IJLMT 37

Chapter 37 …

It was evening, and the sun was setting outside the classroom window. At the teacher’s desk sat Im Yu-joo.
No—she wasn’t Im Yu-joo. She was Bae On-yu.
Bae On-yu, the bullied outcast who was tormented by Yu-jung ten years ago.

But now, ten years later, their positions had completely reversed.
Yu-jung had become an actress who had rushed into marriage with a chaebol heir and now had an eight-year-old child.
Meanwhile, On-yu had become the teacher at the school that child would be attending. She had just realized this fact.

What kind of emotions would Yu-jung be feeling now?

“Im Yu-joo…”

Joo-ah looked at Im Yu-joo’s expression. It was like she was wearing armor made of steel.
The girl who had once been tormented so cruelly showed no fear at all now.
That steel seemed to be forged out of poison—gathering malice and compressing it into iron.

Did Im Yu-joo even know how to make that kind of expression?

She had always maintained the image of a kind, refreshing singer-songwriter.
She wasn’t even trained as an actress, yet after just a few acting lessons, she had crafted this expression.

This wasn’t something that could be achieved with talent alone. It required sheer willpower—
A face forged through relentless, determined improvement.

Why had Im Yu-joo gone to such lengths?

It must be because of “the present,” right?

Lee Joo-ah recalled the moments before filming. They hadn’t had time for long conversations; both she and Im Yu-joo had been focused on their roles.

They had exchanged only brief greetings about her trip to the U.S., but during that time, Im Yu-joo’s focus had been entirely on the present.

“I practiced really hard.”
“You’ll be surprised when you see me act.”

After saying that, Im Yu-joo had glanced at Joo-ah’s face.
She was only twenty-five—so young that Joo-ah could easily read her heart. And so, Joo-ah couldn’t help but think:

“What? You’ve only known him for a couple of months at most.”

Every actor has their own way of interpreting and embodying a role.
Lee Joo-ah was the type who infused her roles with her own feelings.

What would Yu-jung feel upon seeing On-yu now?
Probably resentment. Anger. But also… anxiety.

“Are you trying to beat me now? Do you really think you can surpass me? That you can take away the things I have—the things that should rightfully belong to me?”

“On-yu, this… this was all planned, wasn’t it?”

She recalled the current’s figure she’d once glimpsed at the library—a tall, handsome man with a shy but kind demeanor.

“Sure. Try your best. But do you think you can even scratch me?”

It was bravado.
Even after ten years, there was no solid reason to think that the current valued Joo-ah more than Im Yu-joo.
But she was furious. She couldn’t bear to think that those ten years might be meaningless.

“You’ll never reach me. Ever.”

Valhalla’s Head of Strategic Planning, Lee Sung-woo, was biting his nails.

“This… this is Lee Joo-ah playing the villain?”

The charismatic actress Lee Joo-ah had actually never played a villain before.
Her most famous work was the ten-million-viewer hit Thief, where she single-handedly rode a motorcycle into a skyscraper to rescue a kidnapped child—a scene that had made headlines.

Her next standout role was as a gambler in Casino, which drew three million viewers.
She deceived her opponents with sex appeal, then picked up an axe and risked her life at critical moments.

Lee Joo-ah was known for her overwhelming charisma.
Everyone expected her to play the villain in Chalk and Spear with that same intensity.

But…

“This is on another level. It’s unbelievably delicate!”

After following Park Min-gyu for years and helping make key company decisions, Lee Sung-woo had developed a good eye for talent.
He could tell right away how exceptional this performance was.

A villain? Could he even call her that?
Sure, strictly speaking, she was a “bad person.”

But she wasn’t just “bad.” She was a person who was bad.

Yu-jung on screen wasn’t some cartoonish villain repeatedly committing evil acts against the protagonist.
She was a human being—anxious about losing what she had, afraid that her misdeeds would be exposed and her position threatened.

Watching this performance didn’t make him think, “You villain, you’re finished now!”
Instead, it made him think, “What’s going through your head now? You should’ve stopped earlier. What will you do now?”

What’s the difference? It’s huge.
In mediocre films, villains often just declare “I’m evil!” and that’s that. When they’re defeated, it doesn’t feel satisfying—because to the audience, they were never real people to begin with.

