Free Web Novel* * *
Now 〈Intern Academy of the Academy of the Academy〉 felt different from the very air on stage.
‘Everyone’s immersion is higher than before....’
Every day was a new stimulus. Our chemistry wasn’t just tight — it felt as if we had truly become those people.
One line spoken on stage, one gesture made under the lights, and the entire atmosphere of the play shifted.
“Just how far do you think we—!”
“Need to tell you?”
Tak Jeongyun, Kim Ilhee, Lee Youngju, and Park Sehee had all dragged their acting up to a near-maniacal level. Enough to overturn the very quality of the production itself.
No matter what kind of Jin Jinju I presented, they supported it flawlessly.
“If you don’t know, just go to the academy! That’s it, right?”
“If you just preview and review exactly what they tell you, you can at least do your share, okay? Look at us!”
When I played Jin Jinju as someone instinctively repelled by the intern academy, keeping her distance from her peers, those two would chatter after me like nagging classmates, injecting anxiety into every word.
On the other hand, if I acted as though I didn’t understand distance at all and clung to them, they’d hop around the stage, desperate to hoard useful information for themselves.
The audience’s laughter rang out.
Then came the weight of their gaze.
Their eyes carried a heat that seemed to set the small theater ablaze. My breathing trembled under it.
I wanted to live here forever.
The thought pressed down on me — that I wished the final curtain call would never arrive.
An audience can never fail to recognize an actor’s performance. In a theater where even a single breath echoes loudly, thunderous applause filled the space.
“Happy birthday!”
When I stepped out during the curtain call, people seated in the audience shouted. The applause and camera shutter sounds grew even louder.
The clapping didn’t fade until I descended from the stage.
Every time 〈Intern Academy of the Academy of the Academy〉 ended, it drew out a scorching response.
Even from the “revolving-door” viewers who watched the same play again and again, we extracted complete satisfaction. That fullness buzzed inside my head.
“Hey, you did great.”
“Did you hear what people were saying when we went out?”
Theater is something everyone must align in. There’s no editing. You lead each scene exactly as it is.
From the moment the theater actors acknowledged me as the true protagonist, every single character in 〈Intern Academy of the Academy of the Academy〉 changed.
[No extension for Intern Academy? F*ck]
Anonymous (128.22) Has there been a play in Daehakro that blew up this much lately? They’ll definitely extend it.
Anonymous (33.232) Then why aren’t they posting a notice? At this rate it’ll just become the final show.
Anonymous (127.27) Can’t even get Yungyo tickets T_T Everyone wants Intern Academy right now.
Tickets had become as hard to get as plucking stars from the sky, and audiences crowded in demanding an extension.
If someone asked what the hottest play was at the moment, 〈Intern Academy of the Academy of the Academy〉 would be the first to come to mind.
“You know that line in the beginning?”
“I think it’d be better if we delivered it a little faster. Like a machine — one sentence flowing seamlessly between two people.”
Even after stepping off stage, talk about acting didn’t stop.
Wiping sweat, we discussed how to make the next performance even more complete.
‘This is what I wanted.’
Not just the moment of standing on stage as the protagonist — but the sensation of truly acting. Of creating time that made me feel alive.
We were in the middle of debating the tempo of our exchanges when I caught Geum Bitgang’s eyes in the dressing room mirror.
“Good. Don’t let up until the end. Maintain it.”
Her arms were crossed, her gaze steady. There was a faint satisfaction on her face.
“If you want to go to an awards ceremony.”
Awards ceremony.
At that word, the dressing room stirred.
‘Could it be....’
No. It couldn’t.
An unbelievable hypothesis surfaced.
“This year, you’ll be going to award ceremonies quite often.”
“No way....”
Geum Bitgang looked at me and spoke.
“Yes. The Baeksan Arts Awards — Young Theater Artist Award.”
Her voice did not waver even slightly.
“You’re going to be nominated.”
It was the only next-generation theater award at Baeksan. Different from Best Production or Best Actor.
‘Proof that you can lead the future of theater....’
Recognition as someone who would carry the next era.
* * *
Han Taeyang stood with his arms crossed again today, solemn as ever. Since it was my birthday and I had gone out excitedly, he’d probably expected me to stumble in well past midnight.
“She’s going to come home drunk again....”
Beep.
At that moment, the front door lock clicked open.
“What? Why are you back already?”
“It’s my birthday.”
Han Yeoreum walked in with the steady condition of someone who hadn’t taken a single sip of alcohol. In her arms was a large box, beautifully wrapped.
“Hey, look. I got support today.”
She held out a smaller box. Han Taeyang immediately focused on peeling off the sticker without tearing it.
