I'm an Unknown Actress, But Everyone Knows Me

* * *

—Thank you for taking the time to apply. We would like to inform you of the results of the document screening.

A mechanical voice flowed across the pitch-black stage. The message that followed was a notification of rejection from an internship application. 𝕗𝗿𝕖𝐞𝐰𝗲𝕓𝐧𝕠𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝐨𝚖

—It is not because you are lacking or inadequate, Applicant. It is the fault of our company for not being able to accommodate more people. We will strive to grow into a better company that can welcome more applicants....

The mechanical voice ended.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

The sound of someone storming in with angry footsteps echoed through the darkness.

A pinpoint spotlight snapped on.

Under the harsh beam stood Han Yeoreum, her face dark with frustration.

“Ah, damn it! If you’re going to grow, grow with me! Why do you keep saying you’ll grow without meee?!”

The theater fell silent. Her voice carried cleanly, stretching all the way to the back of the stage.

“It’s not because you’re lacking or inadequate? Stop lying, huh? It’s because I’m lacking— and inadequate—! That’s why you reject me every single time!”

Yeoreum flung herself onto the mattress like she was diving into a pool. The light, exaggerated movement drew small bursts of laughter.

“At this rate, what if I never become an intern? If I don’t become an intern, I can’t get hired. If I can’t get hired, I can’t save money. If I can’t save money....”

She let out a long sigh.

“I need to save a hundred million before I turn thirty. Everyone says they’ve got at least that much. Let’s see, how much time do I have left until I’m thirty....”

She spread both hands and began counting on her fingers. Then suddenly she snapped upright into a seated position.

IP 85.152 gasped in admiration without realizing it.

‘That must’ve been hard to get up from...!’

There hadn’t been any rebound. No push. She moved like a creaking marionette, as if someone else had lifted Jin Jinju upright.

“College life passed in the blink of an eye. Thirty will be here in a blink too. Ah! What do I do, what do I do?”

Muttering to herself, Yeoreum sprang to her feet and began pacing in circles around the cramped studio apartment set.

“Was it the interview? No, that can’t be it. I definitely spoke well. Huh? I didn’t even tremble!”

As if replaying the interview in her head, she launched into her introduction.

“Hello. I am Jin Jinju, twenty-three years old, someone who completes even small tasks with responsibility. While majoring in Business Administration at university, I have come to understand that just as important as comprehending numbers and structure is the precision of communication within an organization—”

Her voice was no longer anxious and shaky.

In an instant, it transformed into a polite, impeccably mannered tone — as though she were actually standing in an interview room.

‘She turned her back?’

Yeoreum pivoted so the audience could not see her face. Still facing away, she continued delivering her interview lines in a steady stream. Arms folded, articulating each syllable clearly.

It was hard to believe someone speaking that well could have failed.

That was when she slowly began moving again, continuing her lines.

“Especially last semester, I participated in a practical project targeting small and medium enterprises—”

The moment she fully turned back toward the audience—

Laughter erupted from every direction.

Her voice hadn’t trembled at all.

But her face was tightly strained with nerves. The arms that had seemed confidently folded were, in fact, hunched in tension.

‘She’s adorable! She looks like a little shrimp!’

The thought slipped into IP 85.152’s mind before she quickly corrected herself.

‘Adorable because she knows how to carry the play naturally. Admirable for a rookie.’

The play was already incredibly fun.

And this was only the opening.

* * *

“Unnie, did you see that?”

“...Yeah.”

Backstage, Tak Jeongyun and the other actors watching Han Yeoreum froze for a split second.

‘That was an ad-lib.’

Originally, Jin Jinju was supposed to show her trembling face directly to the audience from the beginning — an easy early laugh.

But Han Yeoreum had done it differently.

She knew how to control tempo. Build and release.

‘...Did she read today’s audience mood?’

Audience reactions varied wildly from day to day. Some laughed at the smallest gesture. Others refused to laugh even at obvious punchlines.

In comedy, hearing others laugh amplified the humor.

‘They didn’t laugh at first, so she switched to ad-lib...?’

Tak Jeongyun had spent years in Daehakro. She could feel it instinctively — the mood of a room, how to steer a performance accordingly.

‘On her first stage?’

But this was Han Yeoreum’s first performance.

The only explanation was innate talent.

Without realizing it, Tak Jeongyun found herself pulled into Yeoreum’s presence on stage.

“Ah—! Should I ask the others at school? Why aren’t they replying....”

Yeoreum’s lines were nearing their end. It was almost time for Friend 1 and Friend 2 to enter.

“...Be careful, you two.”

“Of course! We won’t forget our lines!”

“And no mistakes!”

They stepped onto the stage smiling, not even understanding what she meant by “be careful.”

Tak Jeongyun exhaled quietly.

‘Be careful not to end up as props.’

Sometimes, it happened.

When only one person was visible on stage.

Even if that person was silent. Even if they barely moved.

An actor who naturally stole the audience’s gaze.

‘When that happens, the others become nothing but set pieces.’

Background. Furniture. Moving parts orbiting a single center.

Reduced to something that merely exchanged lines.

The audience remembered only one face.

Even when standing alone on stage, Han Yeoreum left no sense of emptiness.

“You don’t know yet.”

Geum Bitgang murmured quietly, dressed as the academy instructor. She seemed to understand exactly what Tak Jeongyun was worried about.

