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# Chapter 28: The Price of Choice
Junho didn’t wait for Minjun to respond.
“We reached out first. So what? You got cast in a Netflix drama and that’s supposed to be everything? An article came out and suddenly your life changes? Minjun, don’t you get it yet?”
His voice was low, but beneath it ran a current of quiet anguish. Even amid the café’s noise—the hiss of the milk frother, someone’s laughter, the scrape of chairs—Minjun heard it clearly. Everything else faded to background. Only Junho’s voice remained sharp and present.
“Hyung… what’s wrong?”
Minjun asked carefully, as if handling something broken. But the thing was already broken. There was a fracture in Junho’s voice.
“What’s wrong? You want to know what’s wrong? Do you remember your father?”
Junho said it. The word hit like a tremor. Father. In Minjun’s world, it was the deepest word of all. Speaking it felt like triggering an earthquake. Everything shakes. Everything crumbles.
“I… that’s…”
Minjun tried to speak, but Junho cut him off.
“The day before your Netflix audition. You might not remember, but I do. You told me how your father died. And you said you didn’t want to fail like him. That’s why you became an actor. Then yesterday, at that audition, you broke down in front of the actor playing your father’s role. The PD was moved. An article came out. And now you’re happy. Right?”
Junho’s words pierced through him. Accurate. Too accurate.
“That’s… yes.”
Minjun answered quietly.
“But here’s the thing, Minjun. It seems like you’re still acting for your father. Like because he’s dead, you have to succeed now and compensate for his failure. But what is that? Is that what actors do? Or are you just reenacting your trauma on stage?”
Silence.
That was all Minjun could offer. In the café. As his latte grew cold. Outside the window, Seoul’s evening continued. Someone walked into a shoe store. Someone made plans with a friend. Someone cursed about work. The world moved on. But Minjun’s world had stopped.
“Hyung, I don’t know what I did wrong.”
Minjun’s voice was barely a whisper.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. That’s the problem. You just see the article. But what is an article? It’s just the beginning. The start. From now on, you have to carry the weight of that article. People are starting to expect things from you. As much as the PD praised you. As much as you trended. And me… where do I fit?”
Junho’s voice cracked. Minjun heard it—that moment when a voice breaks. He understood what it meant. When an actor’s voice breaks, the performance ends. Real emotion bleeds through.
“Hyung, I’m truly sorry.”
“Sorry for what? What did you do wrong? You took your chance. What’s the problem with that? The problem is that I looked out for you. I took care of you. You weren’t alone. Someone was watching over you. That someone was me. But look at you now. One article and you’ve already climbed into a different world. You’re not my junior anymore—you’re a rising star everyone’s paying attention to. That makes you happy, doesn’t it? But is that really what you wanted?”
Junho’s questions came like arrows. They found their mark.
“What… what should I do?”
Minjun asked. It wasn’t a question. It was surrender.
“I don’t know. I don’t care anymore. Go your own way. And remember this: how lonely that way will be. Like me. The warmth I showed you? That’s gone now. There’s no warmth on the path up in this industry. If you think there is, you’re deluding yourself. Everything’s a transaction. Everything’s calculated. And from now on, you’re entering that world.”
Junho’s voice dropped lower. Almost inaudible. But the quietness was most dangerous. It was the voice of surrender.
“Hyung, please. Don’t say that.”
Minjun pleaded. But it was already too late. Junho had already gone somewhere far away.
“If you get a chance, go to the movies. Maybe we’ll see each other again. At a drama premiere. At an awards ceremony. We can pretend to say hello then. Like actors do. That’s the right way.”
Then Junho hung up.
Minjun pulled the phone from his ear. The screen went black. Call duration: 3 minutes 47 seconds. Three minutes and forty-seven seconds. He couldn’t tell if that was a long time or a short one.
The latte had gone completely cold. He took a sip. Bitter. His tongue didn’t burn anymore. The drink had died.
He looked out the window again. Seoul. Near Gangnam Station. People still moved. Some laughed. Some vented their frustrations. They all lived their own lives. They had their own worlds. And Minjun… what was he doing?
His phone rang.
This time it was Woori.
He didn’t answer. He just stared at the screen. Woori’s name. Her profile picture. She was smiling brightly. Like a musical theater actress would. But what lay behind that smile? He knew now. There’s always something behind a smile. Fear. Loneliness. Something else.
The call ended automatically.
A text came through.
[Woori: Minjun, what are you doing? I haven’t heard from you. Don’t be alone. Let’s meet up. Let’s go to a café. We need to celebrate!]
