I liked the start, even though I saw the 'call cut' thing coming way before it happened.

Edit suggestions:

"The police thought they were isolated cases. Now they're saying it's a homicideserial killer."

Homicide isn't the correct term there. Unless the deathswere considered accidents that are now discovered to be intentional. My suggested fix is a best guess but is a little redundant with previously given lines. Maybe cut the whole thing altogether?

Finally getting around to reading this! Excellent introduction to the story!

Dear Feiya,

as offered, please find here my thoughts on your fantastic first chapter.
Thank you for sharing, dear fellow duck, and I wish you all the best!

THE MURDER BEFORE THE MURDER

There are opening chapters that establish a world, and there are opening chapters that establish a way of reading. The Killer's Consultant belongs firmly to the latter.

Before I had any understanding of the setting, the protagonist, or even the genre beyond the title, the story had already convinced me that I was witnessing a genuine murder. That illusion lasts only briefly, but it lasts long enough to matter. By the time the reveal arrives – that Seo Yujin is acting on a film set rather than actually killing a woman – the first impression has already settled into the reader's mind. It is remarkably difficult to erase such a first image once it has taken root, and I suspect that is exactly what this chapter intends.

What makes this reveal satisfying is that it does not invalidate the opening scene. Instead, it transforms it. The tension remains, only its meaning changes:
Rather than discovering that the previous paragraphs "did not count", we discover that they were simultaneously introducing two different realities: the fictional murder inside the film and the very real actor capable of portraying it with unsettling conviction.

That distinction is important because the emotional effect of the opening survives the reveal. Seo Yujin may not have committed murder, but the reader has already experienced him as someone who could.

This is where the chapter demonstrates considerable structural confidence. Stories may employ dreams, visions, flash-forwards, or unreliable narration to deliver surprising plot twists. Here, however, the deception is entirely contextual and rooted in elegant circular storytelling:

CLOSING THE CIRCLE

The chapter constructs what I consider a skilfully closed narrative circle.

The opening concerns a murder that is fictional within the world of the story. From there, the narrative shifts into the reality surrounding that fictional production: actors discussing performances, directors evaluating scenes, colleagues interacting after filming. Finally, the chapter closes with news of an actual serial killer whose murders appear to be theatrically staged.

Seen structurally, the story travels from fiction to reality.
Seen thematically, however, it never leaves the subject of murder.
That dual movement fascinated me. It shows skill and strategy in the writing.

The chapter begins with death, spends its middle section discussing performance, acting, masks, improvisation and authenticity, and then quietly returns to death — except this time the murders are real. It feels like reading a Möbius strip.

I particularly appreciated how concise this entire construction is. All scenes are connected. Every transition is smooth, as we cross from one scene into another until we reach the newspaper article at the end. Nothing feels wasted, and every scene contributes to the same thematic vocabulary: killing, pretending, observing, performing, deception. Even conversations that initially seem to exist merely to establish Seo Yujin's profession end up reinforcing those same ideas. That economy of storytelling creates much needed trust. Especially in a mystery or crime novel, readers need to trust the author. They need to recognise feel that details are placed deliberately rather than accidentally, and in this chapter, you prove exactly that.

THE FIRST SUSPECT IS THE OBVIOUS SUSPECT

Naturally, the structure also manipulates the reader into forming an immediate theory.

By introducing Seo Yujin first as someone who appears to be committing murder – and then immediately informing us that genuine murders are occurring elsewhere – you practically invite us to connect the two. It is the most instinctive conclusion imaginable. We have already seen him portray a killer with frightening conviction. We learn that he improvises far beyond the script. Other people remark that he went further than expected and perhaps even further than what might be acceptable. And then we hear about a serial murderer whose crimes, of all things, possess an “theatrical quality”. Every narrative arrow points in exactly one direction.

