Chapter 96: Meteor

“Sua, have you thought about your acceptance speech?”

It was a casual remark made as they were heading toward the awards stage.

Sua found Seo Yeon-ju’s sudden question unfamiliar.

“Acceptance speech?”

“Yeah, your acceptance speech.”

As Seo Yeon-ju nodded, Sua quietly fell into thought.

I never even considered winning an award.

Excellence Award, Best Actor Award, Grand Prize.

It would be a lie to say she had never imagined it.

But at the same time, she hadn’t expected it.

When expectations are too high, disappointment follows just as steeply.

That was why Sua had tried to stay grounded.

She was just an acting aspirant who had gained a special advantage.

That was all Sua saw herself as.

Of course, it would be great to win, but if she didn’t, that was fine too.

She had only just taken her first step as an actress, and there was still a long road ahead.

So, she asked lightly.

“Do people usually prepare for things like that?”

“Of course. Oh, or are you saying Sua doesn’t even need to prepare?”

Seo Yeon-ju smiled slightly.

“Mm.”

After thinking for a moment, Sua asked,

“Is this award that big of a deal?”

She meant it in a self-deprecating way—

If it’s such a big award, it’s probably out of my reach anyway.

But, of course, that wasn’t how Seo Yeon-ju took it.

If anything, she seemed offended.

As if Sua had said, It’s just an award. Who cares?

“…What?”

Her eyes widened.

“Of course, it might not matter to you. It’s not like your career ends if you don’t win.

But the moment you win even one award—it’s like growing wings.”

“Wings?”

“Yes.

You’ll start receiving great scripts.

Commercials and variety show offers will flood in.

Winning an award isn’t just about making it to the finals—it’s on a whole other level.”

Seo Yeon-ju’s voice grew firm.

“A rookie actress kicking off her career with a short film festival trophy?

That’s unheard of.

It’s like engraving gold on the first line of your portfolio.”

“….”

The more Sua listened, the more she realized this wasn’t something to take lightly.

Her special ability was “Script Experience.”

Which meant good scripts were crucial.

And winning an award meant she’d have access to nothing but great scripts.

How could she not be tempted?

“…I guess it really would be good to win.”

No—

Actually, she wanted to win.

Somewhere along the conversation, Sua’s heart had shifted.

But there was another problem.

What do I even say?

If she did win, what would she say?

And then—

Almost as if she had read Sua’s mind—

“You don’t have to say anything grand.”

Seo Yeon-ju said,

“Have you ever seen people making wishes on a shooting star?”

“A… shooting star?”

It was such an abrupt topic that Sua tilted her head.

“You know, how people believe that if you make a wish on a shooting star, it’ll come true?”

“I’ve heard of it.”

Sua nodded, but then frowned slightly.

“But that’s unrealistic.

It’s impossible to react in the split second a shooting star appears and say your whole wish in time.”

“Then what if you knew exactly when the shooting star would fall?

And what if you had your wish perfectly prepared?”

“Then… it might be possible.”

“Right?”

Seo Yeon-ju turned slightly and looked at Sua.

“Actors are shooting stars to someone out there.

And you’re no exception.”

“…Huh?”

“There are people waiting for you so they can make a wish.

They’re hoping that you’ll win this award.”

Only then did Sua see the bigger picture.

Director Park Jun, CEO Kim Yi-seo, and her The Sword co-stars—Seo Yeon-ju and Kim Sun-il.

All of them were hoping for her victory.

This wasn’t just her goal to achieve.

To them, Sua was like a shooting star.

A symbol of a future they could wish upon.

And so—without realizing it—she wanted to win.

She no longer worried about what she would say.

The words had already come to her naturally.

Because there were people she genuinely wanted to thank.

---

“The awards ceremony will now begin!”

The The Sword production team was seated near the center.

Because of that, Sua had to press her hand against her chest, trying to calm her racing heart.

To be seated at the very center of such a massive crowd—

It was overwhelming.

And then, without delay—

The awards began.

