Chapter 147: Only the Brave Use Rain

The rain began without warning.

To be precise, the clouds had given a warning, but no one had taken it seriously.

The scene where Cheon Na Young was scheduled to perform ‘Feeding Earthworms to the Chickens’ under the sunlight turned into an outdoor performance survival game three minutes before filming began.

“Wait, is this… really happening?”

Park Sang-tae closed his monitor. What was beadily forming on his forehead was not sweat, but a dew-like despair.

“Ha, what are we going to do… The atmosphere in the script is completely ruined. This scene was supposed to be bright and sunny… What… what is this!”

The camera team was frantic, covering their equipment in plastic; the lighting team was clutching their heads while cursing the sky; and the chickens had run away after getting hit by the rain.

At that moment, someone approached quietly. It was Lee Junghyuk, carrying the container of earthworms.

“Director Park.”

“…Ah, Writer. The situation right now is…”

“Let’s change this to a rainy version.”

“…What?”

“The wind is blowing from the northeast, so an elder said the clouds won’t be clearing out for a while.”

Behind Lee Junghyuk, an old woman who looked like a weather expert stroked her chin and nodded.

“We can’t use sunlight right now. But rain might actually suit this scene much better.”

Park Sang-tae hesitated for a moment. He wondered if this was a viable alternative, but then an absurd statement followed.

“Anyone can use sunlight. But rain — only the brave can use that.”

“…Is that a poem, a proverb, or a threat?”

“It’s directing.”

Lee Junghyuk quietly added an explanation. He described the image of the chickens out in the yard instead of avoiding the rain, Cheon Na Young in boots and a raincoat handing out earthworms, and the sound of the rain breaking as it hit the roof of the chicken coop. He also pictured the silhouette of the actor moving, tapping her boots without an umbrella.

“Against a rainy backdrop, Na-young will look much more mysterious as she feeds the chickens. It’s a feeling that only real nature can provide.”

Park Sang-tae nodded as he looked at the script, then shook his head.

“What is this… This isn’t an outdoor reality documentary… If it rains, we’ll get NGs, the actors will get soaked, and everything will be ruined…”

“The actors are ready to get wet.”

“…How do you know that?”

“Their pay is low. They probably factored in variables like this.”

Park Sang-tae laughed at the absurdity of those words. However, Lee Junghyuk’s face was serious. His claim that the scene of feeding earthworms in a raincoat on a rainy day could serve as the core mood of the scene was no joke. It looked as if he could already see the finished scene in his eyes.

Looking at Writer Lee Junghyuk’s face, Park Sang-tae found it impossible to say ‘no’. Even though he was the director, the writer was dominating the set more perfectly than he was.

In the end, they pushed through with the filming.

Cheon Na Young wore a floral-patterned raincoat and a hair tie instead of a kerchief, then walked up the low hill in yellow boots. The chickens ran around as they pleased, but that actually felt more natural. As she carefully pulled out an earthworm and looked down, her expression held a strange persuasiveness, looking like someone who had done this since birth rather than a character she had just created.

Cheon Na Young quietly looked up at the falling rain.

“…”

Usually, actresses would never allow themselves to be rained on, as it would ruin their well-done makeup. However, Cheon Na Young stood still in the downpour.

The camera director didn’t miss it and zoomed in on her face. Raindrops fell through her eyelashes. It felt like a sacred ritual, washing her already transparent skin even clearer.

When the filming ended and they checked the scene on the monitor, it exceeded expectations. No, it was just… good. Cheon Na Young’s mysterious appearance radiated a strange beauty in the dark rain.

Park Sang-tae remained silent in front of the monitor for a long time, and the lighting team whispered beside him first.

“…Hey, this… this turned out really well.”

The makeup team added their thoughts.

“…I don’t think it would have felt like this if it were sunny. She feels less like a human and more like a goddess.”

“Doesn’t it look like a commercial? Though a commercial where someone is holding earthworms is a bit funny.”

Park Sang-tae spoke quietly.

