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# Chapter 3: Someone’s Gaze
We called out Min-jun’s name as we opened the locker room door. Our voice was high-pitched that moment, a bit clumsy-sounding. Like someone not yet accustomed to searching for people every day. She held two cups of coffee in her hands. One was still warm. The other was cooling.
Min-jun was closing his locker. His fingers fell away from the metal handle. When he heard our voice, his eyes moved as though catching something for the first time. The fluorescent light in the locker room made his face look even paler. His lips parted slightly. Surprise. Or tension.
“Oh, what are you doing? Were you sleeping?”
We approached with a smile. Her movements were quick. The confident stride of a musical theater actress. The moment she saw Min-jun, her face shifted its expression instantly. Warmth flooded in. As though she were deliberately performing familiarity. No—she was acting. That was the job of an actress.
“Coffee. Did you drink any?”
Min-jun slowly shook his head.
“No, I didn’t.”
His voice remained quiet. We noticed it. She was an actress, and actresses were skilled at reading things. A person’s silence, the rhythm of their breathing, the blink of their eyes. We understood that this male actor, Min-jun, was anxious. And we thought that was normal. Everyone in this industry was anxious.
“Good. Have some of this and let’s talk. What did Junho hyung say to you?”
We handed one of the cups to Min-jun. The cup was warm. His fingers flinched momentarily. We had to feel how careful one could be in receiving something.
“Yes? Oh, yes.”
Min-jun took the coffee. His hand was trembling. We saw it and quickly looked away. It was impolite to directly witness another person’s weakness. She sat down beside the lockers. The bench in the locker room was narrow, worn, and someone’s name was scratched into it with a knife. The locker room at Duster Entertainment looked like a grave for rookie actors.
“Did Junho hyung… mention the Netflix drama audition?”
We asked. Our voice was careful. As though measuring Min-jun’s reaction. Min-jun drank the coffee. It was still too hot, but he drank it anyway. His tongue would burn, but he kept drinking.
“Yes. I heard about it.”
“And?”
We asked again. This time more direct. Like any actress, we wanted a clear answer. Ambiguity was the most dangerous thing in this industry.
Min-jun set the coffee down. The cup made a soft sound as it touched the small table beside the bench. Tap. The sound wasn’t loud, but in the silence of the locker room, it sounded like a gunshot.
“Junho hyung… he recommended me.”
Min-jun’s voice was almost a whisper. As we heard it, we felt that our suspicion had been correct. She had already spoken with Junho. Or more precisely, Junho had mentioned Min-jun’s name to her. And we had accepted it. Because she also knew Min-jun. From the locker room. From the set. The figure of that man standing as an extra.
“I’m sorry. I should have told you first.”
We let out a laugh. It was genuine laughter. But at the same time, there was anxiety mixed in.
“I asked Junho hyung. ‘How is Min-jun?’ That’s what I asked. And he said, ‘That kid is different.’ Different how? I asked. So you know what he said?”
Min-jun looked at us. For the first time, his eyes met ours directly. Those eyes were deep. Like eyes looking into water. We read curiosity in those eyes. It was a good sign. Anxious, but curious nonetheless.
“He said, ‘That kid hides himself.’ Most rookies try to reveal themselves. To appear in ads, to be seen by fans. But this kid does the opposite. He hides himself as much as possible. That’s why when he acts, something about it looks real. Something… mysterious.’”
As we said this, we looked at Min-jun as though verifying whether we agreed. Min-jun didn’t move. He simply sat there. As though he felt those words piercing straight through him.
“I do musicals. You know that, right?”
We introduced ourselves. Even though Junho probably already had. Actors always reintroduced themselves. Because people forgot quickly.
“Yes. I heard.”
“But I decided to do a drama this time. It’s a Netflix production—a big production trying to sell Korean content to the world. They’re looking for a female supporting role. And a male supporting role too. Someone like you.”
We said this. Our voice was quicker now. Excitement was creeping in. It was rare for an actress to get excited. Most lived their days in emotional numbness. But when something promising appeared, they changed.
“Junho hyung mentioned that…”
Min-jun spoke. His voice was still low, but it had taken on a different tone now. Curiosity. Or fear. Probably both.
“And?”
“I heard the audition is really difficult. That there’s only a week to prepare.”
Min-jun was right. We nodded. The KakaoTalk from Junho last week was vivid in our memory. ‘We recommended Min-jun. He needs to memorize the scenario in a week. Is that possible?’ Behind that question lay silent pressure. Junho believed in Min-jun. But Junho’s faith wasn’t always right. In this industry, believing in someone was a gamble.
“A week. Do you know how long a week is?”
We asked. This was a rhetorical question. We already knew the answer.
“No, I don’t.”
Min-jun answered honestly. We liked that. Not pretending to know what you don’t. That was rare in this industry.
“A week is the end. Really. Other actors prepare for months. But they fail anyway. Yet you have to prepare in a week. Is that fair? No. But that’s this industry. Unfairness is the only fairness here.”
We said this and drank our coffee. She was drinking this coffee too, and it was warm. Like warmth that held someone’s touch.
“Do you still want to do it?”
We asked. This was the final question. After this question, there was no turning back. Min-jun would have known. Every actor knew. Once you received an opportunity from someone, it was both a blessing and a curse. Success meant gaining something, but failure meant losing something. And in this industry, failure meant death.
Min-jun looked at us. His eyes were still deep, but something else was settling into them now. Resolve. Or despair. Perhaps something in between.
“Yes. I want to.”
Min-jun answered. The moment those words came out, we had to feel the weight of what we had done. We had pushed this male actor off a cliff. And from the cliff, he could either fly or fall. Most fell.
