DTM | Chapter 1.2

“Move! Get out of the way!”

Startled by the rough shouting, I hurriedly stepped aside. Four men carrying the custom-made corpse of a bear brushed past me. Since the production trucks couldn’t enter the dense forest, people had to haul things in by themselves.

Just as I barely managed to clear the path, a group of extras covered in fake blood came rushing through. Unfortunately, I was standing in a narrow passage, blocking the way again, so I quickly moved aside. I thought I’d moved fast enough, but thud—my shoulder bumped into someone, making me stumble.

The filming site in the forest was bustling with people and activity. Amid all the commotion, I stood idly, wondering what the hell I was even doing here. This was the epitome of being…

“A duck egg on the Nakdong River.¹”

Everyone else was busy, yet I had nothing to do. Why? The reason was simple—I was a complete outsider to this film with no role or responsibility whatsoever.

This was the set of <Crimson Blood>, the movie marking Kwon Yi-tae’s return to the screen. Our documentary team had wormed our way in to capture footage of Kwon Yi-tae passionately acting, memorizing his lines, joking around with the crew… basically any slice of his life we could get on camera.

Although the real documentary filming wasn’t scheduled to start until next week, Kim PD had somehow managed to pull some strings—or maybe greased some palms—to get us early access. A triumph for him, but a disaster for me. To gain permission to film, we had to write six separate agreements vowing not to shoot any scenes that could spoil the movie or air anything unauthorized.

“Where the hell are Kim PD and Go Hyeong-woo?”

We only had three hours—an absurdly short time. While we didn’t have much prep to do, there were still a lot of key moments we needed to capture. It felt like planning a first overseas trip and insisting on hitting every landmark in a major city. This was Kim PD’s desperate attempt to milk the opportunity for all it was worth.

If the star wasn’t Kwon Yi-tae, I’d probably have been just as determined as Kim PD to save the program.

“This is so awkward I could die.”

I wasn’t feeling great. A tight knot in my stomach made it hard to breathe, and every exhale came with a twinge of pain. The thought of seeing Kwon Yi-tae face-to-face after three years had me so anxious I hadn’t been able to digest food for a week.

Kwon Yi-tae was a star towering higher than the sky, and I was now in a position where I had to grovel before him. Sure, I could tell myself to keep work and personal matters separate, but my mental fortitude wasn’t exactly Olympic-level, and I wasn’t confident I could keep my composure.

“Writer Yoo!”

Go Hyeong-woo came running toward me, waving his hand enthusiastically. Behind him, Kim PD waddled along, huffing and puffing as he tried to catch up. The annoyance that had been boiling inside me evaporated instantly. It was like being in a foreign country and suddenly spotting a familiar word in English—relief spread through me, but only just enough to be noticeable.

“Is being 20 minutes late even acceptable?”

Still, I had to give them a piece of my mind.

“Hyeong-woo here was all cocky about being able to drive, and then he got us lost in circles.”

Go Hyeong-woo opened his mouth to protest but failed to close it again, looking thoroughly offended.

“It’s because PD-nim said he was too tired to drive after not sleeping last night…”

“Ahem.”

Kim PD cut off Hyeong-woo before he could finish his sentence, but the irritation on his face was clear. Glancing at me briefly, Hyeong-woo leaned in to whisper.

“I swear, I wasn’t being stubborn.”

“We don’t have time to argue about this.”

“Got it. By the way, where’s Kwon Yi-tae? Wow, this is my first time seeing him in person. I’m so nervous.”

Nervous? I bet not as much as me. Hyeong-woo, practically vibrating with excitement, craned his neck to scan the crew for Kwon Yi-tae.

“He’s probably waiting. Let’s start prepping for the shoot.”

“On it.”

As I was about to set down my bag, I suddenly turned around. Hyeong-woo tilted his head, puzzled, and looked at me.

“You remember you’re doing the interview, right?”

“Of course. Writer Yoo, you’re so shy.”

