TLIS 04

Chapter 4

As soon as Da-eun was discharged from the hospital, she stared blankly at her new phone.
There were countless messages from Hye-young.

<Where are you?>
<What’s going on? Why aren’t you answering?>
<The clubroom’s been closed off. Did something happen? I heard an ambulance came.>
<Hey! Kang Da-eun! Are you okay? Please pick up!>
<Can you still come to the audition?>

They were the same kinds of messages she used to get in the past.

Da-eun didn’t reply. She just looked at them without opening any, careful not to leave the “read” mark.

“Phew…”

She let out a shaky breath, trying to steady her emotions.

Hye-young would be there.
This would be her first time facing her since coming back to the past.

“I need to calm down…”

Her insides burned.
What had Hye-young been thinking—setting up that burner by her sleeping body, waiting for the explosion?

When her face and arms melted in the fire, and she screamed through the treatments in the hospital—what kind of face did Hye-young make as she went alone to the audition?

After passing the audition, when she saw Da-eun’s disfigured face and burst into tears—what truth lay behind those tears?

“I did feel a little sorry, you know. I’m not heartless.”
“But I can’t exactly tell you to rest in peace. You were my stand-in, and then you went and died on me—now I’m the one who’s in trouble.”

Da-eun’s jaw trembled as she bit her lip hard.

“…Let’s just focus on the audition first.”

After a weak exhale, she switched off her phone, tucked it into her bag, and entered the building.

In front of the audition hall, Hye-young was pacing nervously.
When Da-eun approached, Hye-young froze the moment she noticed her—eyes widening in shock.

Your attempt failed. How does that feel?

Da-eun just stood there, silent.
Hye-young marched up to her.

“Hey! Why didn’t you answer my calls?”

Da-eun looked at her quietly, her expression softening.

“Sorry. My phone broke.”

“What?”

Hye-young frowned.
Da-eun studied her calmly, then continued.

“There was… an accident at the clubroom yesterday.”

Hye-young flinched. She grabbed Da-eun’s shoulders and turned her around, checking her up and down.

“Really? Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

When Da-eun smiled brightly, Hye-young bit the inside of her cheek, forcing a crooked smile. Her face looked strained.

“Well, as long as you’re not hurt, that’s good. I was worried.”

Her tone was even, but her trembling lips betrayed her.

“Ms. Kang Da-eun, Ms. Noh Hye-young?”

Knock knock.
A staff member poked her head out of the room.

“Please come in.”

“Yes.”

Da-eun entered the room with Hye-young.

There had never been any evidence that Hye-young had caused the burner explosion.

Back then, the police ran fingerprint tests to find a suspect, but so many students had used that gas burner that it was covered with prints—making it impossible to identify anyone.

In truth, that investigation only happened because Hye-young pressured the police. When they failed to find a suspect, they simply ruled it an accident. This time would be no different.

“Please have a seat, both of you.”

Since she hadn’t been burned this time, everything would probably be swept under the rug again.

Following the staff’s direction, Da-eun pinned a name tag to her shirt and sat down. Across from them sat Secret Letter’s director, Sa Mi-hyun, and the screenwriter, Ham Seok-jun.

“Nice to meet you both.”

Director Sa smiled warmly.
Seeing the two young women, she found herself regretting not having paid more attention to her juniors earlier.

She’d always disliked networking—academic ties, hometown ties, blood ties. But now, when she couldn’t find an actress with the right image, such principles seemed less important.

“Hello.”

The two bowed politely.
Sa Mi-hyun observed them closely, glancing between them.

“You two have a similar image.”

“Oh, people say that a lot,” Hye-young replied brightly.

Sa Mi-hyun, who had been watching her, looked down at their profiles.

Before filming began, she had asked a college professor friend to recommend some young actors.

That professor, having read the article about top star Lee Ju-ran—the lead actress known for her pure, classic image—had promised to send two talented students with a similar aura.

And now, these two were sitting right before her.

Looks like that professor wasn’t exaggerating… maybe this will work out after all.

Excitement stirred in her chest.
Even writer Ham beside her seemed intrigued.

Filming had already started, but they’d been forced to halt production—unable to find a suitable young actress to play the heroine’s teenage self. They had to pick someone today.

Sa glanced at the evaluation sheets the professor had sent. The audition would use a prepared script.

“You’ve both practiced, I’m sure?”

Secret Letter was set in the 1910s, during Japan’s occupation of Korea.
The heroine, Kim I-seon, was a quick, agile young woman who secretly delivered classified documents for the independence movement.