“Good. Start preparing tomorrow. I’ll send you the scenario via KakaoTalk tomorrow morning. The role… I think Junho hyung should explain that part better.”
We stood up. Her movements were quick. As though she felt the need to leave this place. The longer we sat on the bench in the locker room, the heavier the responsibility became. We wanted to say one more thing to Min-jun. But we didn’t know what to say. Words of encouragement? Words of comfort? Or a warning?
“Min-jun, one more thing.”
We turned back, standing beside the locker room door. Her face had hidden something again. The face of an actress. What lay behind it? Min-jun was still sitting.
“In this audition, you need to look like a warm person. But behind that warmth, something has to be broken. Understand? PDs like that kind of character. Someone imperfect. But someone whose imperfection feels real.”
We said this and left the locker room. We left only our back. A straight spine and quick footsteps, just like a musical theater actress.
Min-jun was alone. Under the fluorescent light of the locker room. The coffee we gave him was still warm. He picked it up and drank. This time, slowly. The bitter taste of the coffee spread across his tongue. It tasted like reality. Not sweet. Not beautiful. Just bitter.
A week. Is it really just a week?
Min-jun murmured. His voice disappeared into the ceiling of the locker room. The fluorescent light on the ceiling was still flickering. Irregularly. Like a heart beating an uneven rhythm.
He took out his phone. The time was 4:20 PM. The clock in the locker room showed the same time. Tick, tick, tick. The second hand moved.
He opened KakaoTalk. The message from Junho was still displayed on the screen. ‘You free? Want to grab coffee alone?’ Min-jun had already replied to him. And he had gone to the cafe. And he had received this opportunity. And now he was sitting here.
He typed a new message to Junho.
[Min-jun]: Thank you, hyung.
He pressed send. The message transmitted instantly. It changed from a gray bubble to a blue one. Sent.
But Junho’s reply didn’t come. Min-jun kept the screen on and waited. Several minutes passed. Nothing came. He put the phone down and looked at the locker room again.
All the lockers were closed. Each one had an actor’s name written above it. Next to Min-jun’s locker was the name of an actor named Sung-jun. Sung-jun. Every time he saw that name, Min-jun’s chest sank. Sung-jun had entered the company at the same time as Min-jun, but now he was in a completely different position. Commercials, music videos, and now even lead roles in dramas.
Min-jun opened his locker again. Inside was the same stuff as always. A black T-shirt, gray pants, worn-out sneakers. And a business card from when he’d joined the company three years ago. The text on the card had faded completely black.
He picked up the sneakers. The shoelaces were almost undone. He tied them. Slowly. Carefully. As though showing them to someone.
As he left the locker room, Min-jun looked at the mirror again. The person in the mirror was still ordinary. But something was different now. The light in his eyes. It felt like someone was looking out through his eyes. Or more precisely, it felt like someone was looking at him.
As he left the mirror, Min-jun murmured.
“A week. I can do this, right?”
The words were to himself. To no one else. Only to himself.
That night, Min-jun returned to his officetel. Somewhere in Gangbuk, ten minutes from the subway station. Monthly rent: 350,000 won. A small room, shared kitchen, shared bathroom. A place where he lived with other actors.
Min-jun’s room was 6 pyeong. A bed, a desk, and a small closet. That was all. There was only one window, and outside it was an alley. Food shops, a convenience store, the movement of people.
He lay on the bed. He looked at the ceiling. The ceiling was off-white, and there was a water stain on one spot. A place where rain leaked. But it wasn’t raining now.
His phone rang. A KakaoTalk notification. It was us.
[Us]: I’ll send the scenario by email. The title is “The Gate of Paradise.” This scenario is really good. You’ll know when you read it. And… fighting!
Min-jun read the message. Then he opened his email. The Gate of Paradise. The title sounded like a promise. Salvation. Or hell.
He downloaded the file. It was a PDF. The page count was 143 pages. A full-length drama scenario. Min-jun opened the first page.
The Gate of Paradise
Writer: Lee Junho
Director: Park Su-hyun
Production: Netflix Korea
Episode 1: A Strange City
Characters:
Ji-hyun (Male, 28) — Cafe manager. Warm but broken. He lost something and is trying to find it.
Min-ji (Female, 26) — Freelance illustrator. Bright but lonely. She wants to connect with someone.
Junho (Male, 30) — Ji-hyun’s older brother. Successful office worker. But something is missing.
Min-jun began to read the scenario. The night deepened. The alley outside the window grew quieter. People returned to their homes. Shops began closing. But Min-jun kept reading.
As he read the character of Ji-hyun, Min-jun saw himself. Warm but broken. He lost something and is trying to find it. It was exactly his image. Or more precisely, it was what his image should become.
Min-jun read through the night. The supporting role of Ji-hyun—he counted all the dialogue. About seventy lines. That was enough. Enough to build a character.
At 3 AM, Min-jun turned the last page. The scenario ended here. But the story didn’t. This was only Episode 1. There would be more after this.
Min-jun picked up his phone. He sent a KakaoTalk to us.
[Min-jun]: I read it. It’s a good scenario.
A few seconds later, a reply came.
[Us]: Did you read it all night? Get some sleep. Don’t you know how short a week is? From tomorrow, it’s really hell.
Min-jun laughed. He really laughed. As though someone was lifting the corners of his mouth. It had been a long time. He couldn’t remember the last time he laughed like this.
He lay back on the bed. He looked at the ceiling. The water stain was still there. But now it looked different. Like tearstains from someone crying.
A week. Can I do this?
Min-jun murmured again. This time, there was an answer. Not his own voice, but someone else’s.
You can. You must.
Whose voice was that? Junho’s? Ours? Or his father’s?
Min-jun closed his eyes. And he hoped he wouldn’t dream.