“……What did you say?”
Thirty years.
It had been thirty years since Baek Ho-seon entered this industry.
In all that time, Baek could count on one hand the calls they'd received directly from a producer praising an agency actor's performance on a variety show.
And the actor in question was Park Song-hu, of all people.
-He made a joke at his own expense, and I thought I'd laugh my belly off! And the banter between him and Jeon Jae-min was fantastic!
……That Park Song-hu, who'd been so full of himself?
‘Could it be?’
Paradoxically, being able to laugh at himself meant he was able to set aside his pride.
The report Baek had heard from Jo Yong-gi played through their mind again.
-Song-hu…… He's become a lot more humble than he used to be. I honestly thought he was a different person.
The pieces were falling into place.
His humbler manner. His willingness to make himself the butt of a joke.
It all pointed in the same direction.
‘Did he…… really change as a person during that year of lying low?’
This wouldn't do.
Baek had to see for themselves.
As soon as the call ended, they put on a jacket.
Thirty minutes later.
A black sedan glided to a stop in the JTBS parking lot.
Baek Ho-seon got out and went straight into the building.
Striding down the corridor, they called Jo Yong-gi.
“Where are you?”
-At the dressing room. Song-hu's inside changing.
When Baek reached the dressing room, Yong-gi stood in the corridor and bowed ninety degrees.
“Good afternoon, sir!”
“Yeah, all right. Where's Song-hu?”
“Still inside.”
Just then, the dressing-room door opened.
Park Song-hu came out, having changed from the hospital gown into his own clothes.
“…….”
Baek's gaze fixed on him.
The face was the same.
The impossibly handsome face Baek had seen on the street seven years ago when they'd handed him a business card.
But something about his air had changed.
He seemed…… softer, perhaps.
Besides, if the old Park Song-hu had seen Baek turn up without warning, all he'd have offered was an indifferent “What is it?”
But the Park Song-hu before Baek widened his eyes the moment he saw them.
“Uh…… sir.”
Then he pressed his lips together and began bending at the waist in a proper bow.
Baek's mouth, meanwhile, fell open.
“……Hey, Song-hu.”
This bastard had never been like this.
He'd thrown manners to the dogs even in front of Baek, the agency head. Once, during a meeting to choose a project, he'd even snapped, “What do you know about it?”
And now that same Park Song-hu was behaving so politely.
“How was the shoot?”
The gentle question came naturally.
Park Song-hu worked his lips before answering, as though he was now trying to be careful with every reply.
“……It went all right.”
“That's good.”
Baek gave his shoulder a couple of light pats.
What a good kid.
But the shoulder beneath Baek's hand went rigid, and then Park Song-hu's neck stiffened too.
“……What are you so startled about?”
“I'm not. It's just…….”
“Oh, and the producer called me himself. He said today's shoot was fun. Apparently you did a great job.”
To be honest, Baek hadn't believed it.
They'd assumed the producer was only being polite because it was Song-hu's first appearance in a long time.
Park Song-hu simply wasn't capable of that, was he?
But whether it was true or not, Baek wanted to tell him.
“You did well. Very well.”
You're doing a good job.
“……Thank you.”
How many times had Park Song-hu said thank you just today?
‘He really has changed. He couldn't act this well even if he tried.’
Baek Ho-seon was certain.
“Your schedule's done, so go home and get plenty of rest. Don't go wandering around outside.”
“……Yes, sir.”
Baek summoned Jo Yong-gi with a nod.
“Make sure Song-hu gets home all right, understood?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Oh, wait. Or shall the three of us have dinner together? I know a place around here—”
Before Baek could finish, Park Song-hu answered at once.
“No, today…… I should get going.”
“Really? All right. You must be tired after your first job in so long.”
“……Uh, yes. That's it.”
***
I stood in front of the VIP room.
One deep breath before knocking.
Knock, knock—
“Come in.”
I opened the door carefully.
Park Song-hu was sitting propped at an angle on the bed in a hospital gown.
He was fiddling with his phone and shot me an indifferent glance.
“Done with the shoot?”
“……Yes.”
I sat down in the chair beside the bed reserved for caregivers.
Honestly, I was so tired that the bed Park Song-hu was on looked much more inviting, but doing that would be asking to get my ass kicked.
“How did the show go?”
“I-it went okay, I think……?”
Park Song-hu narrowed his eyes at me.
“You think? What's that supposed to mean?”
“E-everyone laughed a lot…… and the producer seemed happy…….”