I didn’t care what Hyeong-woo misunderstood. As long as it meant I could avoid meeting Kwon Yi-tae, I’d take it.

 

***

 

“Hey, hey, careful down below!”

Thud. Something heavy fell, shaking the ground. I turned around at the sudden commotion to see that the bear carcass, which had been securely tied to a tree, had dropped to the ground. One of the art team staff working directly beneath it hadn’t been able to dodge in time and injured their shoulder.

“Writer Yoo.”

Kim PD tapped my arm. Without looking up from the storyboard, I gave a half-hearted response.

“What?”

“Don’t you think something’s off?”

I frowned and turned to look at him.

“…Out of batteries?”

“Not that. The vibe on set—it’s weird. Too many accidents.”

“That’s just how filming locations are.”

I replied casually, but I could sense it too. A string of accidents had caused long delays, and the creeping anxiety was beginning to tighten around me like a vice. I wondered if we’d even manage to finish today’s shoot without further mishaps.

But something else was gnawing at me—my carefully gathered composure from the night before was crumbling with every passing second. I could already picture my face twitching uncontrollably if I met Kwon Yi-tae like this. Even the magnesium supplements I’d taken this morning weren’t helping.

Conflicted feelings collided inside me: part of me wanted to get it over with and meet him already for the sake of the program, while the other part wished I’d never have to face him ever again.

“Listen to this.”

In the middle of my turmoil, Kim PD leaned in conspiratorially and whispered. What now?

“About Hyeong-woo getting lost, the GPS suddenly malfunctioned even though it was working fine earlier…”

“And?”

“Last year, a virgin hung himself in this forest.”

Kim PD extended his arm and pointed. At the end of his finger was a pond, overlooked by most of the crew. A massive tree extended its thick branches over the still surface of the water. Scratching the bridge of my nose, I replied.

“What does being a virgin have to do with anything?”

“He confessed to a woman he’d been in love with for 40 years, got brutally rejected, and took his life right after.”

“Seriously? He’s not some glass-boned fish or something.”

“Hey, watch it. Don’t you get why I’m telling you this? All these accidents—it’s weird, don’t you think?”

“So, what? You’re saying a virgin ghost is cursing the set?”

“Exactly!”

Go Hyeong-woo, who’d been silently listening, flipped his hat backward with a skeptical “Hmm.” Kim PD shot him an annoyed glare.

“What? You don’t believe me?”

“Come on, the pond’s way too shallow to drown in.”

“Idiot. Who said he drowned? He hung himself from that tree.”

With the eerie placement of the gnarled tree beside the pond, the atmosphere did feel unsettling. Its thick, leafless branches twisted like ropes, casting a gloomy shadow over the water. Tearing my gaze away from the tree, I glanced at the staff members.

If Kim PD knew this story, it must’ve circulated among the crew, and the tense mood reflected that. Add to that the fake animal carcasses scattered around and now an injured staff member—it wasn’t surprising the atmosphere felt ominous.

As I mulled over Kim PD’s words, a cheerful voice suddenly rang out, cutting through the nervous clamor on set.

“Hello!”

The greeting, bright and out of place amidst the frazzled chaos, heightened my senses like prey on high alert.

“Kwon, why are you here so early? You should’ve rested a bit longer.”

…The inevitable had arrived. My hands went cold with tension.

Even the director, who’d been barking orders just moments ago, was now beaming with a smile as bright as the sun.

All eyes turned in the same direction. Through the misty forest, a group bustled forward, but one figure stood out sharply.

“I was losing energy just sitting around.”

All the self-hypnosis I’d done to stay calm crumpled like a discarded piece of paper. Seeing the real, physical Kwon Yi-tae before me was enough to send extreme nervousness coursing through my body. I felt an overwhelming urge to flee, to hide, to disappear like a wanted criminal.

We’d known each other longer than the time we’d been apart since breaking up. Three years wasn’t enough time for memories to collect dust.

