Chapter 16

Chapter 16

“...Hey, get out here.”

The door cracked open.

A face with a toothbrush sticking out poked through.

“Did you caall me?”

“Come here.”

“I’m bruthing my teef right now...”

“Come.”

The sound of slippers dragging along the floor came down the hallway.

Park Songmin looked at the laptop screen.

The comment section for the latest chapter of <​Chaebol Family>.

And in the upper-right corner of the screen, the logged-in username.

[Cold-Blooded Novel Critic]

Clack—

The toothbrush dropped to the floor.

Foam splattered everywhere.

“You forgot to log out.”

Park Songhu scrolled down.

One comment after another came up with the [My Comment] label.

-I’ll give this chapter credit for the satisfying payoff placement. But isn’t it a little forced that the protagonist has connections like that at his age? The author’s previous work had much tighter plausibility. Can confirm on author page

└[Author] MiniSong: Thank you for reading. However, that connection was already explained through the secretary’s office line in Chapter 12. Please read carefully.

└[Cold-Blooded Novel Critic]: I did read carefully

└[Author] MiniSong: Then please read carefully again.

└ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ author why are you like this scary

└Author, instead of this please mass release

“You know this got over three hundred likes and became the top comment, right?”

“Ah...”

“I’ve spent the whole week grinding my teeth because of this bastard.”

Park Songhu tapped the laptop.

“Every time I refreshed, this username was sitting at the very top.”

Park Songmin clasped both hands in front of his stomach.

Then he began confessing.

Everything.

Including things no one had asked.

“Um, actually, I originally made that account because the comment section on my own novel was too quiet, back then I really barely got any comments.”

“...”

“So I gave my own novel five stars and wrote that there was nothing else this good lately, then once I woke up at four in the morning just to check how many likes that comment had gotten, and then...”

Park Songhu dragged a palm down his face.

“I told you to confess, not write your autobiography.”

“...Sorry.”

Park Songhu pushed the mouse toward him.

“Delete them. Every single one. In front of me.”

Park Songmin sat down.

The cursor hovered over [Delete].

Then his finger froze solid.

“Why.”

“This one’s kind of...”

“What.”

“It’s the top comment... and this is the first time I’ve ever gotten this many likes...”

Park Songhu smacked the back of his head.

A crisp sound rang out.

“Ow!”

“Delete it.”

“Yes, sir!”

Deletion complete.

“What’s the password?”

“...CuteLouis0324.”

“Louis’s birthday is March 24?”

“No, that’s the day I brought him home.”

Park Songhu changed the password.

He didn’t tell him the new one.

Just like that, the account was confiscated.

“Meooow.”

Louis looked up from their feet.

His tail swayed lazily from side to side.

And that night.

The bathroom door opened, and wet footsteps crossed the living room.

Park Songhu, who was writing on his laptop, looked up and was horrified.

“...Hey.”

“Y-Yes?”

“What is that.”

Park Songmin looked down at himself.

“Clothes.”

“Clothes?”

“Yes, clothes.”

“Not a rag?”

Park Songhu set down the script and stood.

Like an appraiser inspecting an object, he slowly circled him once.

“What happened to the collar?”

“If you run it through the washing machine and hang it on a hanger, it turns out like this.”

The neckline was so stretched that it simply slid off his left shoulder.

His collarbone was fully exposed, yet he himself seemed completely unbothered.

“Why does your shoulder have a horn?”

“That’s also because of the hanger...”

“So after about ten years, hangers start reshaping clothes.”

“Huh? How did you know it was ten years old?”

“...It’s actually ten years old?”

Park Songmin nodded, genuinely delighted.

“I bought it in America. It’s actually a pretty famous brand. Nine dollars and ninety-nine cents. It was on sale.”

“...”

“I starved for two days to buy it back then.”

“How impressive.”

Park Songhu’s gaze moved down to the chest.

The white print had cracked so badly that half the letters were gone.

“What’s this supposed to say?”

