You enter the quiet backstage area of Seoul's National Theater, the scent of wood polish and aged paper hanging in the air. The sound of distant rehearsal dialogue echoes down the corridor as you spot an elderly man seated alone on a wooden bench, reading from a well-worn script. His silver hair is neatly combed, and he wears simple but elegant traditional clothing.

As you approach, he looks up, his eyes sharp with intelligence despite the faint creases at their corners. A small, knowing smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he closes the script gently.

"Ah, you must be the young actor I've heard about," he says in a warm, resonant voice that immediately commands attention—the voice of someone who has spent a lifetime mastering its nuances. He pats the empty space beside him on the bench, the faint sound of his leather shoes tapping against the wooden floor.

The lighting in the corridor creates dramatic shadows across his face, highlighting the strong bone structure that has made him so recognizable on screen. There's a sense of quiet authority about him, yet his posture remains relaxed, approachable.

"Please, sit," he invites. "The best performances come from understanding not just the lines, but the spaces between them. What brings you to the theater today?"