I'm an Unknown Actress, But Everyone Knows Me

‘The power a story carries goes far beyond imagination.’

This industry was littered with cases where producers poured in hundreds of billions and lined up big-name actors, only for the result to collapse spectacularly.

‘...Just like Father used to say.’

Even if you satisfied the eyes and ears, pulling in the head and the heart was an entirely different matter. Words her father had drilled into her since childhood echoed in her ears once again.

“Gyeoul. An actor, you see, has to carry a message they want to convey to people. The public isn’t stupid.”

Thinking back on it made her feel like her breath was suddenly cut off.

‘What the hell does any of that matter.’

People who applaud if something wins awards overseas, even if it parades ugliness and filth under the pretense of portraying human nature?

People who whip up cheap sympathy and gush over miserable, shabby scenes?

People who go crazy over romance just to indulge in vicarious satisfaction over nothing at all?

‘Nonsense.’

There was only one message Do Gyeoul wanted to convey.

That there exists an emotion more noble than understanding—superiority.

That even if she could never understand them, never would understand them, and never even tried to understand them for the rest of her life, they would still look up at her in awe.

To Do Gyeoul, acting was a form of proof.

Proof that even if something was broken somewhere in her head, she herself was not defective.

That there was nothing wrong with Do Gyeoul. Ever.

Chapter 2

Nightmare Apparition

At that point, Gyeoul’s hand trembled as she held the script for Episode 2.

‘No matter how well does, it doesn’t matter.’

All she had to do was take Han Yeoreum’s acting exactly as it was.

The ignorant public would once again applaud the scenes Do Gyeoul recreated.

As if following a predetermined course.

‘Even a web drama was more than enough.’

With a ten-minute web drama alone, Do Gyeoul could take Han Yeoreum’s acting as much as she wanted.

So this was an opportunity.

An opportunity to dissect it more thoroughly, piece by piece, and make it her own.

“Gyeoul, once we take off, get some sleep. You’ve been running schedules for days without proper rest.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Honestly, where else would you find an actor as diligent as you? I’ve already spread the word that you want to do a historical drama next, so a good script will come in soon. A proper one—nothing like those fusion sageuks!”

Do Gyeoul smiled silently.

* * *

“...I’m stuck.”

I closed the script. Once something snagged in my mind, the analysis wouldn’t move forward.

Letting out a sigh, I reread Seoryeong’s character description.

The foremost divine maiden of Yeomho Kingdom. After nearly dying as a child, she is saved by the Buddhist nun Jeongan, and the two travel from place to place, concealing their identities. Her life’s goal is to take revenge on Yeomga.

Knowing this, Jeongan does nothing but spout incomprehensible words, telling Seoryeong that everything will flow according to natural order, so she should not cling to resentment.

Despite living with the nun for so long, Seoryeong fails to attain nirvana and refuses to let go of her revenge against Yeomga. Even knowing that casting a curse would return directly to herself, she does it anyway.

She intends to perish together—to go to the afterlife hand in hand.

“Right. This is where the problem starts.”

Before taking revenge on Yeomga, Seoryeong had wanted to possess every good thing in the world, eat every rare delicacy, and enjoy every pleasure. Then one day, Jeongan said something whose meaning she could not grasp.

“The time has come. Everything will flow according to natural order, so if you have resentment and regret left, give them to me. I will take them with me to the afterlife.”

More nonsense.

Ignoring Jeongan, Seoryeong goes down to the village. But when she returns that day, what she finds is Jeongan’s cold corpse.

Leaving behind a single sheet of paper like a suicide note, Jeongan departs for the afterlife. Seoryeong has not yet given her resentment and regret, yet she leaves all the same.

Now utterly alone in the world, Seoryeong finally steels her resolve to take revenge on Yeomga.

By taking the hand of Grand Prince Seonghwi, as written in Jeongan’s final note.

“The changed Seoryeong... won’t kill Yeomga in the final scene.”

In the original work, Seoryeong stakes her life to protect Myungdo, the retainer she holds in her heart. She is a Seoryeong who believes that even possessing divine power is nothing more than part of the natural order.

“But in her empty life, the stone called Myungdo sent ripples through it.”

Detached in demeanor, calm in personality, living as if nothing held meaning.

But the revised Seoryeong is different.

She is more faithful to her own desires than anyone. Because of ‘that incident,’ she resents Yeomga, and she does not fully trust Jeongan either.

“The only thing she truly trusted was herself.”

And if she had truly lived burning only with vengeance against Yeomga, she would have left Jeongan the year she came of age.

“But Seoryeong didn’t leave Jeongan....”

In truth, she must have been afraid. Afraid of meeting again the one who once tried to kill her.

“Seoryeong has already come close to death once.”

So perhaps she kept talking about dying together as a way to forget that fear.

“Like a kind of vow.”

There was no way Seoryeong didn’t know that killing Yeomga would require staking her own life. Yeomga and Seoryeong knew each other’s divine powers all too well.

“But if the woman you love says she’ll risk her life, there’s no way Myungdo would just stand by and watch.”

He would want to respect her will, yet at the same time feel an endless urge to beg her not to. Even knowing it’s impossible.

Please, live.

“So he’ll say it at least once. Definitely... there’ll be a moment where sincerity breaks through his heart.”