This audition was for the teenage version of I-seon.
The adult role was already cast—Lee Ju-ran, an actress renowned for both beauty and skill.

Both Da-eun and Hye-young resembled her: neat features, sharp yet pure eyes, clear skin, and a freshness untouched by the world. Exactly what Director Sa was looking for.

“Alright, let’s see some acting.”

She smiled, and an assistant handed each of them a script.

“You’ve probably memorized your own lines, but one of you will play I-seon, and the other will read the opposite role.”

Since they likely hadn’t memorized the partner’s dialogue, the script would help.

Hye-young raised her hand nervously.
“Will the acting of the supporting role be judged too?”

“No.”

Relieved, she smiled—but writer Ham chuckled, stroking his coarse beard.

“Still, you should help your partner stay in character. You are drama majors, after all.”

At his sharp tone, Hye-young’s face stiffened.

Harsh, as always.

Director Sa watched her tense up, then turned to Da-eun.

Da-eun glanced at her name tag—No. 1—and began centering herself emotionally.

But then—

“Let’s start with No. 2,” the director said cheerfully.

“Ah, yes!”

Flustered, Hye-young stood up with a squeak. Da-eun rose with her, script in hand.

“Number 2, put down the script,” writer Ham said.

Hye-young froze for a second, then set the script down.

“Start when you’re ready.”

At the cue, Hye-young inhaled deeply and closed her eyes.

Scene:
Seventeen-year-old Kim I-seon.
Her parents ran a rice cake shop and secretly donated their earnings to the independence movement.
I-seon couldn’t understand their choices.

This scene was about her sneaking a rice cake when she was hungry—and getting caught by her mother.

“Ah, I’m starving.”

Opening her eyes, Hye-young tiptoed as if peeking into the kitchen, pretending to lift a sieve near the stove.

Director Sa and writer Ham watched closely, eyes glinting.

Finding an imaginary rice cake, Hye-young grinned, grabbed one, and popped it into her mouth with delight.

Then—

“Why, you little brat!”

Da-eun slapped her back with a loud smack.
Hye-young yelped, rubbing her shoulder.

“Ow! M-mom!”

She whined playfully, just as the script required—a childish, cheeky tone.

“Your daughter’s hungry! What’s the big deal about one rice cake?”

Tears welled in her eyes as she pouted.

It was a good performance—exactly as Da-eun remembered from before her regression.

Hye-young had nailed the role then, too.
When the film premiered, she’d earned huge praise as Lee Ju-ran’s younger self, and her name became widely known.

Da-eun spoke her next line quietly.

“At seventeen, and still acting like a child.”

Hye-young retorted passionately.

“How much could I possibly eat?! Isn’t survival more important?! Why are other people always first, Mom? Will independence feed us?!”

Her parents had sacrificed everything for the cause, but their young daughter couldn’t grasp such things.

“I gave you that name so you’d live rightly,” Da-eun replied, voice filled with weary anger.

I-seon—to choose what is right and beneficial.

Da-eun’s face twisted with pain as she slapped Hye-young’s back again.

“You’ve got such a sharp tongue! Do you even know what you’re saying?”

“Ow, ow!”

Hye-young jumped and twisted away, still pretending to snatch another rice cake and shove it in her mouth.

Da-eun shut her eyes tightly, then opened them again.

As she raised her hand once more, Hye-young flinched dramatically.

“W-wait, Mom! Hold on! Cough—your daughter’s choking!”

Her performance was youthful, charming, exactly what the production team wanted.

Director Sa and writer Ham exchanged pleased looks.
She was the perfect image of a spirited seventeen-year-old.

“Okay, that’s enough. Good job.”

Hye-young bowed and glanced at their faces hopefully.

“Now, let’s see No. 1,” writer Ham said.

Hye-young snatched the script from Da-eun’s hands and stepped aside.

Da-eun looked down at her now-empty hands and closed her eyes.

Rivals.

They had always been rivals.

Hye-young—you weren’t talentless.
We could’ve stayed friends, grown together as healthy competitors.

So why were you so afraid of me… that you did that?

Calming her rising anger, Da-eun took a deep breath and opened her eyes.

Her expression had darkened—fatigue shading her face with depth and gravity.

She began.

“Ah, I’m starving.”

Her voice, soft but precise, filled the room.

Writer Ham’s eyes flickered with surprise.
He looked between Da-eun and the script.

Hye-young’s performance had been excellent—but in that moment, he realized what it had been missing.