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# Chapter 15: The Stage of Truth
Looking at himself in the mirror was painful.
Min-jun sat in the makeup chair, and Joon-ho’s hand remained on his shoulder. We watched him through the glass. Three people. And three more reflected back. Six figures sharing the same space. Yet Min-jun felt an overwhelming solitude—as if standing behind a transparent wall, close enough to touch but impossibly far away.
“Thirty minutes.”
We spoke slowly. Her voice was steady, the earlier tremor gone. Something deeper had taken its place. Resolve? Or despair? Min-jun couldn’t tell.
“Fifteen minutes to the Netflix building. Two minutes waiting for the elevator. Three minutes organizing in the lobby. That leaves ten.”
Joon-ho was counting time like actors do—using it as material, like a formula for some chemical reaction.
“Ten minutes. You have to find yourself in that time.”
Min-jun opened his mouth, then closed it. Words kept returning before they could escape. I’m sorry. I can’t. I’m ready to fail. Words like Sung-jun’s that would tumble from his lips.
“What are you thinking right now?”
We asked, gently running our fingers through his black hair. A warmth different from the cold railing on the rooftop. Our touch traced a path through his strands.
“About failing.”
Min-jun answered quietly. He had no strength to lie. No reason to. These two people already knew everything—what happened on the rooftop, what was in his heart, how completely he’d shattered.
Joon-ho took a breath. Not a sigh, but an inhalation—as if pumping his soul once more to speak the next words.
“Netflix doesn’t see an actor, Min-jun. You said it yourself—Netflix sees real humans. So you have to be real. A human afraid of falling? That’s good. A human who broke on that rooftop? That’s good too. Because that’s the real Min-jun.”
“The real Min-jun is…”
Min-jun murmured, looking at his reflection. His face was pale. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. Four sleepless nights remained etched into his features.
“The real Min-jun is weak.”
“Exactly.”
Joon-ho said it, and something remarkable lay in those words. Not condemnation—affirmation. A belief that acknowledging weakness itself was strength.
“What’s wrong with being weak? Strong actors already exist everywhere. Like Sung-jun. But a weak actor? One who takes the stage while trembling? That’s rare. That’s courage.”
We gripped his shoulders with both hands. In the mirror, our eyes met his directly—eyes that didn’t flinch, that laid everything bare.
“At first, I thought you could never be an actor.”
The words landed like a punch to Min-jun’s chest.
“Because I thought you hid yourself. I thought you were forgettable. Your face ordinary, your voice unremarkable, your expressions hard to read. But…”
We paused. In that silence, something resonated—the hum of a radiator, car horns outside, the distant drone of an air conditioner unit.
“But that was your strength. You’re an actor who can completely hide yourself. That makes you the easiest to become a character. You have the thinnest filter of self. That’s why real humans show through you most clearly. Do you understand?”
Min-jun couldn’t answer. Tears came instead. He watched them fall in the mirror—not sad tears, but tears of revelation. As if someone had just removed the black cloth that had covered his eyes.
“Eight minutes left now.”
Joon-ho checked his watch. His voice remained steady, but urgency threaded through it.
“What’s the Netflix audition scene?”
We asked.
“A scene with my father.”
Min-jun answered. The scenario the producer had sent—he’d memorized every word, every comma.
“The father tells his son he’s failed. The son has to receive that.”
“So who are you?”
Joon-ho asked.
“The son.”
“No.”
Joon-ho shook his head.
“You’re the father.”
Min-jun felt his breath stop, as if someone were squeezing his throat.
“You’re the father because in this role, you have to save someone. And you can save someone. Because you already know what it means to fail. To break. And to rise again from that.”
Joon-ho pushed Min-jun’s chair forward. It moved closer to the mirror. Min-jun found himself inches from his own reflection.
“You came from that rooftop. You came back from there. Who knows that? Us. And soon, the people in that audition room will know it too. From your eyes. From your voice. Because you’re a real human.”
“Hyung, I…”
Min-jun started to speak, but Joon-ho raised a hand to stop him.
“Don’t say anything more. Don’t prepare anymore. Just go. And be yourself up there. Your weakness, your fear, your desire to die—take all of it. That’s your strongest weapon.”
We stood and sat at his eye level. Leaving the makeup chair, we positioned ourselves face to face. Our face was close now. In our eyes, Min-jun could see his own reflection—small, fragile, but alive.
“Min-jun.”
It was the first time we called him by his name in casual speech.
“I believe in you. Without condition. You’re going to be an actor. You already are. Not because of Netflix—because you’re sitting here right now. Because you came back from that rooftop. That’s all it takes.”
More tears fell from Min-jun’s eyes. This time, we wiped them away with our own hands. Our thumb traced gently beneath his eyes, the way one handles something precious.
“Go now.”
Joon-ho said it. He checked the time again.
“Five minutes left. That’s enough.”
Min-jun stood. He left the mirror. And only then could he see his full reflection—black shirt, black slacks, dress shoes. Clothes Joon-ho and we had prepared beforehand. Not authoritative clothes, not perfect clothes. Just honest ones.
“Min-jun.”
We called him once more.
“Stop at a convenience store on the way to Netflix. And eat something. You have to. If you don’t eat, you’ll collapse.”
“Yes.”
“Promise me. You have to eat.”
“I promise.”
Min-jun answered—this time not in formal speech, but casual. The first time he’d used informal language with us and Joon-ho. A small change. But an enormous one. Showing more of himself. Setting himself down a little more.
