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# Chapter 24: How to Walk Out the Door
The moment Minjun stepped out of the CEO’s office, his legs began to shake.
In the hallway waiting for the elevator, Junho asked, “So? How’d it go?”
Minjun didn’t answer. Instead, he opened and closed his fingers repeatedly, as if they belonged to someone else—as if they were beyond his control. The numbers above the elevator descended slowly. 12, 11, 10. Time itself seemed to stretch.
“What did the CEO say?”
Junho asked again. His voice carried an undertone of anxiety. Minjun finally looked at him. Hope flickered in Junho’s eyes—the kind of hope that came with the promise of good news. But beneath it lurked fear. The fear that reality might not match his wishes.
“She said it could work out.”
Minjun spoke in a voice that sounded like someone else’s. Low. Cold. Almost emotionless.
“’Could work out’? What does that even mean? Either you succeed or you fail. One or the other. What does ‘could work out’ mean?”
Junho’s voice rose. Other actors in the lobby glanced over. Their gazes landed on Minjun and Junho. A violation of DeStar Entertainment’s cardinal rule: never show emotion. Especially not in the lobby.
“Keep it down.”
Minjun’s voice remained low, but there was finality in it. The elevator arrived at the ground floor.
“What exactly did she say? Tell me precisely.”
Junho asked as they entered the elevator. Minjun followed. The doors closed. Now it was just the two of them.
“She said if this drama succeeds, new opportunities will come. Commercials, other dramas, maybe even films. But the drama itself has to succeed. She said my acting alone won’t be enough. The entire work has to be good. And…”
Minjun trailed off. Junho’s eyes bored into him.
“And?”
“She mentioned Sungjun. Same trainee batch, but he’s already made it big. Does a lot of commercials, contract’s way bigger than mine. So I’m still an unknown quantity. Potential, but unproven.”
The elevator descended to B1. The parking garage. Cold air mixed with motor sounds drifted in.
“That woman… did you maybe misunderstand something?”
Junho said. “You showed everything yesterday. Lee Sujin—”
“Lee Sujin?”
Minjun asked. That was the CEO’s surname. But hearing Junho use it felt strange. Like he was speaking to a friend. A peer. A sign of deeper connection.
“Sorry, I mean the CEO. Anyway, she’s a conservative type. One success doesn’t make her certain about anyone. That’s the company’s strategy—minimizing risk. So you’ll keep getting chances. But not until you completely prove yourself.”
Junho suggested they head back to the lobby. But Minjun stayed in the garage, in the dark space between cars. The fluorescent lights flickered. Like the ones in the locker room. Another SOS.
“Hyung, so… do I have a chance?”
Minjun asked.
“Of course you do. Why wouldn’t you? The CEO talking to you directly—that’s already a chance. If this drama succeeds, other roles will come. You’re not invisible anymore. The PD saw you. The CEO saw you. Soon the viewers will too.”
Something different mixed into Junho’s voice. Not congratulation—obligation. As if he’d suddenly become responsible for Minjun’s future.
“What if the drama flops?”
Minjun asked again, his voice even quieter, directed into the darkness of the garage.
“Then… you wait. For the next chance. And actors have to learn how to wait. In this industry, if you want to survive, waiting is the most important skill.”
Junho placed a hand on Minjun’s shoulder. Was it comfort or weight? Minjun wasn’t sure.
Minjun returned to his officetel at 2 PM. He lay on his bed. Doing nothing. Staring at the ceiling. It was white. Perfectly ordinary white. Like blank paper. And he tried to sketch his future onto that white canvas.
The drama succeeds. Ratings climb. People mention his name on social media. “Who’s that actor?” “Minjun, I think. Some rookie. He was really good.” Advertisement offers arrive. Small ones first. Convenience store ramen ads. Phone plans. Then bigger ones. Cars. Cosmetics. Ads alongside famous actors.
But it was all a lie. All imagination. Minjun knew this. The drama could flop. Ratings could stay at 3%. Then no one would remember. Not his name. Not his face. That was the logic of the entertainment industry. One failure wasn’t forgiven.
His phone rang. A text. Emojis everywhere. Stars, hearts, applause.
“Minjun!! Congratulations!! The CEO called you?? That’s good, right?? Why aren’t you replying??!!”
Minjun didn’t text back. He looked at the ceiling again. The blank paper remained untouched.
At 6 PM, Wuri and Junho came to find him. Outside the officetel. They knew he was inside, so they knocked. Multiple times. Minjun opened the door without checking what he was wearing.