“…It’s a good thing we failed.”

“Pardon?”

“Thanks to the ruined weather. It actually turned out better.”

The rain fell faster and more evenly than expected. With no wind and no thunder, it fell neatly and calmly, as if someone were tilting a transparent water bottle from the sky. Those honest, straight lines fell evenly onto the paddies, and Cheon Na Young, on the low hill, was already entering her second take.

“Camera.”

Following the quiet shout from under the plastic cover, the next cut followed.

Cheon Na Young, already in her raincoat and boots, was carefully opening the earthworm container in front of the chicken coop. The water droplets falling on her head lightly shook her bangs, creating a luster that could not be replicated under sunlight.

A single earthworm on the back of her hand wriggled slightly, and her hand movements as she carefully handed it to a chicken were surprisingly stable. To anyone watching, those were not the movements of an ‘earthworm beginner’, but the skilled hands of a chicken owner who had lived in this village for 20 years.

“Cut.”

The second take ended, and Park Sang-tae, standing behind the monitor, remained silent with his head bowed. The raindrops on the raincoat, the chickens’ movements, the earthworm’s wriggling, and Cheon Na Young’s reactions and facial angles—even the farming equipment in the background of the fields—everything was impossibly ‘believable’.

“…This… is better than the sunny scene.’

As he muttered that sentence, the camera director beside him agreed.

“Right? The feeling… this is much more realistic. The mood is alive. The mise-en-scene is incredible too.”

Peeking at the monitor, Cheon Na Young tilted her head.

“Oh? This came out pretty. My face looks good.”

The assistant director replied, sounding surprised.

“I mean, Na-young… to say it ‘came out well’ when your face is wet and your hair is matted in the rain, you really are a natural-born actress…”

“The important thing is that it looks natural. I just have to melt the rain into my emotions.”

The answer was light, but the density of the acting contained within it was far from light. An attitude that acting wasn’t about giving up when it rained, but accepting those emotions when it did.

The staff nodded, and from that moment on, this filming site was no longer a volunteer farm activity. The single fact that a ‘logical result’ had come out of an ‘illogical environment’ made all these crude settings strangely justifiable.

And in the middle of it all, there was a man standing still without even a plastic umbrella. It was Lee Junghyuk. Still holding the container of earthworms, he was simply watching the filmed scene with his own eyes.

Park Sang-tae approached him quietly and asked, “…Writer. This scene… by any chance… did you know it would turn out like this from the beginning?”

Without turning his head, Lee Junghyuk replied, “No. But… I thought it was possible. Everyone here is a professional, after all.”

Park Sang-tae was speechless at that answer. It wasn’t certainty or a premonition; it was an irresponsible yet strangely persuasive logic of ‘pushing forward because it seemed like it would work’.

“…Is that for real?”

“Director. Dramas are… sometimes, you just have to go for it.”

“Director, what should we do about the next scene? Should we move indoors? It looks like it’ll keep raining.”

An assistant director gathering around the monitor spoke while organizing files. At that, Park Sang-tae shook his head.

“Let’s stick to this for the next scene as well. If we get delayed, the filming will get longer.”

“And if the filming gets longer, the production cost goes up.”

Lee Junghyuk chuckled as he chimed in. Somehow, Park Sang-tae had also been influenced by Lee Junghyuk’s ‘frugality’. Or rather, he was influenced by his ‘sincerity’. It felt as if he had been infected with the confidence that anything could be done in this situation.

In that way, the outdoor scenes continued rapidly. They covered at least 30% more than the scheduled amount. Instead of being delayed by the weather, the filming had actually been moved up. The crew went from being surprised to feeling relieved that this set was their reality.

“Alright, then that’s it for today—”

“No.”

Before he could even finish his sentence, Lee Junghyuk cut in while handing over a tumbler of instant coffee.

“We have to film the scene after sunset now. We’re going into the night shots.”

Park Sang-tae stopped in his tracks. The staff and actors nearby all turned their heads at the same time.

“…Excuse me?”