Precisely because those arrows point so clearly, however, I became suspicious of this one-shot-only-presentation. Whenever a mystery encourages me this strongly toward one conclusion within its opening chapter, I begin wondering whether the story wants me to believe something specifically so that it can later dismantle that assumption. That is not criticism — in fact, it is praise. The chapter made me aware of its own manipulation. I found myself constantly asking what way the plot may develop;

• whether Seo Yujin is truly written out to be the serial killer,
• whether he will, by choice or force, become involved as some kind of consultant,
• whether he will investigate the crimes or assist the investigators as someone who psychologically understands such killers,
• whether he himself will eventually become the prime suspect simply because his profession, demeanor, and extraordinary acting ability make him appear guilty.

That uncertainty creates a strong hook. Long before I feel inclined to investigating the murder, I am encouraged to investigate the protagonist.

Now then, who is he?

THE CALM THAT INVITES SUSPICION

He is composed. He does not appear interested in arguing. When confronted by Dohyun, he does not lower himself to petty insults or emotional outbursts. Instead, he remains almost detached, as though constantly measuring the value of every response before speaking.

It remains to be seen whether that composure belongs to a well-mannered gentleman, or to a professionally self-aware actor, or to an exceptionally disciplined killer — or, perhaps, to all three. And that ambiguity is exactly why the character works. The chapter never asks me to like Seo Yujin, but it asks me, through the repeated praise given by others, to acknowledge his acting skill. He is an actor first, and that makes a very different reading experience: Every calm reaction invites another interpretation.

Now, about those others praising him …

CURTAIN CALLS AND CLOSED CURTAINS

One detail I kept returning to while reading was Jiyeon. For now, her role seems straightforward: she exists to validate both Seo Yujin's person and his extraordinary acting ability.

The core aspect of the film scene is that Seo Yujin goes noticeably beyond the script. His performance becomes more physical, more intimate, more unsettling than anyone expected, including the production crew. That undoubtedly makes the scene stronger. It also creates a situation in which another performer suddenly has to react to something unexpected while remaining in character.

Afterwards, another member of the staff openly criticises Seo Yujin for having crossed a line …

But Jiyeon herself reassures him that he did not cross any boundaries and furthermore praises his improvisation.

The accusation is raised by Dohyun:

"What's going on here?" she asked, her gaze sweeping over Dohyun with disapproval.

Dohyun straightened but didn't back down. "We're having a conversation about professional boundaries."

But almost immediately neutralised and, in my reading, presented as jealousy instead: Dohyun is seems jealous of this fantastic actor, who just now had a chance to get closer-than-scripted to this female colleague. People all around admire Seo Yujin. Dohyun, in contrast, is met with “disapproval”.

On the surface, that scene communicates a simple message: None of this was inappropriate. It was professional. From a narrative perspective, having the “female victim” approve is an elegant way to keep your protagonist sympathetic despite opening the story with an intensely physical scene: It reinforces Seo Yujin's extraordinary commitment to his craft and demonstrates why those around him consider him such an exceptional actor. It removes the possibility that readers interpret Seo Yujin as someone who casually disregards his co-stars' boundaries.

This effectively calms the reader.

Or does it?

Should it?

WHERE A SUPPORTING ROLE MAY REFUSE TO STAY SUPPORTING
[A PERSONAL RECOMMENDATION]

Now, what follows is entirely my own interpretation, and I want to separate it clearly from the feedback above. Everything up to this point has been centred on what is already present on the page. The thoughts below, however, are less feedback than they are an invitation to imagine one possible direction the story could take.

I found myself thinking about Jiyeon, because I genuinely believe there is remarkable untapped potential in her character. Whether that potential is relevant to the novel only you can know. You are, after all, the director of this production, while I am merely an interested member of the audience peeking behind the curtain.

So please take what follows in exactly that spirit. Perhaps these ideas will feel like a worthwhile improvisation — something like Seo Yujin's own unexpected additions to the scene. Or perhaps they are simply one author wandering a little too enthusiastically onto another author's stage. Either way, they are offered with complete respect for your vision and in the hope that they might spark an idea, whether directly or by encouraging you to lean into this direction later:

In core, I find the exchange between Seo Yujin and Jiyeon one of those situations where a character can become dramatically richer if the story allows complexity instead of immediate resolution.

