I Don’t Want to Play Villains Anymore - Chapter 54

Overwhelming

Clap. Clap. Clap.

“Wow! Hey— you worked hard!”

The applause that echoed with Yun Byeol-ha’s excited Shin Sound felt disconnected from reality, suspended somewhere else.

It was the sensation of a theater audience returning to reality in a hurry, still holding onto the afterglow left in their seats as they exited.

That was exactly the feeling.

Jo Hyun-woon stood in that spot, watching.

Staff members moved around him, slates were being rearranged, and boom mics were lifted above.

But he couldn’t hear any of those sounds properly.

What just happened?

It was acting.

Yes, it was acting.

The camera rolled, the lights turned on, and the dialogue exchanged unfolded just as expected.

But in that single moment— Ryu Cheong-ha, no, Baek Ha-neul’s blue eyes lifted and gazed directly ahead in that instant.

He almost lost the awareness that he was acting.

There was no issue with the dialogue, timing, or emotional delivery.

But that gaze alone, that absurdly tranquil smile, shattered all his plans.

“They say if you’re too eager, you d*e early.”

That line still echoed in his ears.

It was a phrase thrown over the last breaths of the collapsing ones, a glimpse of humor wearing a mask.

It embodied all the sacrificed Buram.

If a character who wasn’t even a villain spoke like that, with that demeanor, in that dialogue—

It wasn’t acting anymore.

It was the feeling of reality twisting.

Jo Hyun-woon bit his lip unconsciously.

Where had he felt this sensation before?

Now that he thought about it, it had been quite a while.

It was the day he first saw a veteran actor’s performance over his shoulder when he was just starting out.

He felt exactly the same way that day.

“Oh. So this is a different level.”

And today.

Baek Ha-neul.

The actor he had only heard about until then, who hadn’t particularly stirred his curiosity, had brought that exact sensation to him at this moment.

Not the surge of emotions, but the fissure of emotions.

Jo Hyun-woon stood for a while before carefully taking a breath.

Without knowing, it felt as if he had just revealed his true feelings on stage.

Like a faucet that had been left running without realizing it.

The actor named Baek Ha-neul was that kind of Buram.

It evokes feelings even when you don’t intend it.

That was the nuance, that was the overwhelming sensation.

“Hyun-woon! Let’s look at the monitor!”

Somewhere, a staff member’s Shin Sound reached his ears.

A light call, but nonetheless persistent.

That voice approached, like a gentle gesture carefully breaking his concentration.

Jo Hyun-woon lifted his head.

There was still a vibration inside him.

It didn’t feel like he had raised his voice significantly; rather, it was as if fragments of certain emotions were still clinging to his fingertips and forehead.

It wasn’t the kind of loud shouting that resonated on set, but something shattered hidden underneath.

He slowly shifted his steps.

Like a Buram that had just awoken from a deep sleep.

Carrying the remnants of an unfamiliar emotion, he walked toward the screen.

“Ha…”

Before looking at the monitor, he took a very small breath.

Inside that indifferent breath mixed familiar fears and unfamiliar expectations simultaneously.

And amidst that,

One side of his heart pricked slightly.

It wasn’t like a piercing needle, nor a blunt wooden stick.

It was simply a very precise feeling of emotional pain that had been steadily coming in.

In other words, it was like a foreboding.

“This. This work. By the time it ends…”

He quietly murmured in front of the monitor.

Random whispers that didn’t concern whether anyone was listening or not.

There are times when as an actor, you must say certain things to ground yourself.

“…I suppose this will be emotionally exhausting.”

He neither shrugged nor laughed boastfully.

Rather, this statement was closer to a near certainty than a mere hunch.

And within that certainty, there was a strange feeling that wasn’t so bad.

Strange.

Even knowing it would be hard, he wasn’t afraid of actually immersing himself in it.

No, he even felt a desire for it.

The sensation when you meet someone who can sharply pierce your heart with the profoundness of acting, as if someone adjusted the gears of precision.

Even when the camera stopped, the emotions remained right under the skin.

Jo Hyun-woon slowly fixed his gaze on the monitor.

His own face facing the character Ryu Cheong-ha on screen.

And the subtle nod of that young actor, smiling.

So calm.

So delicate.

Thus, that smile felt frightening.

Gazing at the screen, he reaffirmed.

No, he became convinced once more.

“This movie will carry me entirely.”

That feeling was long overdue.

“…About 50%?”

Haneul quietly murmured, slightly biting her lip, speaking in a low voice as if savoring something.

The camera was already off, and the staff was applauding, busily preparing for the next scene, but her eyes still gazed at somewhere in the recently wrapped atmosphere.

Even now, small embers of emotion remained inside.

And she found that peculiar feeling pleasing.

“How strange.”

Yet there was definitely something strange about it.

This character wasn’t a villain.

It wasn’t someone who mocked or harmed others, nor did it require the kind of energy that crashes like a camera thrust.

Nevertheless, that recent scene.

Those few short seconds.

That single line of dialogue.

“If you’re too eager, you d*e early.”

Haneul knew that she had infused a little of her true self into that line.

Exactly 50%.

With an intuition that had passed through her previous lives, she could pinpoint that figure accurately.