“NORTHSTAR.”

“Do you know what it says now?”

“...”

“ORTH TA.”

“...”

“Ortha. Sounds like the name of a rookie girl group.”

“...”

“What’s that stain on the hem?”

“...Mala-tang broth. I guess because it’s oily, it won’t come out. But it doesn’t smell. I do wash it.”

And finally, the sleeve.

The left cuff had frayed so badly that loose threads stretched all the way across the back of his hand.

“What happened to the sleeve?”

“When I get stuck while writing, I bite it without realizing...”

“...”

“The length of these threads is basically a record of my suffering.”

“What a load of bullshit.”

Park Songhu yanked the hoodie string.

One side slid all the way out, while the other disappeared straight into the opposite hole.

“Take it off. It’s going into the clothing collection bin tomorrow morning.”

“No!”

Park Songmin wrapped both arms around himself.

“This is my lucky charm!”

“What?”

“The chapter I wrote wearing this got my highest views!”

Park Songhu reached for him.

Park Songmin backed away.

They circled the sofa once, then the dining table once.

“My entire life is inside this!”

“Your life has mala-tang broth on the hem?”

“It can! Life has ups and downs!”

When Park Songhu finally caught him, Park Songmin clutched the hem of the hoodie with both hands.

Pulling, resisting, pulling again.

The neckline stretched even farther.

Rip—

“W-What are you going to do?! It stretched even more because of you!”

“It was already stretched.”

“It stretched more!”

At that moment, Louis lightly hopped off the sofa.

He climbed onto the trailing hem of the hoodie lying on the floor, curled himself up, and settled there.

Purr purr purr.

The sound filled the living room.

“Louis says he’ll protect it.”

“He’s just sitting there because it’s warm.”

“No. Louis understands.”

Park Songhu sighed.

“Wear it. Only at home.”

“Yes!”

“If you go outside wearing that, you’re seriously dead. You’d be disgracing my face.”

“Where would I even go wearing this?”

...Unless it was an important day.

***

The next afternoon.

Park Songhu was flipping through the script for <​The Weight of Ash>.

“A day laborer living in a tiny-room village.”

“Yes.”

“The girl’s eight.”

“She’s not family, but it sounds like something close to family.”

“Then it’ll be even harder.”

Kim Taesik.

Park Songhu placed a finger on the name.

“You know what this guy’s nickname is?”

“...What?”

“There’s something they call him on set. The Dehydrator.”

“...The Dehydrator?”

“They say he puts actors in, spins them around, squeezes out every last drop of water, then hangs them up to dry.”

Park Songmin shrank his neck.

“You know what one actor who filmed with him last year said in the wrap-up interview? He cried and said, ‘Thank you, Director.’”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Then backstage, he said he’d never work with him again.”

“...”

“You know the film two projects before that? The one with the factory.”

“Ah, I saw it. That was really good...”

“The lead actor actually went and worked at that factory for two months before filming. The director put him there.”

“...Seriously?”

“Yeah. Full employee insurance and everything.”

“So do I have to live in a tiny-room village for two months?”

“No idea, but even if he makes you, you’ve got an advantage.”

“...Why?”

“You’ve already had plenty of training staying shut inside a room.”

“...”

Park Songmin’s face started to twist, but when their eyes met, he smiled instead.

‘...I’ll get you back.’

“When you enter the audition room, he doesn’t start by making you act. He asks stuff like what you ate for breakfast or what you took to get there.”

“Isn’t th-that just to help you relax?”

“Do people trying to help you relax write those answers down in a notebook?”

“...”

And.

“There’s no ‘okay’ sign. If he likes it, he just says ‘next.’ Doesn’t even call actors by name. Apparently he only calls them by the character’s name in the audition room.”

“...Like, ‘Mr. Taesik’?”

“Yeah. So if you don’t answer, you’re finished that day.”

“Th-Then he’ll give me the script in advance, right?”

“...”

“Hyung?”