A person can intellectually understand that a colleague meant no harm while still carrying discomfort afterward. Professionalism and emotional unease are not mutually exclusive. Especially in a story already dealing with murder, performance, identity, and hidden truths, that psychological ambiguity could become another compelling layer.

My thought was this: At the moment Jiyeon functions as a supporting character whose narrative role is to illuminate Seo Yujin's qualities; pun intended. She is literally playing a supporting role within the film while simultaneously occupying a supporting role within the novel itself. Yet precisely because the scene raises questions about physical boundaries, professional trust, and performance, I found myself hoping she might eventually refuse to remain merely that.

There are many believable reasons why Jiyeon would genuinely appreciate what happened. Perhaps the two actors have worked together for years and possess enormous mutual trust. Perhaps improvisation is common between them. Perhaps she values authentic emotional performances more than strict adherence to choreography, and admires his improvisation because it elevates every scene he touches. None of these possibilities would be unrealistic.

Jiyeon says that everything is fine, and yes, I believe the story intends us to accept that. But precisely because the chapter repeatedly blurs performance and reality, I found myself asking how much of that reassurance belongs to Jiyeon as a person, and how much belongs to Jiyeon as a professional actress. And also, just how much more of a great and complex story could come from this?

I thought:

Perhaps she is still establishing herself in this rather tough industry that oh so much relies on connections, and recognises that acting opposite someone capable of creating unforgettable moments benefits her own career.

This idea carries fascinating dramatic potential. It reminded me of BoJack Horseman, specifically the storyline in which actor BoJack stars in the detective series Philbert. During one scene, his acting becomes far more physically aggressive than intended, leaving his scene partner visibly shaken. Afterwards, BoJack wants to apologise publicly for this assault [instead of pretending that “it was all an act”] because he recognises he crossed a professional boundary. Yet the actress asks him not to. Her reasoning is heartbreaking: BoJack is famous, she is not. This production is finally giving her a career. She does not want to become known forever as the actress BoJack assaulted during filming. She wants to be recognised for her performance, not for an incident that would permanently define every interview and every article written about her.

I found myself thinking about that dynamic while reading this chapter: Professional environments create complicated power structures. When one performer is already famous while another is still establishing herself, genuine consent becomes increasingly difficult to evaluate from the outside. Even if the less experienced actress sincerely says everything is fine, readers may still wonder whether gratitude, admiration, career ambitions, or simple reluctance to create conflict influence that answer. None of those possibilities require dishonesty. Human beings often convince themselves they are comfortable with situations that only reveal their emotional consequences much later.

That is why I think Jiyeon possesses the potential to become one of the novel's most interesting characters if she is allowed to exist beyond this introductory function. Perhaps she truly was completely comfortable, and the incident never affects her again. That is a perfectly valid outcome. But perhaps she later realises that something about the experience lingered longer than expected, and her relation to Seo Yujin could be affected by that.

Perhaps working opposite Seo Yujin now feels subtly different. Perhaps she catches herself watching him more carefully, unable to decide whether she feels admiration, caution, curiosity, or fear. Those reactions need not become accusations. In fact, they would probably be stronger if they never did. Sometimes the most realistic psychological consequences are not dramatic confrontations but quiet shifts in perception that neither character fully understands.

The line between acting and reality is already this chapter's central theme. Every major interaction revolves around someone inhabiting a role. Seo Yujin performs Kiho. The director evaluates the performance. The crew discusses performance. The newspaper reports on murders that themselves appear deliberately staged. Even the serial killer, if the reports are accurate, seems to be treating homicide as theatrical presentation. Every conversation returns, directly or indirectly, to acting, pretending, directing attention, hiding intention, or constructing appearances. That thematic consistency is remarkable.

