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# Chapter 5: Beyond the Mirror
The audition results came through four days later.
Minjun had no idea how he’d survived those four days. Time had turned thick as gelatin, each movement glacially slow. Mornings were all the same morning, and nights all the same night. He kept replaying the expressions of the producers as he left the audition room. What had their eyes meant? Had they actually felt something watching him, or were they simply waiting for the next actor? These thoughts circled endlessly in his mind.
On audition day, Minjun had spoken the line: “Who are you?” He’d spilled that scripted sentence from his own throat. And in that moment, something happened. As if his body split into two. One was Minjun. One was ‘Jun.’ Jun was a man full of regret for betraying his friend. His voice trembled. His eyes were hollow. The producers weren’t watching Minjun. They were watching Jun. And Minjun felt that difference.
But four days passed. No call came.
2:17 PM. Minjun’s phone rang. An unknown number. He set down the spaghetti he’d been holding and answered.
“Yes?”
“Is this actor Minjun?”
A woman’s voice. Business-like. The tone of someone reading an announcement.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“You’re Minjun from The Star Entertainment, correct?”
“Yes.”
“This is the Netflix K-Drama production team. We’re calling regarding your recent audition.”
Minjun’s heart stopped. Or rather, it began beating very slowly. Like moving through water.
“Yes, please go ahead.”
“After reviewing your audition footage, we’ve decided to advance you to the final candidate stage. You’ll have your final audition at our studio next Friday. Could you confirm your availability?”
Minjun wondered if he’d heard correctly. Final candidate. It took three seconds to fully understand what those words meant.
“Yes, yes! I can attend.”
“Good. We’ll send detailed information to your email. Prepare well.”
The call ended. Minjun set his phone down. His hands were shaking. It amazed him that his own hands could shake like this. As if his body didn’t belong to him anymore.
When I met him in the locker room, she seemed to already know.
“That expression? That means something happened.”
We laughed the moment we saw Minjun’s face. She was sitting on the locker room bench, wearing tight black workout clothes. Her hair was pulled back high, a towel draped around her neck. She’d just finished practice. Sweat beaded on her forehead.
“I made it to the final candidates.”
Minjun said it. It felt strange saying it—like he was repeating words that had come from someone else’s mouth.
She jumped up from the bench like she’d been launched. Her face lit up. Minjun couldn’t tell if that brightness was genuine or an actor’s expression.
“Oppa! Really?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Next Friday.”
She placed her hand on his shoulder. Her hand was warm. And slightly damp. Sweat. That was vivid reality.
“I told you. You’re different.”
Her voice sounded sincere. Not an actor’s performance this time. Minjun looked into her eyes. They were full of sincerity. But anxiety mixed in too. As if his success wasn’t only his own.
“Thank you.”
That was all Minjun could say. He couldn’t speak further. Emotion was choking his throat.
The next day, coffee with Junho was different than before.
Junho laughed the moment he saw Minjun. But it wasn’t a congratulatory laugh. It was laughter mixed with something more complicated. Relief, anxiety, and other emotions he couldn’t name.
“Heard you made it to the finals.”
“Yes.”
“Netflix. Netflix. You know what that means, right?”
Minjun knew. What it meant to appear in a Netflix series. It was a milestone for a Korean actor. After that, he’d no longer be an extra. After that, his name would appear in credits. After that…
After that, he might no longer be anyone.
“How long did you prepare?”
Junho asked.
“I had the script for three days before the audition.”
“And you made it to the finals?”
“Yes.”
Junho drank his coffee. He closed his eyes when he drank, as if that were the only moment that mattered. Minjun studied Junho’s face. He was thirty-four. But right now, he looked much older. Deep lines around his eyes. Fatigue etched at the corners of his mouth.
“What will you do for the final audition?”
“I’m not sure. I haven’t read the email details carefully yet.”
Junho nodded.
“Final auditions usually check two things. One is consistency—they have you redo the scene to see if you’re stable. The other is chemistry with the lead. They’re watching what the lead actor feels from you.”
Minjun savored those words. Chemistry. That wasn’t something he could control.
“And Minjun…”
Junho paused. He looked directly at him. His eyes were serious. Like someone who knows what he’s about to say matters greatly.
“If you book this, it means your current life ends. It ends in a good way, but it ends nonetheless. A Netflix actor is no longer anyone’s extra. A Netflix actor has to become someone’s lead. And as that lead, you can’t hide anymore. Everyone sees you. The good and the bad. Are you ready?”
Minjun couldn’t answer. Junho’s question wasn’t simple. It was a warning. Or more precisely, a test.
“What about you, hyung?”
Minjun asked. Junho set down his coffee cup at the question.
“Me? I’m somewhere on that border. Famous enough, but not enough. Lead enough, but not enough. So I keep waiting. Until when? I don’t know. But you can choose. Right now. This moment.”
