The air on the set was thick with tension, a stark contrast to the casual backdrop of the city street where we were supposed to be filming.
I stood opposite the other actress—the one they called Yena—her dark, wavy hair cascading around her shoulders. She wore a black oversized jacket, much like I did, but she carried it with a practiced, predatory ease that felt less like an outfit and more like armor. A small, pink bubble of gum inflated and popped by her lips, a casual gesture that somehow sharpened the edges of her intense gaze.
Behind us, a nervous tremor ran through the crew. I could feel the director, his face a mask of panic and disbelief, right before he stepped forward.
"WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO PULL RIGHT NOW?" I demanded, my voice sharp and controlled.
Yena smiled, a slow, unsettling curve of her lips. Her eyes, heavily shadowed with makeup, held a glint of challenge. "The world will always bring obstacles your way in real time."
"Like the CEO said," I continued, trying to sound reasonable despite the tremor in my own hands, "I think there's been a miscommunication."
"Even if you focus on one task at a time, there's no guarantee that it'll go well," Yena countered, her voice low and confident, dripping with an unsettling philosophy. She stepped closer, the distance between us closing until she was almost breathing the same air.
"We're just shooting the 'Bomi' scene today," she announced, her expression softening into a disarming, false cheer. "You can just prepare your scenes as 'Beomhwi' until your next shoot."
I gaped, the words momentarily failing me. Bomi's scene? The main character? That was my role.
Then the director, a panicked sweat glistening on his forehead, stumbled over his own words. "WHAT?" he cried out, his gaze darting between me and the older executive who had materialized on set.
"CHANGING THE ROLES ALL OF A SUDDEN IS GOING TO BE DIFFICULT...!!" he protested, wringing his hands. But even as he said it, he seemed to plead more with me than with the executives, as if bracing for a tantrum.
"But you haven't started shooting yet," the executive, a stout, impeccably dressed man with unnervingly calm eyes, stated simply, crushing the director's objection in one line.
The executive took center stage, the director shrinking slightly beside him. "The executives think Yena would be better suited for the Bomi role," he explained, his tone measured and final. "It'd be best for the movie if the main character was played by a well-known actor."
The director, recovering slightly, pushed back. "You said before that you wanted a fresh face for the role, and I think so as well... On top of that, we've already finished up rehearsals. Changing up plans like this is going to affect the film negatively..."
The executive sighed, looking slightly annoyed by the delay. He turned his attention to me, his gaze cold. "Yena. Are you going to affect the film negatively?"
I froze, the full weight of the situation—the role, the film, my career—crushing down on me. I saw the director flinch, waiting for my outburst. But I knew, instinctively, that any resistance would be branded as unprofessional, an obstacle Yena had just spoken of.
"...!" I stared at the ground, my mouth suddenly dry. I had to choose my words carefully. My entire future depended on it.
"Hmm. I don't think so..." I finally managed, the bitter taste of capitulation filling my mouth.
I watched the executive turn his back on us, satisfied with my forced agreement. Yena, the actress who had just stolen my main role, stepped forward, her dark eyes flashing with triumph. She offered a sickeningly sweet smile, her confidence unwavering.
"But if there's any anxiety," she said, her voice lilting, "it's probably from the other party." She cast a glance over my shoulder at the distraught Director Woo.
I turned to face him, my heart aching with a sudden, unexpected pity for the man who was supposed to be my champion. He looked utterly defeated, caught between his artistic vision and the cruel dictates of the production company.
The executive, seizing on the director's hesitation, pressed him. "What do you think, Director Woo?"
Director Woo looked between me, the actress who had diligently prepared for months, and Yena, the new, famous face being shoved into the lead role. He looked terrified.
Yena didn't wait for him to respond. She tilted her head and delivered the final, calculated blow. "You're the director. I'm sure you know who's better suited for the role."
"...WHAT?!" Director Woo's glasses reflected the faint overhead light as his eyes widened in shock and frustration. He sputtered, unable to formulate a coherent answer.
The executive, taking advantage of his silence, pushed the confrontation. "Why don't you compare the two right now?"