I would love to see Jiyeon included in that. Allowing her to occupy that uncertain space as more than a narrative instrument to elevate your protagonist would strengthen your theme considerably: It would enrich the mystery and ambiguity surrounding Seo Yujin, regardless of whether he ultimately proves to be the serial killer. It would prevent the chapter's most physically intimate scene from existing solely to demonstrate his brilliance as an actor.
If you added just a hint of hesitation in Jiyeon as she affirms Seo Yujin after the first scene, you could plant a fantastic seed of doubt in the reader, and furthermore suggest he presence of a complex, three-dimensional female (side-)character.

If that potential is realised, I suspect she could become one of the story's most quietly memorable characters, perhaps even a reflection for those readers who experienced a [man’s] transgression of [blurry] boundaries and the conflicting emotions that may emerge from that experience.

Now, this shall be it. These were the deeper waters my reading drifted into. I would genuinely love to hear your perspective and whether Jiyeon is a character you plan to explore further, or whether I have simply let my curiosity drift off the stage and swim a little farther than intended.

OVERALL: THE PERFORMANCE OF THE PERFORMANCE

Crime fiction depends on an invisible agreement between author and reader. Readers must believe that clues matter, that characterisation has purpose, and that revelations will feel earned rather than arbitrary. Authors, in return, ask readers to postpone judgment until the entire picture emerges.

Stylistically, this first chapter successfully establishes that trust, while showing us a perfectly circular plot structure that revolves around deception: The introduction to Seo Yujin’s acting skill becomes a lens through which every future interaction can be examined. Every calm response, every measured expression, and every withheld thought must be interpreted in two radically different ways: either as evidence of remarkable emotional maturity — or as the practiced composure of someone, perhaps a serial killer, who has never stopped performing. That is exactly what great actors aspire to achieve, and exactly what terrifying criminals often rely upon.

Whether Seo Yujin ultimately becomes the murderer, the consultant, the suspect, the investigator, or something entirely different; I believe this parallel will be the central metaphor through which the entire story examines issues such as identity, deception, mental disorder, self-deception, guilt, and truth. And if that is indeed where The Killer's Consultant is heading, then your opening chapter has laid its foundation with remarkable precision.

WHAT I WANTED TO SAY ALL ALONG

This is the most crucial observation I made. In fact, it is so nuanced that I could never have captured it in English translation.
Fortunately, between us, we do not have to translate, so:

Quack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack quack, quack quack quack quack:
Quack quack, quack quack quack — Quack.

Great opening. Having read the blurb for the story, I was expecting it to start exactly the way it did, but it was still fun to read. I'm adding this to my Follow list.

> The muscle relaxant he had dissolved into her champagne had done its work beautifully.

Didn't expect to read this as the very first line :o

> The tears still glistened on his cheeks, but the grief behind them had drained away, replaced by something colder.

Uuuhhhuhuhhh. I'm shivering 😚

> “I love working with you, Yujin-ssi. I'm glad you're not a real killer."

Sounds like a bad omen 🤨

> Whatever you were doing, that wasn't the character."

Ohhh?? I'm intrigued. Please elaborate 👀

> No, Yujin thought, his mouth curving faintly. Only the things that might be useful later.

What a fun thought 🤔

Anyway~
Oh hello, TKC, nice to meet you! Please be kind to me~ 💞😘💞

What a way to start. Hot dang.

I bet it's meant to be jarring, but the second half of the chapter was hard to focus on because the tension of the first half was so well done.

Also, this guy, he seems way way too good at killing for an actor. I instantly blame him for the other murders. At least that's my pea brain's concoction of a theory. 🌷

Gah! You totally had me at the start! I was sure we were reading about an actual murder with some sort of possession, mimicry/obsession, or multiple personality thing going on!

Well done, love a good reversal where the author flips everything on its head and I immediately say I should have known!

I’m definitely suspicious of Yujin, but since this seems like the kind of story where things aren’t what they seem I shall reserve judgement for now.

Great descriptions and imagery. Bringing the sensations in was particularly effective - the tackiness of blood, hammering of a pulse, nails catching on fabric. Made it very visceral.

Also, have I ever mentioned that I love kdramas? This shall be fun!