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# Chapter 2: Advice and Silence
Junho’s coffee was growing cold. The foam had disappeared, leaving the surface smooth. Minjun watched it without touching his own cup, instead running his fingers along the rim. Warmth still lingered there.
“What was the role this time?”
“A soldier with two lines of dialogue.”
Junho let out a hollow laugh—the kind that seemed to come from looking at his own past.
“Two lines is plenty.”
The words sounded like a joke, but neither of them smiled. Junho took another sip of his coffee. The cup was emptying. Minjun studied Junho’s hand—the way his fingers gripped the cup. There was something in that gesture alone that spoke of someone who’d done this many times before. Confidence. Or familiarity.
“Minjun, why do you want to be an actor?”
The question came suddenly. Junho asked it while setting down his cup, his eyes still fixed on the window outside—as if looking directly at Minjun would be somehow wrong.
Minjun felt the weight of his unpreparedness. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Closed it. He repeated this three times.
“I don’t know.”
The answer was honest. Minjun truly didn’t know why he was an actor. He remembered his father, before he died, boiling ramen and telling him: “Minjun, become an actor. Your father failed, but you can be different.” That was all it took. But he couldn’t say that to Junho now. Talking about death felt like exposing weakness.
Junho nodded.
“That might be the right answer. People in this business who know their ‘why’—they either leave quickly or go crazy.”
Junho was looking at him now. His eyes were deep but exhausted, with shadows beneath them like someone who hadn’t slept in days.
“You’ve lasted four years. Do you understand how remarkable that is?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think you do.”
Junho smiled—this time with a bit more warmth.
“When I was where you are, I’d already done three commercials and five drama bit parts. You? You’ve spent four years as an extra. And you’re still here. What is that? What is that?”
Minjun had no answer. Junho’s question wasn’t rhetorical. It sounded like he was asking himself.
“At first, I thought I had talent,” Junho continued. “Then I thought I was lucky. Now… now I just feel like I’m enduring. Same face in the mirror every day, same chair, same words repeated. Nothing changes. Well, something does change—I’m just getting older.”
Junho’s voice grew quieter. The café’s background music became louder—some sad jazz piece, a trumpet wailing long and low.
“So you need to work harder, Minjun. For now, enduring is right. But one day, one moment, you’ll ask yourself: ‘Is this right?’ When that comes, you’ll have to choose. Keep going, or quit. I never made that choice. That’s why I’m sitting here now.”
Minjun watched Junho, who was looking out the window again. Seoul’s streets were growing colder as the afternoon light faded. People hurried past, as if fleeing something.
“There’s another audition,” Junho said suddenly. His voice had changed—the fatigue lifted, replaced by something else. Anticipation. Or anxiety.
“What?”
“Netflix drama. The most successful Korean production lately. They’re looking for newcomers. Mid-twenties male. Harmless face. A supporting role, but a key one—the kind that anchors the lead.”
Junho was looking at him now, his eyes clear. This was a proposal. Or more precisely, an opportunity.
“…Me?”
“And there’s Woori too. Musical actress Woori. You might not know her, but she’s seen you. In the locker room. She recommended you.”
Minjun’s chest tightened. Woori. That name. Coming from Junho’s lips. It was strange that Junho would recommend anyone at all. He’d always said this business was about surviving alone, that everyone was competition. But here he was, recommending someone.
“Woori is… what kind of…?”
“A good actress. Really good. You’ll learn a lot working with her. And she’ll learn from watching you. That’s how it works in this business—some people grow, some people stay still.”
Junho’s words ended. The café clock showed five o’clock. Afternoon light had already surrendered half the space. Evening was approaching.
“The audition is tomorrow at 10 AM. At The Star’s conference room. Representative Lee Sujin will be watching personally. The PD and casting director will be there too.”
Minjun’s fingers trembled. He lowered his hand beneath the table. Junho must have noticed, but he didn’t say anything.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. It’s just an opportunity. You need to turn it into something—a role, an experience, or something else.”
Junho stood. He pulled out his wallet, extracted a credit card, and placed it on the table. The motion was quick, as if he wanted to end this scene fast.
“One more thing. You and Woori have met several times already. In the locker room, on set. So act like you’re close. That should be enough.”
“Understood.”
Minjun nodded—the posture of an actor receiving direction. Junho saw it. He started to say something, then stopped. Opened his mouth, closed it again. Just like Minjun had done.