Director Woo stammered, completely outmatched. "I..." He knew the truth—he knew I had earned the part. But the executive's words cut him off.
"What, you think you won't know for sure until you start shooting?" The older man's voice was sharp with disdain. He was essentially forcing the director to make a public declaration of who was superior. "You want me to compare the two of them like this?"
Director Woo looked down at his feet, his worn sneakers seeming a pathetic counterpoint to the high-stakes drama surrounding us. "I can't do that..."
He looked up, a flicker of genuine distress in his eyes, and the words he finally uttered were a soft, devastating verdict on my character. "You're kind... but you're indecisive."
The words felt like a physical strike. Kind. That was what mattered? Not the months of rehearsals, not the connection he swore we had to the script?
Then, the true core of the betrayal surfaced in my mind. The memory of his encouragement, his faith in me, played out in the stark, accusing silence of the set.
"You said you believed in me..." The memory was painful. "...and told me I'd be able to do a good job... but alone..."
I saw the guilt wash over the director's face. He knew he had failed me. He was kind, yes, but he lacked the strength to stand up to the corporation. He was alone, and now I was too.
After an agonizing silence, Director Woo slowly lowered his gaze, his shoulders slumping in defeat.
"...Alright," he whispered, the single word sealing my fate and marking the beginning of Yena's time as 'Bomi.'
Director Woo's whispered "...Alright," hung in the air, a surrender that felt like an execution. Yet, the scene wasn't over. The executive, satisfied with his victory, gave one last instruction.
"We'll take turns shooting the scene with each actor," he announced, a 'compromise' meant to save face for the director while ensuring Yena got the footage she needed.
Yena, the usurper, was quick to capitalize. "Yes, that's fair. Who will go first?" she asked, her eyes already alight with the knowledge of what she was about to do. Before anyone could suggest the original lead—me—she swooped in.
"I'll go first!" she declared with excessive brightness. "I think I'm a little nervous."
I stood there, stunned. Nervous? No, she was seizing the moment, refusing to allow me to set the standard, and twisting my name into an accusation of weakness.
I watched her walk past me and turn, her demeanor instantly shifting from manipulative colleague to professional artist. Director Woo met her gaze, his expression strained.
"I'm not going to choose based on my personal feelings. But..." he trailed off, his internal struggle visible. He was trying to be fair, trying to apply logic where corporate pressure had already won.
Yena responded with a look of pure, confident self-assurance, her dark, wavy hair framing a face that was completely composed.
"...I know you'll do well." Director Woo's words were for Yena, a forced encouragement, a prayer that the new choice wouldn't ruin his film.
This whole process was utterly baffling and cruel. I felt like I was watching my own life unravel from a distance.
"This is so disorienting," I thought, turning away from the sight of Yena and the director. "It feels like they're cutting me down mercilessly without any regard for any regard for who I am."
My throat tightened. "It's hard to even breathe, but they carry on like it's normal. It's daunting, and I'm feeling more choked up..."
Then, a sudden, urgent voice cut through my spiraling thoughts.
"I," Director Woo called out, using my character's name to snap me back to attention.
I turned back to him, my expression blank, trying to hide the tumult inside. "..."
"We're ready to shoot," the director finished, his voice steady now that the decision was made.
I took a deep, shuddering breath, a grim acceptance washing over me. "Before I have time to think, the die is cast," I realized.
The set lights flared, the camera rolled, and the director called out: "Ready..."
It was time to watch someone else play the part I had loved, but it was also my cue to figure out how to reclaim what was mine.
The cry of "ACTION!" from Director Woo was sharp and decisive, snapping the tension in the air.
"The chess pieces will move according to the results," I thought, retreating to a shadowy corner to observe. This wasn't just a screen test; it was a public contest to determine my fate, orchestrated by the executives and executed by my rival.
Yena, now occupying my designated space on the set, began the scene. The scene she was performing was crucial, a moment of profound, dark triumph for the main character.
A close-up of my face, or rather, the character's face, flashed in my mind: "THE DAY BEFORE, BOMHI SUCCEEDED IN GETTING THE REVENGE SHE'D DREAMT OF HER WHOLE LIFE." This was the emotional core of the performance—the mix of exhaustion, twisted relief, and the terrifying realization of what she had done.