“Shall we begin with the nominees? Congratulations to all!”

The invited actors and renowned directors took turns announcing the winners.

For the new directors, even just being nominated brought tears to their eyes.

Clap, clap, clap, clap—!

Sincere words of gratitude.

Applause in response.

The atmosphere was beautiful.

And after the nominee announcements concluded—

“Now, let’s turn our attention to the actors who shined like stars.

We will now award the Excellence Award, Best Actor Award, and Grand Prize—

Three winners in total!”

After that, a thin-framed director stepped onto the stage.

His deeply set eyes—there was no mistaking it—Director Go Tae-min.

He began speaking in his usual smooth tone.

“It has been an honor to serve as the lead judge for the Busan International Short Film Festival, which was one of the most spectacular in history.

I was amazed by many of the works presented, and my perspective has broadened greatly.

Now, let’s begin with the Excellence Award for Best Actor.”

The recipient was a complete newcomer, a face unfamiliar to the audience.

Nerves and overwhelming emotion were clear in their expression.

“Th-Thank you! I’ll keep working hard!”

Clap, clap, clap—!

Now, it was time for the second-place award—the Best Actor Award.

“The Best Actor Award goes to… Yang Ha-rin from Wind… Congratulations!”

It was Yang Ha-rin.

As if she had been waiting for this exact moment, she stood up confidently, a winner’s smirk already tugging at her lips.

Meanwhile, in the audience, the applause was mixed with murmuring.

The reason?

Everyone had already predicted how this awards ceremony would play out.

“Yang Ha-rin got Best Actor… Well, I guess she deserved it.”

“The Grand Prize is obviously going to Kim Sun-il or Seo Yeon-ju.”

“Kim Sun-il was just a special guest, so it’s probably Seo Yeon-ju. It’s the cleanest way to wrap up the ceremony.”

While the murmurs spread, Yang Ha-rin strode onto the stage radiating triumph.

The Best Actor Award—second place.

It was an incredible achievement, and her satisfaction was plain as day.

Soon, she accepted the trophy.

“Congratulations once again, Ms. Ha-rin.”

“Yes, thank you.”

She lightly stroked the trophy, prominently engraved with the Busan International Short Film Festival logo, as if savoring the moment.

Then, after a pause, she finally spoke.

“Thank you.

To our CT Entertainment CEO and the hardworking Wind production team—I’ve always wanted to repay your support, and I’m glad I could do so with this award.”

Her voice was calm, composed.

“I’ve always had doubts.

I often wondered if I was truly fit for a lead role.

But today, I feel like I finally have my answer.

This gives me the confidence to take on leading roles in the future.”

At that moment, Sua tilted her head slightly.

It was subtle—but Yang Ha-rin had just looked her up and down.

And then, Sua’s instincts kicked in.

That unmistakable feeling—

The way someone disliked her.

Then, deep within her mind, Yuhan-Sua spoke.

—She’s saying she was, of course, always meant to be a lead actress, while that “pathetic” Sua tried to reach beyond her station. “You aimed for a lead role, yet you didn’t even win an award.”

—“How arrogant.”

—“It’s not like Sua stole anything unfairly.”

—“Meanwhile, she tried to manipulate the director like a puppet. And yet, she stands there without a shred of shame.”

Naturally, Sua wasn’t feeling great.

She scratched her cheek absentmindedly.

And then—

“One last thing.”

Yang Ha-rin deliberately emphasized her next words.

“I can only imagine how much effort today’s award recipients put into their work.

So, I want to take this moment to say congratulations to all of them. And thank you for your hard work.”

—“She’s pretending to compliment everyone, but it’s really just a way to lift herself up.”

—“She’s saying that she worked hard. And by contrast, Sua, who didn’t win, didn’t work hard enough.”

—“Unbelievable. A woman who got here by throwing money around acting all high and mighty.”

Of course, only those who knew the history between Yang Ha-rin and Sua would catch the subtext.

To everyone else, it simply sounded like an elegant and gracious speech.