“And Minjun. Tomorrow… just be yourself. Not like an actor. Just you.”
Those were Junho’s final words. He left the café quickly, without looking back. Minjun was left alone. Junho’s credit card still lay on the table. And Minjun’s coffee, now completely cold.
Just be myself? Who am I?
Minjun spoke to himself. The café’s background music swallowed his words. The trumpet still wailed—a sad song, like someone letting something go.
The locker room at The Star Entertainment was still occupied well past nine at night. Actors were returning from shoots. Minjun stood before his locker, phone in hand. The screen displayed tomorrow’s weather: Clear. 12 degrees. Humidity 45%.
He felt ridiculous checking the temperature and humidity, as if those numbers could somehow change the audition’s outcome.
“Minjun?”
He looked up. It was Woori—the musical actress Woori. Long black hair tied back, dark eyes, movements always somehow hurried. She was wearing workout clothes and seemed to have spotted him as she passed through.
“I didn’t see you yesterday, but Junho hyung said there’s an audition tomorrow. You too?”
Minjun nodded. Woori’s face brightened—genuinely brightened, like someone who’d found something they were looking for.
“Oh, you’re auditioning too! Netflix drama. Female supporting role. What about you?”
“Male supporting role.”
His answer was brief, but Woori accepted it fully.
“Did you see the sides yet?”
“No. It’s my first time tomorrow.”
Woori laughed—bright laughter, but with something anxious mixed in.
“Me too! Junho hyung recommended me. He said he saw me in the locker room. So I’ve seen you around. We’ve met a few times on sets, right? That drama shoot?”
Minjun nodded. It was true. They had met several times. They’d just never really talked.
Woori continued as if she knew this already. “Sorry. I talk too much. Don’t mind it.”
She laughed—self-deprecating, self-critical. Minjun understood what it meant. It was how you hid anxiety.
“What are you doing tomorrow? Preparing?”
“I guess. Reading the sides.”
“What’s the character?”
“The casting director hasn’t given details yet. Said they’d explain tomorrow.”
Woori laughed again, louder this time.
“Right. That’s how it should be. It’s an audition, after all. Don’t know the lines, don’t know the character, just go show yourself as you are. That’s this business.”
Minjun thought she was right and nodded.
“What’s your name?”
“Minjun.”
“Mi, Minjun. I’m Woori. Just Woori. No better name than that, right? I’m just Woori.”
She laughed as she said it, and in that laughter, Minjun felt something. He couldn’t name it, but it was warm.
“See you tomorrow, Minjun. Fighting!”
Woori made a heart with her fingers, then quickly disappeared from the locker room. Her footsteps faded away.
Minjun was alone again. But it was a different kind of alone—warmer somehow. Anxious, but warm.
He picked up his phone again. Tomorrow’s weather still displayed: Clear. 12 degrees. And now additional information: Tomorrow, 10 AM. The Star Entertainment conference room. Netflix drama audition. Role: Male supporting. Co-auditioner: Woori.
Just be yourself. Not like an actor. Just you.
Junho’s words echoed again. Minjun closed his locker. Inside was still a business card from three years ago, when he’d joined. The lettering was faded black, but still readable: The Star Entertainment. Actor Min Minjun.
The locker room’s fluorescent light illuminated that card.
11 PM. Minjun’s officetel was in an old building in Gangbuk. Semi-basement. 380,000 won rent. Nearly half his salary. But cheaper places didn’t exist. Well, they did, but they had no windows.
Minjun lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Water stains marked it like a map—lines drawing some boundary. Following the stain’s pattern, he wondered:
Would tomorrow be different? Would this audition change something? Or would it be another rejection?
His hand traced the water stains in the air. Drawing them with his fingers as if they were real. But his fingers couldn’t touch them. Only air passed through.
His phone rang.
Minjun turned his head. The screen read “Mom.” He let it ring once. Then again. And again. On the third ring, he answered.
“Hello.”
“Minjun, did you eat?”
His mother’s voice. A woman in her fifties.
“Yes, I did.”
“Liar. You always eat late. Eat now.”
“Okay.”
“What are you doing tomorrow? A shoot?”
Minjun paused. An opportunity to lie. His mother didn’t want to know about auditions. She wanted him to quit acting, get a real job, live a normal life. Not fail like his father.
“Yes. A shoot.”
“Work hard. Be careful of colds.”
“I will.”
“I love you. Mom’s tired too. See you tomorrow.”