Yena started with a casual swagger. She was dressed exactly as I was, in the oversized black jacket and heels, but she moved with a predatory lightness. She strolled toward the camera, her body language radiating insolent joy. She blew a large, pink bubble of gum, its elasticity catching the light before it popped with a sharp, small sound: POP!
She continued her walk, humming a careless tune, throwing her head back, her jacket slipping casually off one shoulder. The humming was too loud, too jaunty. The walk was too overtly sexy, too theatrical.
I watched her face as she mugged for the lens. It was a face that seemed somewhat blank... yet confident. She was relying purely on her established charisma and physical appeal, not the tortured, complex psyche of the character Bomi. She smiled wide, a bright, slightly manic grin. HEHE.
Then, the final, grating sound. She threw her head back and let out a huge, unrestrained laugh. "HAHAHA!!"
I watched Director Woo, who was sitting at the monitor with headphones clamped over his ears, his body hunched forward in concentration. Even from a distance, I could see his reaction—a slight recoil, a wince of professional pain.
I knew exactly what he was thinking, what I was thinking: "She has a laugh that breaks out like a scream."
It wasn't Bomi. It was Yena, simply being loud, abrasive, and famous, mistaking confidence for depth. It was a performance that filled the frame but left the character hollow. The execution was technically perfect, but the soul of the scene was missing.
This is where I find my opening.
Yena finished her take, a loud, attention-grabbing performance that momentarily stunned the set into silence. Then, the older executive's voice boomed with hearty approval.
"WOW, THAT'S YENA FOR YA!" he exclaimed, giving a vigorous thumbs-up. He seemed to think flashiness was the same as genius. "Yena Ban was unmistakably Bomi."
Yena, basking in the praise, turned to me with a triumphant smirk. Even though the executive had essentially declared her the winner, Director Woo remained silent, staring intently at his monitor.
I felt a surge of cold fury—not the kind that led to an unprofessional outburst, but the kind that sharpens focus and hardens resolve.
"No, I was just giving my honest impressions," Yena said dismissively, blowing out a stream of smoke or air. She added, with fake humility, "We still have to see what the other Bomi will be like." She glanced over, a challenge in her eyes. "I think it'll be really fun to watch."
It was time. I stepped forward, taking my place on the mark Yena had just vacated.
Director Woo looked up, his expression guarded but hopeful. He knew Yena's performance lacked the necessary emotional depth, but he needed undeniable proof.
I closed my eyes, tuning out the executive's cheerleading and Yena's smug presence. I recalled the essence of the character, the feeling I had meticulously cultivated during rehearsals.
"THERE WAS AN EMOTION I GOT FROM READING THE SCRIPT."
The scene was set right after Bomi achieved her life's revenge. She should be victorious, yes, but also utterly lost. The grand purpose of her life was gone. She shouldn't be humming a carefree tune; she should be moving through the space like a ghost haunted by its own success.
Director Woo raised his hand. "Ready..."
The camera lens stared at me, a single, unblinking eye. "ACTION!"
Instead of Yena's swagger, I started with silence. I stood perfectly still, the black boots anchoring me to the grimy asphalt. The air around me was heavy, not with celebration, but with the quiet aftermath of a storm.
I took one step, then paused. The high heel of my boot barely tapped the ground. I wasn't humming; I was simply moving, but my feet—my character's feet—were conflicted.
My internal monologue narrated the movement:
Right now, Bomi doesn't know what to do.
She's unable... to leave or stay...
...love or hate...
...stop or go.
My movement was a stuttering, uncertain ballet of heavy steps, small circles, and hesitant pauses. I twisted on my heel, a brief twirl that looked less like dancing and more like a body trying to shed its own skin. My boots, previously bold and loud, scraped the ground: DUN DA, DUN DA. The internal conflict was made manifest in every strained muscle. I pulled my jacket tighter, not letting it fall, using it as a shield.
I didn't smile, didn't laugh, and didn't blow gum. My face was a mask of exhausted emptiness, a profound stillness that was far more unnerving than Yena's chaotic joy. The revenge had been hollow. Now what?