Not a full 100.

She wasn’t in a state of being fully soaked with raw emotions.

That kind of immersion could only emerge when playing a villain, someone who could make the entire world hate her.

But even so.

She clearly had something ‘more’ in the performance she had just given.

That ‘more’ wasn’t just a result of acting skills or calculation.

It was… because, at that moment, it was sincere towards the character of Ryu Cheong-ha.

She lightly shook off her fingertips.

As if to shake off lingering emotions.

And slowly, truly slowly, she lifted the corners of her mouth.

For the first time in a long while, she smiled genuinely.

Not a smile intended for anyone else.

Just a smile given to herself.

“…Now I can be sincere even without playing a villain.”

That feeling brought her immense joy.

Up until now, she could only immerse herself in acting when playing a villain, when portraying a bad Buram.

Squeezing out emotions and understanding the darker sides of characters made her whole body react.

But not anymore.

This character had lost her mother, had grieved, felt wronged, and still held onto the desire to believe in Buram.

A character that was definitely not a “bad Buram.”

And she could immerse herself in such a character.

It became sincere.

How wonderful is that.

Haneul quietly leaned back against her chair.

Her heart still fluttered a little.

In a good way.

In a warm way.

“There’s still a long way to go.”

She had no idea how much harder she needed to work to reach that 100%.

But she was certain.

That the path as an actor was now possible beyond just playing villains.

That she could approach any role with sincerity, regardless of the direction.

“I have found ‘me’ that can immerse 100% in every role.”

That was truly, an incredible freedom and motivation.

Haneul closed her eyes and lingered there for a moment.

Sunlight streamed through the set’s windows, flowing slowly along her silvery hair.

It was a quiet, warm, tranquil moment.

And in that tranquility, Haneul smiled once again, very softly.

Feeling that she could genuinely live as an actor.

“Hehe…”

Like when her acting was recognized.

She laughed like a child.

“We need to sh**t this…”

Yun Byeol-ha, watching from a distance, unconsciously reached for the camera again…

“No.”

“…Yes.”

Since Seong Jeong-hoon’s carefully selected manager and bodyguard, Shinhyeok, was there with his eyes wide open.

She had no choice but to fully withdraw.

Yun Byeol-ha glanced at Shinhyeok while holding the camera.

The silence conveyed a nonverbal message.

“No, it’s not that he’s a bodyguard, he’s more like a secret agent level, right?”

Shinhyeok stood with his arms crossed, his expression as unyielding as ever.

Had it been an ordinary Buram, she might have thought, “Ah, is he a little scary?”

The problem was that he was well over 190 cm tall.

It wasn’t just that he was big.

In that enormous frame, there was not a single bit of excess— it was filled solely with muscles.

He truly was a “Buram that breathes muscle.”

Yun Byeol-ha adjusted her posture without realizing it.

She squared her shoulders and straightened her back.

Like when she was a student, trying not to be noticed by the vice principal while fidgeting with her uniform’s creases.

After hesitating for a while, she cautiously raised her hand.

“Um… I’m the director… you know that, right? An artist…”

Shinhyeok slowly turned his head towards Yun Byeol-ha without saying a word.

Like a CCTV frame gradually transitioning, slowly.

“…For the sake of art, this could be said to be a matter of professional ethics… Just once, ah… just once please.”

His voice gradually dwindled somewhere, and by the end, it was barely audible, almost like a mouse click.

That moment.

“Is art a secondary concern to survival?”

Shinhyeok’s voice had a force that compelled silence.

Each syllable was precise, lodging itself in her brain.

Yun Byeol-ha’s words faltered.

“…What? No, that’s not…”

“In front of someone responsible for the daily life and safety of a Buram, you need to at least have a minimal survival plan in place when mentioning the word art. Director.”

His tone was consistently stony, yet terrifying.

“Actor Haneul is currently in a psychologically stable state. And at the moment you decide to silently turn off the camera, there is likely to be a change.”

“…….”

“We define that as an unstable state. A subject in an unstable condition is not suitable for filming. At least, not among those I am responsible for protecting.”

Yun Byeol-ha briefly shut her mouth.

She had something to say, but all of it scattered in front of Shinhyeok’s unwavering gaze.

By now, he was neither just a bodyguard nor a prison warden… but what kind of intimidating weapon is this?

“I guess I’ll approach you later when it’s okay…”

“I will speak at an appropriate time when the moment arrives.”

Yun Byeol-ha nodded.

Cautiously, as if she ought to breathe just as carefully until that ‘appropriate moment’ arrives.

“Yes… I apologize. Bodyguard… no, Teacher… No, what to call you…”

“Just Shinhyeok is fine.”

Even that response was clear.

Yun Byeol-ha bowed her head deeply and turned away in silence.

The camera in her bag felt buried as if it could no longer be opened.

And in that moment, she silently cried out.

“Where on earth did Seong Jeong-hoon bring such a monster from…!”

If Jeong-hoon had heard that cry, he might have recounted legends about how Shinhyeok single-handedly subdued Brazilian gangs.

“Director, are you trying to approach again?”

“No!”

Unfortunately, Jeong-hoon was not present in this place.