“What are you doing? Why haven’t you answered?”
Wuri asked. She studied his face carefully, as if trying to read something written there.
“I was just… resting.”
Minjun answered.
“That’s a lie. You’re worried about something. I know you. You’re a thinker. And right now you’re thinking way too much.”
Wuri entered his room. Junho followed. The room was full of darkness—the lights were off. Junho turned them on. The ceiling fluorescent flickered. That familiar flicker again.
“What did the CEO say?”
Junho asked. His tone suggested he already knew. As if he’d read Minjun’s every thought.
“She said it could work out. But I have to prove it. The drama has to succeed. My acting alone isn’t enough. The whole production has to be good.”
Minjun spoke this time looking at their faces, not the ceiling.
“That’s right. That’s why we came.”
Wuri said. Excitement filled her voice. “You’re at a crossroads right now. A point where you can choose. Will you keep waiting, or will you make a move? When the CEO says that, it doesn’t mean you have time. It means one drama could decide everything about your future.”
Minjun understood her words. But at the same time, he didn’t want to understand them. Because it was something he already knew. The truth of entertainment. One success changes everything. And one failure costs you everything.
“So what am I supposed to do?”
Minjun asked.
“Act. Not like you have been. What did you do in the studio yesterday? You showed your emotions. You showed your fear. When you dealt with your father’s death, you truly lived it. And it showed on camera. That’s what an actor does. Not hide—reveal.”
Wuri sat on the bed. Minjun sat beside her. Junho stood leaning against the wall, as if bearing witness to this conversation.
“But can I keep doing that? Yesterday was… yesterday was special. I was truly broken. I thought of my father, thought of my fear, and I acted it out exactly as it was. But can that always happen?”
Minjun’s voice trembled, as if he were saying something forbidden.
“You learn it. That’s the actor’s job. Learning how to pull from your deepest place every single time. Building the ability to do it in front of a camera. You can already do it. Yesterday proved it.”
Wuri took his hand. It was a small gesture, but for Minjun it was enormous. Someone was touching him. Actually, physically. As if proving he wasn’t invisible.
“And you’re not alone. I’m walking the same path, hyung’s already walked it, and we all share the same fear. Fear of failure. Fear of being forgotten. Fear of meaninglessness. But we keep going. Because there’s no other path.”
Junho finally spoke.
“I’ve been doing this for eight years. Eight years of supporting roles. I thought I’d be the lead, but I kept getting second billing. And I still am. But I’m here. Still here. Because I have no other choice. And maybe, just maybe, one day I’ll get first billing.”
Something broken lived in Junho’s voice. As if he’d repeated these words so many times that he no longer believed them, yet he repeated them anyway—for himself.
“But hyung, how long do you have to wait? What if you stay second forever? You know that, don’t you?”
Minjun asked. It was a careless question. But it needed to be asked.
Junho laughed. A self-deprecating laugh.
“I don’t know. I just keep going. I have a shoot tomorrow, an audition next week, something else after that. And if I keep repeating it, maybe someday…”
Junho didn’t finish. Instead, he looked at the ceiling. Like Minjun. At the white paper with nothing drawn on it.
At 10 PM, after Wuri and Junho left, Minjun was alone again. But it was a different kind of alone. Not silence, but solitude where something remained. The warmth of Wuri’s hand. Junho’s self-deprecating laugh. Their words. These things lingered in the room.
Minjun picked up his phone. He searched SNS. Sungjun’s account. He’d dyed his hair blonde. A new photo. Studio shot. Bright lighting. Smiling. A perfect smile. Caption: “New beginning. New me. New dreams. Thank you.”
Comments flooded in.
“Sungjun is the best!”
“Why is he so handsome?”
“Seriously insane. Great acting and looks.”
Minjun scrolled. The comments kept coming. All the same. Praise. Frenzy. Worship.
And then, his phone rang. Unknown number. He answered.
“Hello, Mr. Min? This is the casting team at Frame Film Company. Do you have a moment? We’d like to discuss a project with you.”
Minjun fell.
No, more accurately—he felt himself falling. As if gravity had suddenly disappeared. Or as if gravity had doubled. And in that darkness, he realized one thing.
His life had changed. Right here, right now. And that change was just beginning.
“Yes, I’m available. Please go ahead.”
Minjun answered. His voice was composed. But inside, it was a hurricane.
To be continued in the next volume
Minjun’s second act was rising. And everything on that stage was ready to transform.