“It’s on the schedule. One night shot after switching to the outdoors. We have to do that now. Since we’re shooting it tomorrow anyway, it’s more efficient to pull it forward.”

“Wait, Writer, do you know what time it is? We’ve been filming in the rain for a while, and the actors are exhausted—”

“Right now? Right now is the most expensive time.”

Lee Junghyuk continued calmly.

“Do you know how much it costs to rent one night camera? If the day passes, the extras have to be paid separately again, and the staff’s session fees and night shifts are calculated differently.”

Park Sang-tae blinked.

“…Do you have all that memorized?”

“My own money went into this.”

For a moment, the entire set was enveloped in silence. No one said it, but those words didn’t just mean ‘I participated in production with my own funds’; it meant ‘The air, money, people, and time moving here are all my money.’

“We have to increase efficiency to avoid losses. Of course, it’s most important to do it without accidents or anyone getting sick, but Na-young’s scene, where she got hit by the most rain, is over. Yoo-seok is waiting over there with his hand up.”

He was like a business owner, an accountant, a startup CEO, and above all, a real writer.

Park Sang-tae looked down at the script on his lap and whispered quietly, “…He’s serious. He’s really serious.’

Lee Junghyuk didn’t smile. He simply gave a calm nod.

“Then let’s begin. One more scene. Change the camera settings and set the lighting to a dark tone.”

Seojiwon asked from a distance, “Writer, I appear in the next scene, right?”

“Yes. You have four lines.”

“Then I’ll have one more piece of boiled pork before I start.”

Everyone laughed. When the main actors were that enthusiastic, who could object? It was true they were exhausted and it was difficult, but no one said ‘let’s stop’.

At some point, the rain stopped and the camera began to roll again. Before long, this set was no longer a farm visit or volunteer work; it had become a real ‘production site’. Everyone’s bodies were tired, but seeing the shots come out so well caused adrenaline to surge.

When the last cut of the night shoot ended, one of the staff members approached Park Sang-tae at the monitor.

“Director, is it really all over for today?”

“Oh, yeah. Really over.”

Hearing that, the assistant director looked at the sky, then at his side, and said, “Wow, I feel less tired than I expected, despite filming this much.”

“I know. We filmed a ton… but strangely, I still have some energy left. Honestly, I feel like we could even film a bit more?”

Someone was pouring out the remaining water from a basin, and another was closing a lunchbox lid while saying, “Let’s go with this again tomorrow.”

Seojiwon took a sip of miso soup and left a review: “It’s gotten a bit salty from boiling so long. We’ll need more broth tomorrow.”

Cheon Na Young joked to the staff, “Are you going to change the directing again if it rains tomorrow?”

Every part of the scene looked strangely agile, flexible, and even decent, in a way that didn’t fit a ‘small company, small drama’.

And there was one person sitting alone at a small meeting room table in the innermost part of the community center. It was Lee Junghyuk. Sitting not at a writer’s desk or in a conference room, but at a folding table next to the coffee pot, he was manually recording today’s volume, the number of lunchboxes, equipment time, actor pay, and the settlement sheet per session, tapping on a calculator and transferring it to a notebook.

Park Sang-tae approached him slowly and asked, “…Not finished yet?”

“No. I have to organize today’s work today so my head isn’t cluttered tomorrow.”

“You really are… a bit unique, Writer.”

Without lifting his head, Lee Junghyuk replied, “It’s thanks to you. Because I’m working with reliable people, I’m able to be ambitious.”

Park Sang-tae turned to leave without a word, but then looked back at Lee Junghyuk again. He felt as if everything Lee Junghyuk had done so far was clicking into place. It wasn’t just his ability as a writer.

‘He seems less like a writer and more like a talented producer.’

The way he smoothly took control of the director, the various staff members, and even the actors to lead them in the direction he wanted was the discretion of an excellent producer. Where had that kind of power suddenly come from? Had he always had that level of ability?

Park Sang-tae pressed his throbbing temples and headed toward the community center.

“Money sure is terrifying.”