How a Loan Shark Survives as an Actor Chapter 134

Chapter 134

 

“So then… what exactly was the ghost that tormented Junho?”

When I asked, Director Seo answered with an excited look on his face.

“Hyung, you know about the Seventy-Two Demons of Solomon, right? I’ve always been interested in medieval demonology, so I even tracked down academic papers about it–”

He just kept talking without stopping.

After mentally filtering out most of it, the conclusion was basically this: The movie was about demons tormenting humans.

‘What the hell are Solomon’s demons?’

There were too many things I didn’t understand, but I decided to ask the one thing I was most curious about first.

“So… are demons and ghosts the same thing?”

“…!”

I’d asked without thinking, only to incur the wrath of an otaku.

“Of course they’re different! Demons are fallen divine beings, while ghosts are just dead humans at best!!”

The look in his eyes practically screamed, “How could you even ask something like that?”

I hurriedly apologized.

‘The world really is full of things I don’t know.’

So The Sixth Night wasn’t actually a ghost movie. Was it a demon movie?

Seeing the confusion on my face, Director Seo explained.

“More accurately, it’s an occult film.”

He said you could tell just by words like sacrifice, ritual, and liberation.

It felt a little awkward that I’d only learned the movie’s exact genre after filming had already wrapped.

“Of course, I didn’t lean too heavily into the occult elements. It’s the kind of genre that really divides audiences.”

Still, he said he’d scattered plenty of little details throughout the movie that people familiar with the genre would notice.

“You know how Junho sees dozens of Ajins? I’m actually going to edit it so there are exactly seventy-two of them. Same number as Solomon’s demonic legions.”

“Ah.”

“And the arrangement of the food on the ritual altar is actually a pentagram used in real demon-summoning rituals! What do you think? People are going to love catching those details, right?”

Maybe.

‘Will anyone even notice something like that?’

Still, I didn’t want to rain on the parade of someone who was happily rambling away, so I simply listened.

“So it was a lot deeper than I thought.”

Even I, the actor who’d filmed the whole thing, had just thought of it as a story about a group of college students being ruined by some mysterious entity.

Director Seo enthusiastically continued talking about demons afterward, but I couldn’t concentrate anymore and merely pretended to listen.

“Anyway, you’ve worked hard, Jinki.”

Only after the demon lecture finally ended did I stand up.

“Hyung, thank you so much for everything…”

Director Seo suddenly hugged me.

This guy gets sentimental every chance he gets.

The unexpected physical contact made me uncomfortable, but I simply smiled politely and peeled him off.

“Anyone watching would think we’ll never see each other again. The movie comes out next summer… We’ll be seeing plenty of each other then.”

“Yes, sir! I’ll be counting on you then too!”

“Do a good job with the editing. See you later.”

Leaving Director Seo and his affectionate gaze behind, I hurried out of the office.

Choo Seomok, who had been waiting outside, looked at me curiously.

“Did something happen?”

“No. Forget it.”

There was plenty I wanted to say, but I swallowed it all.

What was I supposed to tell him?

That the brat who’d been so prickly during the audition now clung to me like a puppy?

“You don’t have any schedules for a while, right?”

“No. But we do need to stop by the company sometime this week.”

“Why?”

“Team Leader Ahn said I should set aside some time for acceptance speech training.”

Ah, right.

I’d forgotten about that.

 

***

 

As the saying goes, “Strike while the iron is hot”, I headed straight to the company.

Because I showed up without making an appointment beforehand, Team Leader Ahn looked flustered.

“Normally, our PR team leader handles award ceremony etiquette coaching. But he’s on a business trip out of town right now.”

“Oh, then I’ll come back another time.”

“No. It’s nothing that complicated anyway, so I’ll do it.”

As though he had never been flustered at all, Team Leader Ahn smoothly began the lesson.

Calling it “training” was a bit of an exaggeration.

Honestly, it was all common sense.

Even if the cameras aren’t on you, always manage your facial expressions.

Don’t stare at your phone or chat excessively with the person next to you just because you’re bored.

Clap sincerely whenever another winner’s name is announced.

And so on….

Listening to such obvious advice made me feel like an elementary school student.

Seeing the bewildered look on my face, Team Leader Ahn laughed.

“Surprised because it’s all so obvious?”

“You called it training, so I thought it’d be something more special. It’s simpler than I expected.”

“It’s etiquette, after all. But you’d be surprised how many people can’t even manage something this simple.”

He warned me not to let my guard down, either.

“You’ve attended award ceremonies several times before, so you probably know this already, but they’re much longer than people think. Sitting up straight for that many hours isn’t easy.”

Apparently, broadcasting station award ceremonies were infamous for being grueling.

They often started around dinner time and didn’t end until well past midnight.

‘Seriously?’

What Team Leader Ahn didn’t know was that this would actually be my first award ceremony.

I didn’t show it on my face, but I was far more surprised than I’d expected.

‘You’re telling me I have to sit there doing absolutely nothing for that long.’

How was that not torture?

He also said wearing a suit for hours made it even more uncomfortable, but that part didn’t bother me.

‘I wore a suit every day when I worked as a loan shark.’

It had been almost a year since I’d entered Yoo Seulho’s body, yet casual clothes still didn’t feel natural.

Without the snug feeling of a dress shirt against my body, something just felt… off.

“When you accept the award, you don’t have to say anything especially memorable. Just be polite and sincere.”

“So I shouldn’t try to be funny?”

“Absolutely give up on trying to make jokes. You know those trendy phrases people throw around these days? Stuff like, ‘Award? Yahoo~!’ Especially don’t do things like that.”