“That man hates actors coming in with something prepared more than anything. So I have no idea what he’ll do. Even I can’t promise you anything.”

Park Songhu took a sip of sparkling water.

Then added in the tone of someone mentioning something trivial.

“I auditioned for him once too.”

“...What?”

It was early in his career.

A role Park Songhu had applied for after developing some stubborn pride as an actor.

-You read the script, right?

-Yes.

-Then close the script and just stand there.

So he stood.

Still.

That was when he first learned how cruel an order like Do nothing could be.

-What are you thinking about right now?

-...That I want to impress you.

-Okay. Thank you for your time.

From opening the door to walking back out, it hadn’t taken long enough for a cup of coffee to cool.

The result was rejection.

After that, Park Songhu rose high enough that he no longer needed to audition.

“...But honestly, if I were him, I think I’d have rejected you too after seeing your acting...”

“You wanna die?”

“Eek!”

Park Songhu rolled the script up in his hand.

“Listen carefully. The instant you try to show that man you can act well, you’re finished.”

“...Then what am I supposed to do?”

“Be there.”

“What?”

“Bring the person named Taesik into that room, sit him down, and you disappear.”

Park Songmin blinked.

‘...Huh?’

That sounded familiar.

It was the exact same mechanism he used whenever he immersed himself in a character while writing.

Bzzzt—

At that moment, Park Songmin’s phone rang.

It was Jo Yonggi.

By now, Park Songhu’s way of speaking came out automatically.

“Yeah, what.”

-Hyung! The audition date is set! Next Wednesday at two in the afternoon, at the production studio near Hapjeong!

“...Got it.”

-But hyung, um, the people auditioning with you are kind of...

“...”

-One of them won Best Supporting Actor last year, another came over from theater, anyway, there are six people where if I said the names you’d go, ‘Ah.’

Park Songmin’s hands went cold.

“I’m screwed, I’m screwed...”

As soon as the call ended, he covered his face with both hands.

Park Songhu tossed the script over.

“Here. Your turn now.”

“...For what?”

“What you’re best at.”

***

He opened the script.

Kim Taesik.

Twenty-eight.

Park Songmin skimmed from the first page to the last, then picked up a highlighter.

He marked only Taesik’s lines and counted them.

Forty-six lines.

Everything else was stage direction.

Scene 14. Dawn, in front of a labor dispatch office.

Taesik stands at the end of the line.

Taesik’s name is not called.

Taesik turns away.

Scene 27. Inside a container.

Taesik eats bread.

“...”

That meant there was nothing he could explain with words.

He couldn’t say he was sad, couldn’t say he was resentful, couldn’t even say he was hungry.

He had to prove all of it with his body.

‘...So this is why they couldn’t cast the role for three years.’

He opened the laptop.

He created a new document and typed a name into the title field.

[Kim Taesik]

Then, as always, his fingers began to move.

[Name] Kim Taesik

[Age] 28

[Birthplace] Jeongeup, North Jeolla Province. An asbestos shack beside a cattle shed, ten minutes on foot from the town center

[Family] Father died of lung disease. Taesik was nineteen. Mother left before that. Doesn’t remember her face

[Education] Dropped out in first year of high school

[Moved to Seoul] Nineteen. Express bus. One-way ticket

If someone asked why he was writing things like this, he had no answer.

Neither Jeongeup nor a cattle shed appeared anywhere in the script.

Still, Park Songmin was approaching it the same way he approached a novel.

[Work History]

Loading and unloading at a logistics center, 2 years. Night shifts.

Delivery, 8 months. Quit after motorcycle accident.

Then construction day labor. To present.

[Body]

Damaged meniscus in right knee. Never went to hospital. No money.

→ Uneven gait. Left foot steps first, right foot drags behind across the floor. Holds railing when going downstairs.

Shoulders. Rounded forward from carrying materials. Neck extends ahead of shoulder line.

→ Back curves when standing. Curves even more when sitting.

Hands. Calluses between index and middle fingers. Fingers don’t fully straighten.