I ended the scene facing away from the camera, my back conveying the ultimate solitude of a person who has sacrificed everything for a purpose that died the moment it was achieved.
When Director Woo finally yelled "CUT!", the set was silent again, but this time, it was a rapt, respectful silence. I could hear nothing but my own heart pounding, waiting for the verdict.
The silence after my performance was electric. I stood frozen, my back still to the camera, waiting for the inevitable verdict. I had laid bare the character's soul—her pitiful self, which was still broken even after getting revenge. My heart hammered against my ribs, a raw, exposed thing.
Then, Director Woo's voice, now stripped of all hesitation, cut through the tension. "CUT."
He didn't need to look at the monitor again. He turned toward the executive, his expression changed entirely. He was no longer the indecisive man paralyzed by corporate fear; he was the director who had just witnessed the truth of his script on screen.
I turned around slowly, my eyes meeting Yena's. Her confident smile had vanished. Her face, still smeared with her dramatic makeup, held a flicker of genuine shock—the look of an amateur who thought technical skill could replace emotional truth.
The executive, however, was stubbornly oblivious. "We gotta swap the roles right away!" he insisted, eager to cement his decision based on Yena's star power and not the quality of the acting.
Yena, seizing the chance to appear humble, stepped toward him. "Aw, you haven't even seen the whole thing, sir."
The executive waved his hand dismissively. "Trust me, Yena. I've been in this business long enough. Your star quality is undeniable."
I took a breath and spoke, my voice low but cutting through the noise. "Director Woo, what did you think?"
The director looked at me, his eyes wide. He knew he had already betrayed me once by giving in to the executive. He wouldn't do it again.
"I..." Director Woo started, but the executive interrupted with a patronizing tone.
"You were pretty desperate just now, huh?" Yena drawled, her voice dripping with scorn as she looked at my tear-streaked eyes—tears that were authentic, drawn from the character's final desperation. "I've never seen you act like this."
She stepped closer, the mockery turning into a calculated challenge. "You could have acted like this the whole time. Why didn't you?" she sneered. "You would have been a superstar by now."
I felt the sting of her words, but I finally understood the fundamental difference between us. Yena only knew how to act big and loud for fame. I only knew how to act with my soul.
I straightened my shoulders and looked her dead in the eye, my voice quiet but firm. "Thank you." It was a sincere thank you, because she had pushed me to unleash the raw power I'd always held back.
Yena scoffed, still trying to find the upper hand. "You wanna know why you were an unknown actor?" she asked, her voice turning cruel. "You were cherry-picking roles you could look pretty in..."
Before she could finish the insult, Director Woo stepped between us, his face set. He didn't need to say a word. His decision was obvious.
I had come to this set an unknown actress, terrified and betrayed. I was leaving it as the only person who understood Bomi. The war over the role wasn't over, but I had just won the first, most critical battle.
The suddenness of it all stole my breath.
THERE WAS NO TIME TO THINK.
The world narrowed to a sharp, burning red, a crimson curtain drawn against all reason. I felt the pressure mounting, the finality of the decision ringing in my ears.
THE DIE WAS CAST...
My opponent, a dark-haired woman whose composure barely masked a dangerous intensity, was watching me. Her gaze was cold, sharp, and brutally honest.
"...SO YOU CAN PRETEND LIKE YOU'RE CUTE."
I swallowed, tasting iron and a bitter frustration. The words were a jab, a recognition of the calculated façade I'd dropped. I could feel the flush rising to my cheeks—whether from shame or anger, I couldn't say.
Then, her mouth curled into a slight, predatory smile, a chilling acknowledgment. "BUT, WELL, IT SUITS YOU."
The judgment was clear, a concession that made my blood run cold. It didn't matter what I felt or what I wanted.
SLAP
The sound cracked through the tension, a brutal, echoing thunder. It was the moment of no return. I didn't act on impulse or emotion; I acted on necessity.
I JUST MOVED ACCORDING TO THE RESULTS.
I had no choice. I merely followed the logical path carved out by the situation. Everything else—the cute act, the regret, the pain—was just a side effect of the inevitable, pre-determined outcome.