He'd find out the rest when the episode aired.
There was no need to tell him now.
……Which was why I'd also decided not to mention that I'd said “anger management disorder” instead of “prince syndrome.”
“What are all those things you brought?”
“Oh, these?”
The presents his fans had given me outside the broadcasting station.
I'd carried bags in both hands all the way here, and my arms felt ready to fall off.
“Your fans gave them to me for you. Outside the station.”
“…….”
Park Song-hu looked at the bags, then reached out.
The first bag held what looked like a handmade set of photo cards.
The cards showed pictures of Park Song-hu that a fan seemed to have taken and edited personally.
They were arranged in chronological order, from the early days of his debut to recent times.
Park Song-hu turned through them one by one.
“……They made every one of these.”
“Wow. They really did.”
“Shut up. I'm talking to myself.”
“……Okay.”
That was a relief.
It meant I didn't have to react.
The second bag contained a letter and some other thing I couldn't identify.
A shadow fell beneath Park Song-hu's lashes as he took out the letter and read it.
“…….”
I watched quietly beside him.
When he'd finished, he folded it carefully and put it back in the envelope.
Then he went on examining the other presents.
“…….”
“…….”
Silence settled between us all the while.
At some point, Park Song-hu started spinning a stuffed-animal keychain around between his fingers.
Finally, he'd looked through every present.
Even then, Park Song-hu stared into space for a while.
‘What's he thinking about?’
“Have you eaten?”
My brother abruptly changed the subject.
The mood from a moment ago vanished as if it had never been there.
“……What?”
“If you came straight here after filming, you wouldn't have had time to eat.”
He was right.
The moment filming ended, CEO Baek had caught me, leaving me sweating with nerves. I'd come here right after.
“……I did eat.”
The lie slipped out.
I didn't know why I'd lied.
Maybe it was an unconscious defense mechanism, a way of saying he didn't have to look after me.
“Bullshit.”
Park Song-hu jerked his chin toward the side table beside the bed.
There was a meal tray on it.
The rice and side dishes were untouched.
“Eat.”
“……That's yours.”
“I had no appetite.”
“B-but even so, taking a terminal patient's food doesn't feel right to me—”
“Ah, shit. Will you stop saying ‘terminal patient’ over and over?”
“Eek!”
Thinking I might end up dying before him if I pushed it, I quickly picked up the spoon.
As a spoonful of rice reached my empty stomach, it felt as though something that had been knotted inside me was finally coming loose.
Maybe because this was a VIP room, the food was incredibly good for hospital fare.
‘But wait…… Is hospital food allowed to taste this good? Is it because this is a VIP room?’
The braised short ribs were even glistening with fat.
Was it all right to serve this to a patient with pancreatic cancer?
‘Then again.’
This was a huge hospital. They'd know how to take care of him.
The point was, this meal was much better than what I ate at home while pinching every penny.
“How have you been all this time?”
I froze without meaning to.
It was the first personal question he'd asked me.
“……What?”
“I'm asking what you've been doing with your life.”
“J-just…… staying home…….”
“Doing what at home?”
“W-writing novels…… and spending time with my cat…….”
“Novels?”
“W-web novels. I'm serializing one on Soseol Joa…….”
Park Song-hu turned his head toward me.
“You're a novelist?”
“Yes…… Well, I'm not very popular…….”
“I'll read it sometime.”
“…….”
He was just saying that to be polite.
……He had to be.
“Oh, right. I think you'll have to do one more interview tomorrow. A magazine interview. It's my first official interview since coming back, and it was arranged a month ago.”
“Th-that's not fair!”
I rose halfway out of my chair, then sank back down under Park Song-hu's sharp gaze.
“You said yesterday was the last time…….”
“I forgot the interview was scheduled, too. Hey, unlike a variety show, an interview's practically a freebie. All you have to do is answer questions. It's nothing compared to filming that show.”
“…….”
“And this really is the last one.”
“……The real last one?”
“Yeah. But look at this bastard suddenly speaking casually to me.”
You're the one who told me to…….
***
I woke to my alarm and found Louie curled up asleep on the blanket.
The little ball of white fur rose and fell steadily.
“……Louie.”
The cat didn't move when I called.
Only the tip of the tail gave a little twitch in answer.
I carefully got up, refilled the automatic feeder with cat food, and changed the water in the bowl.
As I put on my shoes by the front door, Louie came padding out.
“I'll only be gone a little while today, too. This really is the last one.”