Clap, clap, clap—!

The applause rang out.

And then—

“Now, all that remains is the Grand Prize.”

Director Go Tae-min took a step aside.

“And to present this award, we have a distinguished guest who has traveled all the way from Japan—Director Yusaku.”

At that moment, the audience’s eyes naturally turned to Seo Yeon-ju.

Only one award remained.

And everyone assumed it was hers.

Soon, Director Yusaku appeared.

A widely recognized figure in both Korea and Japan, Yusaku had a goatee that resembled a goat’s beard and a gently wrinkled smile.

“ありがとうございます.”
(Thank you.)

He began his speech.

“It was an invaluable experience to witness so many short films from Korea.

As a fellow filmmaker who loves the arts, I am honored to present this award.”

Of course, Yusaku’s speech took longer than Go Tae-min’s.

The reason? Translation.

Every time he spoke, a translator repeated his words in Korean.

“And now, for the Grand Prize winner…”

Yusaku glanced at his cue card—and then grinned.

“Lee Sua from The Sword! Congratulations!”

Sua.

Lee Sua’s name was called.

But Sua didn’t react immediately.

And it wasn’t just her.

Everyone else froze as well.

“Wait, who?”

“That wasn’t Seo Yeon-ju’s name, was it?”

“…They said Lee Sua?”

“Huh? Then what about Seo Yeon-ju?”

“Who even is Lee Sua?”

For those who hadn’t watched The Sword—industry insiders and invited actors alike—it was a baffling turn of events.

It was an unbelievable upset.

They should have been applauding the recipient, but even that was difficult.

Because they had no idea who she was.

So, after a brief hesitation, everyone just started clapping.

Clap, clap, clap—!

Only after a long pause did Sua finally stand up, hesitantly, from her seat.

At that moment, scattered gasps of realization rippled through the audience—those who had watched The Sword finally recognized her.

“Oh, it’s Wi Ji-hye.”

“Right! She was really good.”

“But still, a complete unknown winning the Grand Prize…?”

“…She doesn’t look surprised at all.”

“I thought that was just part of her character, but maybe she’s really like that. You wouldn’t even think she was a rookie….”

Amid the mix of reactions filling the air, Sua made her way toward the stage.

She was trembling inside, but to everyone else, she seemed composed and steady.

“What… What did you just say?”

Yang Ha-rin’s stunned outburst cut through the noise.

But it was quickly drowned out by applause.

Sua didn’t even spare her a thought.

Second place has no right to complain.

And then—

When Director Yusaku and Sua finally stood face to face—

The female translator, dressed in a formal suit, leaned in and whispered discreetly to Sua, ensuring her voice wouldn’t be picked up by the microphone.

“Could you stand here?”

“Like this?”

“Yes. The camera angles are set for that position.”

Meanwhile, Director Yusaku carefully lifted the Grand Prize trophy.

His ever-smiling face, lined with soft wrinkles, reminded Sua of a Hahoe mask she had once seen in her childhood.

“おめでとうございます。演技は印象深かったです。”
(Congratulations. Your performance was truly impressive.)

And then—

Thud—!

A collective gasp erupted from the audience.

“…!”

Even Yusaku’s face turned to shock.

Rightfully so.

Because the trophy slipped from his hands and hit the floor.

And worse—

It was a delicate statue-like design—thin and tall, perfectly breakable.

And sure enough, it snapped in half.

“あ、こうしたら….”
(Ah, if it’s like this….)

Yusaku turned to Sua with a deeply apologetic expression, then glanced toward the staff with a helpless look, silently asking,

What do we do in a situation like this?

But then—

At that exact moment—

Someone calmly picked up the broken trophy.

It was Sua.

“大丈夫です。これも気に入ります。”
(It’s okay. I like it this way too.)

As the audience reeled from the unexpected response—

Yusaku and his translator were shocked for a completely different reason.

“W-Wait… her pronunciation is perfect?”

“…Japanese?!”

Sua’s Japanese was flawless—as if spoken by a professional announcer.