The elevator was empty when he stepped in. Joon-ho and we remained outside. As the doors closed, their faces grew smaller. Joon-ho raised his hand in farewell. We formed our mouth in a circle, mouthing something—probably “fighting.” But the sound couldn’t reach him. The walls stood between them.
As he descended to the lobby, Min-jun unclenched his hands. His fingers still trembled. But this trembling was different. Not the trembling before death, but before life.
The convenience store was two minutes from the building. GS25. Blue sign, fluorescent lights, a few people standing by the microwave. Min-jun went to the ramen section. Shin Ramyun. He grabbed it without thinking. Then, heading to the register, he added an egg. It was a combination we often ate together. Egg ramen. The thread of life, we’d joked.
“Just this?”
The clerk asked. A young woman. Maybe a struggling actress. Or maybe just a part-timer. Min-jun felt no difference. Everyone was doing something. Trying to become something.
“Yes.”
He used the hot water station near the ramen section. Boiling water. Min-jun waited three minutes, watching the clock. Three minutes. The time it takes for ramen to cook. About the same time an actor’s audition lasts. Three minutes of a life. Everything gets decided in that span.
While eating, Min-jun thought about the scenario again. The father role. A father confessing his failure to his son. What had Min-jun’s own father done? Had he confessed his failure to someone before taking his life? Or had he died in silence? Min-jun couldn’t know. And right now, he didn’t need to.
Because Min-jun had to become a father now. Not his own father, but the father in the script. A father who could tell his son about his own failure. Was that really impossible? Min-jun didn’t think so. Because he’d already faced his own failure on that rooftop. And he’d come back.
When he finished the ramen, Min-jun drank the remaining broth. It was poor etiquette—drinking broth from a cup in a convenience store. But Min-jun didn’t care. And the clerk said nothing, just helping the next customer.
When he stepped outside, the time was 2:47 PM. Thirteen minutes remained. A taxi ride to Netflix would take ten minutes. Three minutes to spare. Enough.
In the taxi, Min-jun looked out the window. Seoul’s streets. Gangnam Station, Kyobo Bookstore, Starbucks. Everything in its place. Nothing seemed to move, yet everything was moving. Tiny movements. The movements of life.
“Here we are.”
The taxi driver said it.
In front of the Netflix building. A modern structure of glass. People moving inside. Min-jun got out. He put his hands in his pockets. Still trembling. But soon this trembling wouldn’t be his—it would be the character’s.
Entering the lobby, Min-jun began to slow his breathing. The way actors do. Diaphragmatic breathing. Deep, deliberate, conscious. With each breath, he began to set himself down. Someone else began to take his place.
A father. One who knows failure. One who knows weakness. One who has the courage to tell his son about it.
As the elevator rose, Min-jun saw himself in the mirror. His face had changed. Not changed—revealed. Everything he’d hidden on that rooftop now showed. Fear, sadness, weakness.
Fifth floor. The audition waiting room.
“I’m Min.”
Min-jun entered. The office worker saw him. And felt something. This actor is different. She’d seen so many actors over four years, but this one was different.
“Please wait in the waiting room. We’ll call you soon.”
The waiting room was quiet. No other actors. Min-jun was probably the last audition. Three PM. Exactly. The time Joon-ho had specified.
Through the waiting room window, Seoul spread out below. The same Seoul he’d seen from the rooftop of the office. But now it looked different. Not a city of death, but a city of life. A city where countless people lived. And Min-jun was among them.
“Min, please come in.”
The audition room door opened. Three judges sat inside. Netflix production staff. They looked at Min-jun. And in that moment, he thought they would know he was someone who’d returned from death. Because eyes cannot lie.
“Begin.”
The audition began.
And Min-jun became a father.
Not his own father, but the father in the script. Yet that too was his own father. Because all fathers fail, all fathers are weak, and all fathers hope for the courage to tell their sons about it.
“Son, I’ve disappointed you.”
Min-jun spoke. His voice trembled. But it wasn’t weakness—it was truth.
“I’ve failed. And I’ll keep failing. But you… you’ll be different. You’ll go beyond me.”
The three judges sat motionless. Perhaps they’d stopped breathing. Min-jun didn’t look at them. Instead, he looked at the son in the script. Someone who could be himself. Someone who could be anyone.
“So this is all I want to tell you, son. It’s okay to fail. It’s okay to be weak. And it’s okay to keep living anyway. Because I’m doing it.”
Tears streamed down Min-jun’s face. This wasn’t acting. These were real tears. The tears he couldn’t cry on the rooftop. Not the tears he’d shed before Joon-ho and us, but the tears he was shedding now, entirely alone.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Min-jun repeated words not in the script. Words every father should say.
The audition lasted three minutes and twenty-five seconds.
Then it ended.
Min-jun stood. The judges still hadn’t moved. But their eyes followed him. Following his every movement. As if he were something rare.
“Thank you.”
Min-jun bowed and left the room.
Back in the waiting room, he leaned against the wall and slid down. His body had no strength left. As if he’d poured every ounce of energy into those three minutes and twenty-five seconds. And he had.
He picked up his phone. Messages were waiting.
[Joon-ho: How was it? You done?]
[Us: Was it good? We’re here believing in you]
Min-jun texted back.
[Min-jun: I did it. I came back from the rooftop.]
And it was true. Min-jun had come back from the rooftop. And he’d returned as someone different. Still the same name, same face, but completely transformed.
When he stepped outside, Seoul’s sun was already setting. Past four o’clock, the sky was turning orange. Evening would come soon. Night would follow. But Min-jun wasn’t afraid.
Because he’d already survived the darkest night.
And he’d come back.