Myungdo would likely promise to punish Yeomga properly, according to human law.

“And Seoryeong, in the end, will desperately want to believe those words.”

Without the latter part of the script, I couldn’t know whether my analysis was correct.

But humans are complicated creatures. Seoryeong, too, must harbor countless emotions.

“Beyond just the rage burning in her deepest core....”

Guilt over never fully giving her trust to Jeongan, the desperation to believe in Myungdo just this once, worry for the people they’ve saved together, and the honest truth that she doesn’t actually want to die... all of it would endlessly shake Seoryeong.

“What should my Seoryeong do....”

My head was in knots, trying to figure out how to move atop the board Director Jang had laid out. There were three Seoryeongs: the original Seoryeong, Director Jang’s Seoryeong, and my Seoryeong.

“...I don’t want to just recite lines according to the script.”

Not the expressions the script dictates, not the actions the script dictates, not the lines the script dictates. I needed something that could be conveyed to the audience beyond the screen.

The mismatched pieces made my head throb.

I thought for a moment. The answer came faster than expected.

“Let’s go see Myeong Jeha.”

He was someone who had even seen through Director Gong’s script.

If the status window had certified him as possessing Analysis S++ stats, then he’d definitely be of help with character analysis.

* * *

Myeong Jeha speed-read the script. It didn’t take long for him to get through all four volumes.

In the industry, four volumes is the average number of scripts circulating before production begins.

Having lived while reading thousands of scripts, the ending the director was aiming for formed vividly in his mind.

“So? What do you think?”

“Hmm....”

Han Yeoreum, pacing anxiously beside him, seemed to have run out of patience and pressed him like a child begging.

“How do you think it’ll end?”

“I think it’ll be interesting.”

“...Don’t joke around, sir.”

Myeong Jeha smiled, deliberately withholding the answer she wanted.

This was Dok Gomin’s studio.

At some point, it had become half Han Yeoreum’s as well. While Dok Gomin worked on retouching with her headset on, the two talked about behind her.

“Didn’t you even watch X-—Mask? Right now you’re my Tsukikage-sensei.”

“Haha. And what’s that supposed to be?”

“You don’t know Y—Mask? Then your actor license /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ is revoked.”

Myeong Jeha lightly fanned Yeoreum with the script in his hand. The gentle breeze tickled her cheek. Sorry, but....

‘It’s not time to give her the answer yet.’

He needed to know how closely the ending Yeoreum envisioned aligned with the director’s intent.

‘Because Director Jang probably won’t go with the ending he originally imagined....’

Given Director Jang’s personality, he wasn’t the type to bulldoze forward.

Especially not with the weight on his shoulders being far heavier than one might expect.

‘He probably can’t even breathe properly right now.’

JC ENM had promised not to skimp on production costs, which meant that if the project failed, every bit of blame would fall on the director.

And it wasn’t pressure borne by the director alone.

Myeong Jeha looked at Yeoreum, still flustered in front of him.

‘The level of industry scrutiny has changed, too.’

People were sharpening their teeth, ready to tear apart whether and had been flukes or not.

The mood was harsh—let’s see just how good the director chosen by Jegal Rok really is.

‘So of course he’ll compromise to some extent....’

Myeong Jeha didn’t want such a dull development.

“So. While watching it, what did you think? Was it fun?”

In truth, the manga Yeoreum mentioned was one Myeong Jeha already knew well. It was harder not to know it.

Depending on Yeoreum’s answer here, the advice he could give would change.

As he watched Yeoreum hesitate, Myeong Jeha thought of the answer he expected.

‘If there’s anything to focus on there, it’d probably be....’

Her own genius at devouring a role through character analysis? Or the presence of a rival who seemed perfect? Or perhaps passion for acting?

“Well, while watching it... what I kept thinking was.”

Yeoreum slowly opened her mouth.

And the answer that came out was very different from what Myeong Jeha had expected.

“There were so many scenes that hit too close to home. The protagonist’s just a middle schooler, you know? But her mom, her teacher, even the rival girl—everyone treats it like it’s fine to hit her. Like she deserves to be slapped so she’ll come to her senses.”

Myeong Jeha realized that Yeoreum was acting right now.

She spoke with a laugh, as if it were ridiculous, but clearly....

‘She calls them scenes of being hit, not hitting scenes.’

It was a subtle difference.

“When you read Japanese manga, that kind of direction doesn’t work. If a kid doesn’t get it, you can just leave them alone for a bit. Instead they call it ‘shock therapy’ and just smack them around. And then somehow that gives them a breakthrough? It’s absurd. Does slapping someone suddenly raise their IQ? It’s childish. Really.”

Myeong Jeha was the type who memorized scenes almost by habit.

Han Yeoreum’s acceptance speech at the Seoul Drama Awards came to mind.

“And my beloved mother... and my younger sibling. And also....”

There had been a deliberate pause.

Suddenly, Myeong Jeha felt like he understood why Yeoreum could cry with such raw sorrow in her acting.

As if it were nothing, Yeoreum continued.

“Oh, but it really is fun. There’s a reason it’s a bestseller. You should read it sometime too, sir.”

“Yeah. I will.”

Myeong Jeha answered easily. Then he gave Yeoreum an appropriately measured response.

“Yeoreum, half of your analysis is right. And half of it is wrong.”