Team Leader Ahn spoke with a completely serious expression.

‘Who the hell would shout “Yahoo~!” after winning an award?’

The image of myself yelling that on stage made me laugh despite myself.

He continued with more precautions, such as accepting the trophy with both hands, making eye contact with the presenter, and giving a slight bow.

“Even after you return to your seat, don’t relax. Especially since you’ll be by yourself… just assume everyone around you is an enemy.”

Now that was a terrifying thing to say.

‘Sigh.’

The other actors would all be sitting together with the casts of their respective projects.

Thinking about myself sitting alone at a large table made me feel a little uneasy.

‘It’d be nice if Choi Ran were there.’

Woo Junseo, who had starred with me in Our Space, had currently suspended his activities, while Producer Jang was apparently off in the mountains trying to rid himself of worldly attachments.

As for Choi Ran, the problem was the conflict between her agency and the broadcasting station.

I didn’t know exactly what had happened, but apparently a full-blown war had broken out last summer.

I’d heard that her agency’s CEO had been absolutely furious, shouting, “None of my artists are ever appearing on your network again!”

For the actors themselves, it had been like being struck by lightning.

‘If it weren’t for her agency, Choi Ran would’ve won an award.’

Among actresses in their early twenties, there wasn’t anyone who could act as well as Choi Ran.

The only reason Our Space had managed to stay watchable through the second half was that her bright, cheerful heroine never came across as cringeworthy.

‘Do you think acting like that is easy?’

The fact that she had made such an inherently unnatural performance feel completely natural was reason enough to give her an award.

Yet she was being denied an award she deserved simply because of a fight between her agency and the broadcasting station.

‘Though thanks to that, I’m the one getting it.’

Before the nickname “Deadweight” became widely known and the broadcasting stations and associations started worrying about public opinion, Yoo Seulho had actually won quite a few awards himself.

Just in case, I’d looked up all of his previous acceptance speeches, but there wasn’t anything particularly noteworthy.

The reactions from his fellow actors hadn’t exactly been enthusiastic, but at least they had all congratulated him to his face.

“Thank you! I’ll continue working hard!”

Just as always, Yoo Seulho had stood on stage with a bright smile.

His usual routine was to thank the production staff, his fellow actors, and his parents before stepping down.

“Seulho, this award is a little different from the ones you’ve received before.”

Team Leader Ahn looked at me seriously from the sofa.

“Not only has the public’s opinion of you improved, but this is also the first time you’ve ever won an award for playing a villain.”

Before I had taken over his body, Yoo Seulho had only ever played kind-hearted roles.

Since I was winning an award for portraying a trashy character, he said I needed to make sure my acceptance speech helped the audience separate the actor from the role.

“I understand. I’ll prepare in advance.”

“Good. There might also be backstage interviews, so prepare as many responses as you can.”

After thanking Team Leader Ahn, I left the company.

As I got into the car to head home, a question suddenly crossed my mind.

‘Why did they only let him play nice characters all this time?’

Of course, I already knew Yoo Seulho had never had any real say in choosing his roles.

Which meant…

Why had Yoo Taeho and Lee Seulmyeong only ever allowed Yoo Seulho to play good people?

“Seomok, I’m going to make a call.”

“Yes.”

There was only one way to satisfy my curiosity.

Even if I hired a private investigator, there were limits to what they could find.

[What is it?]

Lee Seulmyeong’s voice was calm on the other end of the line.

‘That’s unexpected.’

I’d called because I figured the only way to find out was to ask the person herself, but I hadn’t expected her to answer on the first try.

The last time we’d spoken over the phone had been when she’d assigned someone to keep an eye on me.

Her voice was noticeably more composed than it had been back then.

“I have something I’m curious about.”

Without any unnecessary preamble, I got straight to the point.

When I asked why she’d only ever made me play kind-hearted characters, she let out an incredulous laugh.

[Anyone listening would think we’d been controlling you. Do you have some kind of persecution complex?]

“Have I ever chosen a project of my own free will?”

[….]

I could feel her hesitate.

She didn’t answer, but I took her silence as confirmation and asked again.

“I’m not asking so I can blame you. I’m genuinely just curious.”

[Do you think you’re in any position to question us?]

“Just tell me the reason.”

When I refused to rise to her provocation, Lee Seulmyeong clicked her tongue before replying.

[Because I didn’t want to see an ill-mannered child, even if he was just a fake.]

“What?”

[Even if you couldn’t act, you were still a kind and obedient child. I was afraid that if you ever played a rebellious role, you might develop an ego, so I stopped it.]

The answer shocked me.

I already knew she was garbage, but…

How could she say something like that so openly?

‘To the person herself, no less?’

As far as she knew, I was her own son, Yoo Seulho.

While I was left speechless, Lee Seulmyeong continued as though she were discussing something completely trivial.

[Taeho always said you were rotten from the moment you were born, but I think my method was quite effective. Seeing the way you’re acting now only makes me more certain.]

At least until he played the villain in Our Space, Yoo Seulho had never seriously rebelled against his parents.

Even if he spent three days begging outside their door until he collapsed, he had never once raised his voice.

To that son, his mother had said:

[You really are nothing more than that. It was my mistake for trying so hard to raise you better. Do you have any idea how much money I spent on you…?]

For a moment, I wondered whether I should yell at her.

Or curse her out.

But then I realized even those words would be wasted on someone like her.

‘There’s no reasoning with her anyway.’

I decided that was enough and casually threw out a single sentence.

“So how much did it cost to raise me? Send me the bill.”