Park Songmin opened his own hand.

Soft.

‘...Can’t make that.’

After thinking briefly, he moved on to the next section.

[Eyes]

Faint focus. Doesn’t look people in the eye.

→ Gaze rests on the other person’s chest, or the floor.

→ Makes eye contact only when asking for something. Has nothing to ask for, so never needs to.

[Speech]

Doesn’t finish sentences. Swallows the rest.

→ Stops at, “Ah, that’s a little...”

→ Because he’s lived a life where finishing his sentence never changed anything.

[Habits]

Wraps one arm around his bowl while eating. Habit from construction-site cafeterias.

Smokes half a cigarette, puts it out, saves the rest for later.

Doesn’t lick fingers when counting money. Fingertips are cracked, so the bills separate anyway.

[Money]

Daily wage 150,000 won. Minus 15,000 introduction fee = 135,000.

If it rains: 0 won.

Current bank balance: 187,400 won.

Park Songmin stared at that number for a long time.

Actually... not long ago, that had been the amount left in his own bank account.

‘...Why can’t I forget that.’

[Laugh]

He laughs. He knows how.

→ But no sound comes out. Only the mouth moves, no breath.

→ Because he has only ever lived in places where people told him he was too loud if he laughed out loud.

After writing that much, he stood up.

He walked across the living room.

Left foot first, right foot dragged across the floor.

It felt awkward.

Too obvious.

‘Too much. This just looks like I’m acting lame.’

He walked again.

This time, he focused only on never fully straightening his right knee.

His right shoulder naturally dipped, his torso tilted slightly, and his left hip shifted forward.

‘...That’s it.’

Touch one knee, and the rest of the body followed on its own.

That was how the human body worked.

Next were the eyes.

He stood in front of the mirror and studied his gaze.

He tried unfocusing his eyes, but ended up looking like he was glaring.

When he relaxed, he just looked sleepy.

‘...Trying to erase the focus is the problem.’

He changed methods.

Instead of looking at his own face in the mirror, he looked at the towel rack hanging behind it.

His face remained in front, but his gaze passed through and beyond it.

Something dropped out of the eyes of the man in the mirror.

“...”

Goosebumps rose across his skin.

A stranger stood inside the mirror.

‘...Hello, Mr. Taesik.’

At that moment, Park Songhu came out for water and froze in front of the refrigerator.

“...?”

Something was wrong with the way the guy was crossing the living room.

His left foot stepped first, the right one dragged lightly against the floor.

His shoulders were curled forward, and his neck protruded past the line of them.

He looked like someone who had lived that way his entire life.

“...Hey.”

“...”

“Hey, Park Songmin.”

“Ah, yes!”

He jolted and straightened.

In that instant, he became Park Songmin again.

“What are you doing?”

“Practicing walking.”

“...”

Park Songhu walked toward the laptop on the dining table.

‘...What is this?’

The scroll bar was the size of a fingernail.

He spun the mouse wheel, but the document never seemed to end.

From the slate-roof house beside a cattle shed in Jeongeup to how many fingers Taesik used to hold a cup.

The script was a little over a hundred pages.

This was becoming thicker than that.

‘This is a character sheet?’

“Hey.”

“Yes?”

Park Songmin stopped limping and turned around.

“Why doesn’t Taesik run away?”

“...Where to?”

“Anywhere. Leave Seoul. Go back to his hometown.”

“...”

Park Songmin answered like it wasn’t a difficult question at all.

“If you have somewhere to run to, then you’re not really poor.”

For a moment, Park Songhu felt a chill.

‘...What the hell is this guy?’

***

Saturday night.

The day the final episode of <​Hwain> aired.

The brothers sat side by side on the sofa in front of the TV, while Louis settled on top of the backrest.

The living room lights were off.

Ten p.m.

The advertisements ended, and a black screen appeared.

Then.

[Hwain — Final Episode]

The Genius Actor Is Hiding Twins