But here, the audience could truly empathize with the villain.
Her suffering, anxiety, regret, and desperate flailing all provided catharsis.

The core thrill of this work was Yu-jung’s downfall.
Could anyone deliver it more perfectly than Lee Joo-ah?
If she was capable of such subtle acting, why had everyone only focused on her toughness?

If it weren’t for Yoo Hyun-jae, people would still only be seeing her as “tough.”

And what about Im Yu-joo?
Her character On-yu wasn’t simply kind. She was full of venom. At times, that venom looked almost like madness.
The fact that Im Yu-joo was playing her was the key.

Im Yu-joo’s public image was gentle and soft.
Seeing that gentleness now weaponized into something venomous made her portrayal feel tragically noble.

This was every director’s dream: the script elevating the actors, and the actors elevating the script.
And the one who had made this situation possible was Yoo Hyun-jae.

“What about Baek Ga-eun?”

A sudden sense of crisis struck Lee Sung-woo.
What about Phantom Thieves of the Heart? Was it still okay?
Baek Ga-eun was a top actress, almost on Lee Joo-ah’s level. But was her performance in Phantom Thieves as captivating as what he’d just witnessed?

Just then, his phone buzzed.

Park Min-gyu (CEO): “Well, Mr. Lee? How’s the set?”

Lee Sung-woo: “Hard to sum up in a message, but honestly, it’s far beyond expectations. The potential that Lee Joo-ah and Im Yu-joo are showing is no joke.”

Park Min-gyu: “Do you think there’s even a small chance that Phantom Thieves might get overshadowed?”

A small chance?

Lee Sung-woo swallowed nervously.
Small? Honestly, it felt very likely.

Today was a media open-shoot day, wasn’t it?
On a day like this, they’d only show scenes safe for publicity, knowing people like him would be there.
And yet, even those safe scenes were overwhelming.

So what would it be like when this hit the big screen…?

Lee Sung-woo: “I’ll head over and report in person.”

The next scene began filming.
It was meant to show the hierarchy between Yu-jung and her friends.

Then Yoo Hyun-jae suddenly stood up.

“What is he…?”

The night before the public filming of Chalk and Spear, I stayed up all night at the ranch with Onion.
It’s a bit embarrassing to admit, but ever since my time at the UN, I’d been burning with the desire to become a “super manager.”

So I sat in front of the TV and binge-watched Im Yu-joo’s Teacher, Our Teacher and Lee Joo-ah’s Thief and Casino back to back.

I didn’t watch them casually. I had a notebook listing which scenes were well-received and which weren’t, and I paused frequently to analyze them.
And guess what I discovered?

Onion had a new function.

I’d been calling Onion “Professor Yang” out of respect for the luck it had brought me. But it turned out Onion could actually teach.

For example, if I said:

“This scene feels meaningless. Why is that? Is it the actor’s fault?”

The vine sprouting from my Onion bracelet would draw an “No, Professor Yang? So you’re saying it’s not a script issue either?”

Still “Then… direction? Oh, wait. That character in the background was affected by the villain, but the lighting’s off…”

Finally, the vine would form an If I got really stuck, it would even spell things out—but it never gave me answers too easily, like a real teacher.

Isn’t that incredible?
There are countless opinions on why a scene isn’t entertaining, and people rarely agree.

But Onion isn’t human!
Something transcendental was giving me objective /judgments where humans couldn’t.

It was so fascinating that I didn’t even notice the sun rise.
I hadn’t slept a wink, but strangely, I didn’t feel tired at all.
Watching the set, I felt even more exhilarated.

Because the acting felt perfect. Both Im Yu-joo and Lee Joo-ah.

But then… after the classroom scene ended—

“Huh?”

Something felt off.

“Cut!”

Director Shin Dong-jae shouted.

“Was that an OK?”

Shin glanced at me and said:

“It was good… but let’s try it with a different feel. Something like…”

He was gauging my reaction.
Given that JM had fully invested in the production, and the supporting actresses playing Yu-jung’s friends were JM talents, it made sense.
The issue wasn’t with Lee Joo-ah.

Shin Dong-jae was timid but sharp.
He called the two supporting actresses over and gave them some direction. But when they shot again, the result was the same.

“Cut!”

He fell into thought.

“…Let’s take fifteen minutes and then go again.”

