the refrigerator.
“Plus they wrote that ‘Haneul’s acting isn’t scary, but it’s scarier because it’s calm.'”
“Right…! That line was something Ral wrote without much thought… Ah, I’m sorry if it offended you—”
“… No.”
I slowly shook my head.
“… The Gineul wasn’t bad. It wasn’t a lie.”
That had long been embedded in me.
Whether the actor was sincere or acting, in front of the camera.
Beyond the speaking style, it’s about the eyes, and beyond the mouth, it’s the fingertips.
And now.
This Buram remembers acting.
Not just seeing it, but putting it in my head and taking it out to interpret.
If it weren’t such simple yearning—it’s a minor obsession.
Yet that obsession creates quite good direction.
‘You won’t have to worry about direction.’
Perhaps Ji-woo might be the director who understands me better than any other.
“But you’re a video production major. It’s your first time directing, right?”
“Yep! So we have a separate cameraman! I… handle overall planning and directing only!”
“How many people are on your team?”
“… Just me and Idum. Just the cameraman and I.”
I silently leaned against the staircase, looking out the window.
The sunlight tilted, and the shadows of the twigs slowly parted the ground.
“So, the script?”
“… I’m revising it now.”
Oh my.
“So that means it’s not even finished.”
“I was afraid if you knew it was an unfinished version, you would leave…”
At those words, I chuckled slightly.
Just a slight twitch at the corners of my mouth.
“… You’re really weird.”
“Hmm. That’s a Kang.
Ji-woo elongated her last word.
And carefully, as if pulling out her true feelings, she continued.
“… Honestly, I hope our project is the starting point for your return. I want to prove that kids like us can create something real.”
“… Hmm.”
I closed my eyes and shook my head.
A person who can define themselves as ‘kids like us.’
Such humility typically doesn’t arise from sincerity.
Nevertheless, the heart itself was precious.
“Then.”
I slowly rose to my feet.
“You said the Kang Café… is rated Haneul?”
“Yep! The highest rank! How consistently you write and engage while visiting…!”
I already knew that.
My dad raised the bar because he said branding is important.
“Nickname?”
For now, I remembered everything.
Just to check if it wasn’t a lie…
“I want to stab Suha with scissors… That was a nickname I made when I was a kid…”
“A Kang shouldn’t have such a name.”
As I brushed past her shoulder, I said.
“Use it well. The day you can use me will be shorter than your lifespan.”
Ji-woo froze, unable to say anything.
Her back reminded me of Ral’s face when she stood in front of the camera for the first time.
Looking stiff in front of the committee who said, ‘Can you really live off that?’
A smile cracked on my lips.
Just one Bubongrama.
Yet choosing to plunge into it.
It wasn’t a memory but a premonition.
And these premonitions I often get right.
Really.
“Wow… this worked.”
Ji-woo beamed as Baek Ha-neul unfolded the crudely signed contract on the table with a beautiful script.
It felt rewarding.
A culmination of over ten years of affection and dream.
Even though all the pocket money and savings collected over a decade were spent on the participation fee.
Ji-woo genuinely felt happy and satisfied.
‘Even if Haneul kept refusing the participation fee… that couldn’t go on.’
Ji-woo raised her hand and shouted.
“The quality of Haneul’s acting is on par with Haneul itself.”
That was a principle Ji-woo had set for herself.
She couldn’t allow herself to say that the quality drops just because it’s content made by a Kang.
If Haneul appears in an awkward piece, it would be an embarrassment to Haneul.
Ji-woo was not only an aspiring director but also Haneul’s Kang.
It was something a Kang couldn’t allow to happen.
“Hehe… Now, what kind of script should I write…”
She had unfurled over ten years of imaginative wings with the subject of Baek Ha-neul.
The genres and plotlines that come to mind were limitless.
A dignified image reminiscent of Yeomra.
A lively and cute figure suggesting a narrative.
Even a frightening and eerie version of Haneul reminiscent of Suha.
It was truly transcendent.
Then suddenly, something popped into Ji-woo’s mind.
“… A genre that Haneul has never shown before!”
A genre she had only consumed through cerebral fantasies.
A genre she had never actually performed.
“Youth romantic comedy!!!”
Filming the age of youth happening at school!