To me, Kwon Yi-tae wasn’t a famous actor. He was my ex-boyfriend—a guy I’d fought and slept with in equal measure. But our positions had drastically shifted. Kwon Yi-tae now stood atop the world, shining like the sun, while I was a writer struggling on a failing show.

Without thinking, I snatched the hat off Hyeong-woo’s head and shoved it onto mine. Then I pulled up my hoodie to cover as much of my face as possible.

Hyeong-woo, left with his flattened, unkempt hair exposed, stared at me in disbelief.

“That’s the hat I wore when I didn’t wash my hair for three days.”

“Shut up.”

Over the clamor, I overheard snippets of whispers from the production team behind me.

“Does he really look this good after an all-night shoot? His skin is flawless—like porcelain.”

“Look at those sharp features. It’s insane.”

“I’ve seen plenty of top-tier celebrities, but visually, Kwon Yi-tae is in a league of his own.”

Whatever my personal opinion of him, even I couldn’t deny Kwon Yi-tae’s incredible looks. He’d been famous for his face back in school, and with the added magic of being camera-ready, he now seemed like he existed in a completely different realm.

Even surrounded by people, his tall frame stood out. His long legs, broad shoulders, and muscular build—evident even under a navy knit sweater—hinted at years of training. His physical presence was overwhelming.

But his universally acknowledged visual appeal wasn’t just about his physique. His slightly tousled black hair looked as if sunlight might softly glint off it, and the sharp line running from his forehead to the bridge of his nose exudes elegance. His long, slightly hooded eyes paired perfectly with his faint double eyelids, and the vibrant glow in his irises had an almost hypnotic quality.

When Kwon Yi-tae smiled faintly, lifting the corners of his mouth, it felt like the dreary atmosphere lifted for a moment.

“Our Kwon doesn’t hold back when it comes to giving his all for a movie!”

“It’s not really for the movie.”

Kwon replied with a grin, leaving the director momentarily puzzled before bursting into laughter. Sure, his face had gotten more handsome, but his personality? Still awful. No one could match Kwon Yi-tae’s talent for making unneeded remarks that ruined the mood.

Just then, Kwon Yi-tae tilted his head slightly, his gaze rising above the director’s head. It landed squarely where I was standing.

“……!”

I froze, swallowing a gasp. Though there was some distance between us, it wasn’t far enough to obscure my face.

Our eyes met.

All the chaotic thoughts swirling in my mind shattered, leaving me with nothing but a heavy wave of panic. Paralyzed, I even forgot how to breathe under his gaze.

Should I greet him? Wave? No, that’s insane. We’re not friendly, and this isn’t a casual meeting. A slight nod would be better—yes, that’s it…

Just as I considered it—

“Yi-tae!”

A pale hand lightly gripped Kwon Yi-tae’s arm, breaking his gaze away from me without a trace of hesitation. As soon as I was freed from his eyes, my frozen brain rebooted, and embarrassment surged up to my ears.

So, I’m the only one losing my mind here.

“You shouldn’t have come up ahead of me. I told you it’s scary coming up alone.”

Behind Kwon Yi-tae, a small, doll-like face appeared—an all-too-familiar one. Was there anyone in Korea who didn’t know Chae Eun-seo? A child actress who’d been in the spotlight for over 20 years, she was only two years older than Kwon Yi-tae.

“What about Manager Choi? Isn’t he a person too?”

“Huh?”

“Standing right there. Poor guy must feel hurt.”

Kwon replied to Chae Eun-seo’s playful complaint with a casual smile, while she openly showed her embarrassment.

“…Wow. Kwon Yi-tae really doesn’t care, does he? Isn’t Chae Eun-seo technically his senior? Guess fame really is a privilege.”

Hyeong-woo muttered, unsure if he was more amazed or horrified.

Kwon Yi-tae may have had looks, athletic ability, brains, and wealth, but there were things he clearly lacked: respect, consideration, empathy, and selflessness—qualities that make life bearable.

I silently applauded his unchanging audacity.

 

***