I approached him.

“Director, would it be alright if I had a quick word with the actresses—Lee So-yeon and Nam Jung-yoon?”

“Huh? Oh! Of course, Part Chief!”

“Only if it’s not overstepping.”

“Overstepping? No way! From the way you singled them out, I can tell you know exactly what I’m struggling with. I’d be grateful if you helped.”

How often does a director speak so respectfully to a mere manager?

Normally, giving acting advice is the director’s or acting coach’s domain.
But my priority wasn’t respecting “domains.” It was making this project a hit.

Not a single scene could afford to dim the shine of Im Yu-joo or Lee Joo-ah.

I walked over to Lee So-yeon and Nam Jung-yoon.

The reason their scene felt off was…

“Hello, I’m Yoo Hyun-jae. Could we talk for a minute?”

Lee Sung-woo moved closer to Yoo Hyun-jae. He wanted to hear what he was saying.

What kind of methods did this man use to make CEO Park Min-gyu call him a “monster”?

The previous scene had lacked some impact compared to the earlier ones, but it wasn’t bad.

“Have you two ever talked with Lee Joo-ah?” Yoo Hyun-jae asked.

“Huh?”
“No, we’re on different teams…”

The two actresses were just barely past their rookie stage.
It was that period when actors start thinking, “I’m pretty good at this,” and become the least receptive to feedback.
Even if they weren’t stubborn, changing acting direction on the spot often took a lot of time.

Was it worth spending all that time on two supporting roles?

No shoot is completely uncompromising. So what was Yoo Hyun-jae up to?

He didn’t say anything more. Instead, he turned and gestured to Lee Joo-ah.

“Joo-ah, can you spare a moment?”

Without hesitation or questions, Lee Joo-ah came over.

“Wanna play rock-paper-scissors and hit the loser’s wrist?”
“Sure. How many rounds?”
“Best of three.”

In the first round, Joo-ah lost. Yoo Hyun-jae held back but still hit, and she yelped dramatically.
“Ah! The manager hit me!”

In the second, she won, but mis-aimed and missed his wrist.
In the third, he won again.

“Aww, not fair! You should’ve let me hit you properly. Give me one more chance!”
“It brushed my wrist. That counts.”
“Ugh… Fine. We’ll do it again after shooting, okay?”

Watching this, Lee Sung-woo thought:

“What kind of show is this?”

And why was Lee Joo-ah so adorable?
She wasn’t interested in the game itself—she just seemed genuinely happy to mess around with Yoo Hyun-jae. Her playful complaints and exaggerated reactions…

Lee So-yeon and Nam Jung-yoon seemed to feel the same way.

“Um… what exactly was that…?” one asked.

Yoo Hyun-jae replied,

“You saw that, right? Joo-ah’s human. She’s not some noble or alien—just like us.”
“Y-yeah… she’s actually really cute. But what’s your point?”

“You two seem to view her as something more than human. If someone stands above you like that, it’s natural to feel frustrated. But you two don’t look frustrated—you act like it’s natural. Because she’s a top actress, you assumed she’s on a different level. But she’s not. Deep down, she’s just a normal person who whines and gets annoyed. Please remember that, okay?”

A look of realization flashed across their faces.

Lee Sung-woo’s jaw dropped.

“What… did I just witness?”

Acting guidance wasn’t usually like this.
Normally, the director explained their intent, and the actors adapted accordingly.

What Yoo Hyun-jae had just done wasn’t ordinary coaching. He had:

1. Understood the director’s intent.

2. Analyzed why the actresses hadn’t achieved it.

3. Found a way to present it without resistance.

4. Explained and guided their performance accordingly.

What should he even call this? Mind-reading sorcery?

The shocking part was that it worked perfectly.

Filming resumed, and not long after, the director shouted:

“Cut! Excellent!”

Lee Sung-woo was stunned.
It was the same scene, but it felt completely different.
The actresses’ emotions toward Yu-jung came through, making Yu-jung’s character shine even more.

In that brief moment, the roles had clicked firmly in their hearts.

What would happen if they just let Yoo Hyun-jae do whatever he wanted at JM?
Why had he ever thought this man was ordinary?

Lee Sung-woo looked at him again.

There stood a monster.

“How am I supposed to explain this to the CEO?”