Junho’s words ended, but his eyes kept speaking. Speaking many things. Envy, fear, and small hope.
The final audition was a week away.
Minjun spent that week in a peculiar way. But this time it wasn’t fear of the coming opportunity—it was a different kind of anxiety. Fear of success.
He reread the script. This time deeper. Who was the character ‘Jun’? Why did he betray his friend? Wasn’t there something more than simple betrayal? Minjun left notes in the script’s margins.
‘Jun is someone who wants to be seen. The lead Hajun is already loved by everyone. But Jun? No one sees Jun. So by betraying Hajun, maybe Jun just wanted to prove that he exists at least.’
In that moment, Minjun understood. He understood why he could grasp this character. It wasn’t understanding the script. It was understanding his own life.
Friday afternoon.
The final audition studio was completely different from the previous location. Bigger. More professional. More people. Multiple cameras, multiple lights, six staff members total. This was a real production.
When Minjun entered, a female actor was already changing clothes. A stylist touched her hair. The actress’s face was very beautiful. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was her eyes. Those eyes were very bright. And very dangerous.
“Actor Minjun, welcome.”
A woman approached him. She looked to be in her fifties, gray streaked through her short hair. Her voice was low and firm. She must be the producer.
“Thank you.”
“You made a good impression in the previous audition. Today we’ll do some deeper scenes. And this is Suyeon, your scene partner.”
The producer gestured to the beautiful actress. The actress named Suyeon looked at Minjun and smiled. That smile was perfect. Like someone made from birth to smile impressively.
“Hello. I’m Suyeon.”
“Hello. I’m Minjun.”
Minjun bowed ninety degrees. The way Junho had taught him. Actors always use formal speech. Actors always bow deeply. That’s basic courtesy in this industry.
The scene they performed was different from before.
This scene was from the middle of the drama—Jun confessing his betrayal for the first time. He had to tell Hajun everything. Why he’d done it. What made him do it.
“Whenever you’re ready, we’ll begin,” the producer said.
Minjun stepped back. And closed his eyes. But this time it wasn’t brief. He stood with his eyes closed for several seconds. In those seconds, he became Jun. A man full of regret. A man who wanted to be seen but simultaneously didn’t want to be seen.
“Hajun.”
Those words came out. The voice was very low. And very sincere.
“I… I betrayed you. And I know that was… the biggest mistake. But back then… I wanted someone to see me. No one was seeing me. Everyone was seeing you. So I… by betraying you, I wanted to at least prove that I exist. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
Tears came to Minjun’s eyes. It wasn’t acting. It was sincerity.
Behind the camera, the producer watched the tablet. Her expression didn’t change. But her eyes were bright.
Suyeon looked at Minjun. There was slight surprise on her face. Like someone seeing something they hadn’t expected.
“Cut.”
The producer said.
“Good. Let’s do it once more. But this time, with more restraint. Don’t expose so much.”
Minjun nodded. An actor always follows direction. That’s professionalism.
The second take was better. The third take was even better.
In the final take, Minjun didn’t cry. Instead, he swallowed. It was more powerful. It was closer to truth.
“Excellent.”
The producer said. And smiled. It was a small smile, but it was genuine.
“That’s all for today. We’ll contact you with results within a week.”
Minjun rose with a heavy body. His legs were trembling. The weight after emotions drain away. That was the price of acting.
When I returned to the locker room, she was waiting.
“What? Why are you here?”
Minjun asked.
“Musical rehearsal ended, so I came by. And I was curious what your final audition was like.”
She looked at Minjun’s face. And she knew everything.
“It was good. Look at that face. It was good.”
“I don’t know. What was good?”
Minjun sat on the bench. His body was clearly exhausted.
I sat next to him. She looked at Minjun silently. And at some point, her hand found his. It wasn’t intentional. It was unconscious. The kind of gesture only actors understand.
“If results come in… what will you do?”
She asked.
“I don’t know.”
Minjun answered.
“If you book it?”
“I don’t know.”
“If you don’t?”
“Then… I’ll wait again. Until the next audition comes.”
She laughed at that answer. It was sad laughter. And simultaneously beautiful laughter. This was an actor’s fate. Always waiting for what’s next. Always waiting for someone’s choice.
“You’re a good actor, Minjun.”
She said.
“Thank you.”
Minjun answered.
And the locker room returned to silence. But this silence was different from before. It wasn’t the silence of loneliness. It was the silence of togetherness.
Evening light came through the window. Seoul’s evenings seemed to come quickly. As if waiting itself accelerated time. Minjun looked at that light. And thought.
When would the results come? And where would they take him?
There was no answer yet to that question. But Minjun knew one thing. He’d already changed. Since that audition, he was no longer the same Minjun.
The answer he sought existed somewhere beyond the mirror. In a place he couldn’t yet see. But he was moving toward it anyway, one audition at a time.