“It’s not bad to be pulled along when you’re pulled. There’s something to learn from it.”

On stage, Han Yeoreum’s voice rang out.

No — only Han Yeoreum’s voice.

* * *

“So the posting...”

“The schedule’s a bit tight, but if you check the format—”

The set shifted from Jin Jinju’s apartment to her university.

Among two friends engaged in serious discussion, Jin Jinju squeezed herself in.

“Guys—. Did you see the message I sent?”

The expressions of the two friends shifted instantly. Bright smiles bloomed as they greeted her.

“Hi! What message?”

“I tend to let my texts pile up.”

Their tone was artificial.

Like someone reciting lines fed to them.

Jin Jinju stomped her foot, frustrated.

“I said maybe we should try studying together! That message!”

The two friends immediately scattered.

As far from her as /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ possible.

One moved to the far left of the stage. The other to the far right.

Left alone in the center, Jin Jinju looked at the audience.

She took a hesitant step left.

Then right.

Then back to center.

And struck a pose.

“What’s this? This composition? I kinda look like an idol, right?”

Her obliviousness to being avoided — that vacant charm — sent laughter rippling through the seats.

“Pfft—!”

Her classmates turned away, sighing with irritated expressions.

Jin Jinju tried to approach the classmate on the left.

Comedic background music began.

Thunk-thunk sound effects accompanied exaggerated movements.

Bang bang bang bang—

The classmate on the left hurried to the right.

The one on the right switched to the left.

“Uh? Uh?”

It repeated.

Every time Jin Jinju moved, they swapped positions to avoid her.

Left alone in the center, she struck idol-center poses again and again.

Each time she changed her pose, the audience laughed.

“How long do we have to do this?”

Her classmates shrugged dramatically, still refusing to answer.

Ddan-ddara-dan-ddan-dan— ddan—.

Suddenly, a phone rang.

“Oh? Grandma? Then I should go—.”

“Oh? Grandpa? Then I should go—.”

Pretending to take calls, both exited the stage.

Alone again, Jin Jinju stared at the audience.

Then—

She shifted into another idol-center pose.

Even a simple finger-heart made her look foolish enough.

Even audience members who hadn’t laughed before began loosening.

Their guard dropped.

Footsteps echoed again.

A woman entered wearing sunglasses and a marine-style uniform. On her arm was an armband reading ‘Of Course.’

“Don’t do two people’s share— just do one— properly—. Don’t be greedy for two— just manage one—.”

Marching stiffly across the stage, she waved a flyer.

Then, with a sharp smack, she swung her arm toward Jin Jinju.

“Ahh!”

“Don’t think about two shares— just manage one— at least.”

“...That tone was different.”

Unlike before, she now sounded openly disdainful.

She shoved the flyer into Jin Jinju’s hands and pushed her shoulder before exiting.

Left alone, Jin Jinju examined the paper.

“Intern Academy?”

A xylophone-like sound rang.

A realization.

“If you can’t get hired! What do you think the problem is? The problem is your blank-sheet life. Those who don’t know what, how, or where to learn cannot fulfill even one person’s share in this society. We will create a life where you can handle everything on your own!”

Her small voice gradually swelled.

By the end, she was practically delivering a speech.

“Intern... Academy....”

Ding!

A sound effect as if her heart had clicked.

The lights went out.

In darkness, the stage rotated. The set shifted.

Thud— thud— thud— thud—.

Heavy footsteps entered.

Heels that seemed capable of shaking the entire theater.

“Attention—!”

A voice crashed down from above.

Everyone in the audience recognized it.

“Salute!”

Lights snapped on.

Geum Bitgang stood in full military uniform, saluting with stern gravity.

Her voice resonated so powerfully it made you question how a human body could produce such sound.

The audience felt instinctively overwhelmed.

“Of! Course!”

Beside her stood the assistant who had handed Jin Jinju the flyer earlier.

Geum Bitgang and the assistant spoke in rigid cadence.

“What is the goal of our Intern Academy?”

“To raise humans who properly fulfill one person’s share!”

“Good! Did you bring in the idiots properly today?”

“...Well, not quite....”

When the assistant hesitated, Geum Bitgang stomped her foot.

Bang!

The stage seemed to shake.

“You can’t even do what is naturally required of you as an assistant?!”

“I’m sorry!”

“I never asked for two shares! I’ve said it repeatedly!”

“That’s only because you’ve taught so many idiots, Instructor!”

At the flattery, Geum Bitgang turned her back sharply.

‘...Instructor?’

Tak Jeongyun blinked.

That wasn’t in the script.

“Mm-hm! That’s right!”

By turning away from the audience, Geum Bitgang reinforced the character — unable to openly enjoy praise despite liking it.

Her shoulders trembled slightly.

“Of course it is!”

It was the same device Han Yeoreum had used earlier.

Repetition.

One of comedy’s fundamentals.

When a movement or line repeats, the audience begins laughing even before it happens.

‘On purpose....’

Tak Jeongyun bit her lip.

At this rate, she would become Prop No. 1 herself.

She had to stay sharp.

“Um....”

Han Yeoreum appeared again on stage.

The audience’s gaze shifted instantly.

At the far right, clutching the flyer and peeking timidly, she wore the face of a student hesitating before enrolling.

The two actors carrying the greatest expectation had finally met on one stage.