“Goodnight.”
The call ended. Minjun set his phone down. He looked at the ceiling’s water stains again. They remained in the same pattern. Connected lines, whatever angle you viewed them from. Like someone’s life.
He sat up and undressed. He’d shower. When the hot water touched his skin, he felt it—fear and anticipation mixed together.
Tomorrow I’ll just be myself. Not like an actor. Just me.
The words repeated. He turned off the tap. Steam slowly dissipated. The mirror was fogged. He wiped it with his hand. An ordinary face looked back.
1 AM. Minjun still hadn’t slept. In bed, he downloaded a dating app. Then deleted it. Instead, he opened Netflix and searched for recent popular dramas. There were actors with faces like his. Ordinary faces. They must have started as supporting actors too.
He played one drama. A scene with the male supporting actor. The actor watched the lead actress. With deep eyes. With sincerity. Minjun mimicked the expression. Without a mirror. Just lying there, looking at the ceiling.
3 AM. Minjun finally fell asleep. Not deep sleep—shallow sleep. That kind hovering between consciousness and unconsciousness. In it, he stood before a mirror. The face kept changing. Sometimes his own. Sometimes Junho’s. Sometimes his father’s.
All watching him with the same expression.
6 AM. He woke. The alarm had rung. Darkness still filled the window. Winter gives morning late. He sat up. His fingers trembled. Morning tremor. Audition tremor.
He dressed, watching himself in the mirror. What face would appear today? An actor’s face? Or Minjun’s face?
He still didn’t know the difference.
The conference room at The Star Entertainment was on the 10th floor. Large windows. Part of Seoul visible beyond. Morning sunlight streaming in—bright but cold.
Minjun arrived ten minutes early. He stood outside the room. Hands in pockets, out of pockets, in again. The repetition—an admission he didn’t want to make. That he was trembling.
Through the window, part of Seoul was visible. Buildings. Roads. Cars and people moving above them. Everyone walking their own path. Some like protagonists, some like supporting players.
Which was Minjun?
The elevator’s sound came. Rising. Minjun’s heart quickened. As if that elevator carried his fate.
The doors opened.
It was Woori.
She looked different in the morning light. Brighter. And more nervous. Her hair was perfectly styled, her clothes carefully chosen. But anxiety flickered in her eyes.
Her hands were in and out of her pockets too.
“Minjun! Hey, what are you doing here?”
Her voice was bright, but trembled. The effort to hide it only made it more visible. A real actress would hide it better.
“Oh, right. Netflix. I’m here too.”
She spoke again, more confidently now. Like she was convincing herself.
Without meaning to, Minjun asked: “Aren’t you nervous?”
The question wasn’t planned. It just escaped—an attempt to connect his anxiety with someone else.
Woori laughed.
“Me? Nervous? Am I crazy? Why would I be nervous?”
Her laugh was bigger. Like she was trying to laugh away her trembling.
“I’ll do well. We both will.”
As she said it, she tapped Minjun’s shoulder. The touch was warm. Human. It felt like she was saying: I’m anxious too, but we’re together.
Minjun realized how long it had been since he’d felt such contact. Friends hadn’t touched him that way. Family hadn’t. He’d never allowed it. He’d thought actors should be alone.
But in that moment, he thought differently.
Actors are human. And humans aren’t alone.
“Should we go in?”
Woori asked.
Minjun nodded. They opened the conference room door.
Inside, Representative Lee Sujin sat waiting. Early fifties, female. Power marked her face. Her eyes weighed them like scales.
Two men were there as well.
One was a man in his fifties—the PD. Park Sunghoon. Director of this drama. His fingers moved constantly on the table, like pressing a camera button.
The other was a man in his thirties—the casting director. Kim Junho. His eyes were like electronic devices. Precise, emotionless, analytical.
All three watched Minjun and Woori enter.
Their gaze was heavy. Cold.
“Come in,” Representative Lee said. Her voice was low. Absolute. Like God’s voice.
Minjun and Woori entered. Chairs were already prepared for them. Across the table. Like the defendant’s box before a judge’s bench.
“You both understand, right?” Lee continued. “This is a Netflix drama. Big budget. Famous actors. And one of you will play the lead actress’s co-star.”
She paused.
“But you know what that means too, don’t you? It means one of you is chosen, and the other…”
The sentence hung unfinished.
The implication was clear.
One would succeed. One would fail.