Louie looked up at me.
Those eyes said, Didn't you say the same thing yesterday?
When I went downstairs, the manager's car was there.
This time, I got straight into the back seat instead of opening the front passenger door.
“How are you feeling today, Song-hu?”
“……Good.”
Morning Seoul flowed past the car window.
Sunlight pouring between the buildings, crowds of commuters crossing at the crosswalk, office workers hurrying along with coffee in their hands.
‘Once this interview is over, I can go back to living safely in my room.’
Louie was waiting for me.
I also had manuscript work piling up that I needed to catch up on.
Let's finish quickly and go home.
“Hello, Song-hu. I'm Yoon Seo-jin from <Scene & Cut> magazine.”
Before long, I arrived in the interview room.
The red light beside the camera came on.
And so the interview began.
From now on, I'd have to answer as Park Song-hu.
“What made you decide to return?”
The decision to come back.
What had that meant to Park Song-hu?
-If I die while my image is still wrecked by that conduct scandal, people will remember me as trash forever.
I remembered what my brother had said in the hospital room.
Honestly, if you asked whether I related to it, the answer was no.
That was Park Song-hu's story.
But, well.
Right now I was Park Song-hu.
‘Get into character. I'm Park Song-hu right now. I'm Park Song-hu…….’
Wasn't this similar to writing a novel?
Building the protagonist's emotional arc and running through what the character would say in this situation in my head.
I did that every day.
……Even if I wasn't popular.
‘Park Song-hu. Disgraced by a conduct scandal. Lying low for over a year. Then deciding to return.’
What had happened in between?
He must have been shut in a room alone, watching his name appear online alongside curses.
The calls would have stopped, and fewer people would have come to visit.
‘Ah.’
This was easier than I'd expected.
If it was the feeling of being shut in a room alone, I knew it better than anyone.
“……I felt I couldn't go on like that.”
I'd immersed myself so deeply that my voice came out low without my intending it.
I hadn't stammered at all.
Moments like this sometimes came when I wrote novels, too.
It felt as if my fingers were moving across the keyboard on their own, except now my mouth was speaking Park Song-hu's lines for me.
“I thought I'd regret it.”
Yoon Seo-jin stopped writing and looked at me.
Something seemed to have gotten through.
“Is there anything you'd like to say to your fans?”
The fans.
I thought of the people I'd met outside the station yesterday.
The person whose eyes had filled with tears while shouting encouragement.
The person who'd said they loved him.
The person who'd given him that handmade set of photo cards.
To be honest, I couldn't really relate to that, either.
The gifts hadn't been for me. They were for my brother, and I'd only played the deliveryman.
But what mattered now was Park Song-hu's feelings, not mine.
‘What would Park Song-hu say if he were asked this?’
A celebrity who'd fallen from grace.
Yet some fans had stayed and waited for him.
How would Park Song-hu feel, knowing that?
……And three months.
In three months, the Park Song-hu those fans were waiting for would be gone.
The photo cards, the letters, the keychains, the words “I love you.”
There would be no one left to receive them.
‘What kind of story is this……?’
A top star with a terminal diagnosis was asked in his comeback interview what he wanted to say to his fans.
He wanted to thank them, but really, he ought to apologize.
He was grateful they'd waited, yet he alone knew there was no point in waiting for him anymore.
“……I want to tell them thank you.”
I deliberately made it sound ordinary.
An unremarkable answer anyone would expect from a returning celebrity.
But here, I paused for one beat.
“For waiting for me.”
That was the surface.
What came next was his true feeling.
The true feeling of the character Park Song-hu.
The feeling my brother couldn't bring himself to say aloud.
“You waited for me, but…….”
I changed it to the past tense.
That single change in tense suggested a person with no future ahead of him.
It would leave viewers with a strange, lingering feeling.
“…….”
“…….”
For a moment, silence fell.
Yoon Seo-jin stared at me blankly, then belatedly cleared their throat.
“One last question.”
They set down the pen and looked straight at me.
“What would you like to show us in the future?”
‘The future.’
In three months…… Park Song-hu would be gone.
There was no point asking me, and even if the real Park Song-hu had been sitting here, it would have been a hard question to answer.
‘How should I handle this one?’
Silence, for now.
If it went on long enough, the silence itself would become an answer.
‘And if I shed just a little tear here…….’
Perfect.
There was no better way to stage the climax.
The problem was whether I could cry.
‘I should at least try. A tearful performance.’
If I couldn't…… so be it.