“Try it. It’s insane.”
“Yeah. Later.”
He set the snack box on the sofa and watched as Han Yeoreum carefully unwrapped the larger package, making sure not to rip the paper.
The gift was a chair. The kind used on filming sets while waiting.
Han Yeoreum ran her hand over it with reverent eyes, then hugged a book to her chest and stood.
“I need to read this solemnly now, so don’t disturb me.”
“Oh, right.”
As she headed toward her room, Taeyang remembered the earlier delivery.
“Another gift came earlier. I put it in your room.”
“Mm. Got it.”
With a distracted reply, she entered her room — and immediately began thumping her bed.
“I knew it the moment I saw you. This friend is really going to make it... Aaaah!”
It sounded like she was reading the compiled fan letters one by one.
“It’s not even easy to read that stuff out loud yourself... seriously.”
Through the crack in the door, Taeyang could sense the overflowing happiness. That must be why she hadn’t drunk tonight — she wanted to read those letters properly.
He took the snack box and went into his own room.
Click. Click. Click-click-click-click.
“These photos are coming out nice....”
For quite some time, he took pictures of the snack box. A new set of photos was added to his gallery: Gallery > H.Y.R.> Misc.
* * *
“Ah, I’m overwhelmed.”
I read the message book three times. No matter how many times I heard why people liked me, it never grew old.
“Who am I?”
The baby melon-bread. The actress people were excited about. The one who felt alive every time she became one with her character. The one whose voice was unbelievably pleasant. The one who had skill to match — and whom they would love for a long, long time. Han Yeoreum.
“Aaaah!”
I couldn’t sleep. Hugging the message book to my chest, I felt my heart pounding.
“I won’t sleep tonight....”
I felt like I was floating from head to toe. It was unreal. Even the melon-bread cookie I had eaten earlier seemed to linger sweetly in my mouth.
“Oh. Right. That.”
My eyes landed on the gift box on my desk.
Myeong Jeha had said he’d send my present home.
This must be it.
“What is it? It’s heavy.”
The box, tied entirely in white ribbon, had weight to it. I untied the ribbon and slowly lifted the lid. freewёbn૦νeɭ.com
Inside were countless scripts.
“Oh. What are all these?”
Perfect timing. Since I couldn’t sleep, I’d read until I passed out.
I picked up one script. It was from a romantic comedy drama that had been a decent hit.
“This was fun.”
The ratings had been high, and the OST had been especially famous. Come to think of it, Shim Juhwan had sung it. If I ever did romance, maybe I could get a Shim Juhwan track—
“...Huh?”
I froze mid-scan.
“What is this?”
I searched my memory. Something didn’t align.
It felt as though rusty gears were grinding somewhere in my brain.
“...The story changed?”
I had practically memorized famous works. How the actors had performed. How the lines were delivered. How each scene had been framed by the camera. Which song played in which scene.
“...It’s different.”
But the script Myeong Jeha sent was different from what I remembered.
I grabbed another script. The ending of episode one was different too.
“No way... this one too?”
I pulled out script after script, flipping through them frantically. With every page, goosebumps spread across my body.
At the very bottom of the box were scripts for dramas that, in my memory, would be released in the near future.
Along with the casting lists.
“...Even the actors are completely different....”
In this industry, a single hair’s breadth determines success.
No matter how entertaining a work is, if the final episode collapses, it disappears from public memory. No matter how solid the lineup, one visible hole in acting can bury even a highly anticipated project without a trace.
In a place where something that felt like “This will succeed!” can suddenly turn into “Why did this flop?”, there was no way to know what these altered works would achieve.
‘The future I knew... no, the future I believed in....’
Had changed.
Guaranteed success. Guaranteed hits. My greatest weapon. The only card I had to stand against Do Gyeoul.
Gone in an instant.
The future was opaque.
My heart pounded so violently it hurt.
‘...Then what am I supposed to do now?’
What if I get pushed out by Do Gyeoul again?
What if the fans who love me are disappointed in my work?
What if I become unknown again?
What if I can’t put my name on any project?
What if I can’t act the way I used to?
‘...What do I rely on now? By what standard do I choose projects? How do I act?’
With trembling hands, I called Myeong Jeha.
He picked up before ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) the ringtone could even repeat.
“What is this...? What is this?”
—You saw them already? That was faster than I expected.
“What is this?”
My voice shook. His didn’t.
—Yeoreum.
His low voice came through the receiver. Unhurried breathing followed.
The hairs on my arms stood on end.
—There’s no future you know anymore.
Myeong Jeha delivered the final blow.