He read the message. But the letters blurred. His eyes felt numb. His fingers moved. He started typing.
[Minjun: I want to be alone right now. Sorry. Let’s meet tomorrow.]
He hit send.
The reply came quickly.
[Woori: You can’t be alone. Trust me. I know what you’re thinking. Those thoughts get bigger when you’re alone. Please, just say yes. Let’s meet at our café.]
He read it again. Maybe Woori was right. Maybe he shouldn’t be alone. But right now, he couldn’t face anyone. So he lied again.
[Minjun: I’m really sorry. But I can’t come right now. I’ll reach out first.]
Send.
No reply.
He put the phone down. He picked up the latte cup again. It was cold now. Nearly room temperature. Drinking it was like drinking something already dead.
The barista took a new order. “One americano!” The voice was bright. That person still had that brightness. Minjun envied it. That simplicity. That certainty.
He checked the time. 7:58 PM. Almost two hours since the article dropped. What had changed in two hours? The article would still be there. Comments still piling up. Someone was probably searching his name. But in Minjun’s world, everything was collapsing.
What had he wanted?
Success? Money? Fame? To compensate for his father’s death?
Minjun didn’t know anymore. None of it seemed to matter now. What mattered was Junho’s voice. That broken voice. He had done that. He had broken someone’s heart for his own success. Was that true?
No. It was the rules of the industry. Junho knew them too. But knowing the rules doesn’t help you accept them. It makes the wound deeper. Because you know you can’t escape it.
Minjun left the café.
The street was darkening. Street lights flickered on. Their glow looked warm, but it wasn’t. It was just light. Fake warmth. Comfort that scattered like smoke.
He headed toward Gangnam Station. He descended the stairs. His shoes hitting the metal steps. That was the only music. The station was packed. Everyone was going somewhere. Everyone had a destination. Minjun didn’t know where he was going.
He stepped into the subway car. He stood among the crowds. No one saw him. Even with the article. Even trending. Even here, he was invisible. That was normal. That was reality.
The tunnel flowed past the window. Black tunnel. Watching it, he felt like he was traveling through someone’s insides. Inside someone’s body. Inside someone’s heart.
Minjun closed his eyes.
He kept hearing Junho’s words. “You’re still acting for your father.” It seemed true. And that terrified him. Because if it was true, then everything was a lie. False desires. False success. A false self.
The subway arrived at the next station. People filed in from the platform. All hurried expressions. Someone stared at their phone. Someone dozed. They each lived their own lives. Minjun was one of them. Just one person standing in Seoul’s subway. Nothing special.
His phone rang. This time it was the company. The Dstar Entertainment manager.
Minjun answered.
“Hello?”
“Actor Min? The CEO requested this. Can you come to the office tomorrow at 10 AM? There’s something we need to discuss regarding your contract. Is that okay?”
The manager’s voice was cold. Official.
“Yes, thank you. 10 AM tomorrow. Understood.”
Minjun replied.
“Then we’ll see you tomorrow.”
The call ended.
Minjun looked at the tunnel again through the window. Black. Infinite black. It felt like the future. A future he couldn’t see. An unknowable path.
But one thing was certain.
Tomorrow morning, he would have to make a choice again. When the article was live. When comments poured in. When he trended. When the company offered him something. He would have to choose. Accept it or refuse it.
And now, he understood the price of that choice.
Junho’s voice. Woori’s concern. His own soul. All of it was the cost.
The subway continued forward. Into the tunnel. And Minjun felt himself growing smaller inside it. Like someone was slowly erasing him. Like a pencil erasing ink. Like fingers wiping away a drawing.
But maybe that was what being an actor was.
Slowly erasing yourself. Becoming someone else. That might be the essence of acting.
If so, then he was already a perfect actor.
Because he was no longer himself.
END OF CHAPTER
# Choice in the Tunnel
Myeongdong Station, Line 4. 6:42 PM.
Minjun pushed his body into the flow of people streaming through the automatic doors. Cold air brushed his face. The subway’s distinctive smell—aged metal, someone’s perfume, the mixed scent of hundreds of people’s sweat and exhaustion—stung his nose. He breathed deeply. This smell is real. This is truth.
The doors closed. Smooth mechanical sound. The subway began to move.
Minjun didn’t hold the rail. Instead, he let his entire body sway with the motion. Being jostled between people felt like proof that he was alive. Someone’s shoulder touched his back. Someone’s bag brushed his calf. These were all physical evidence. Proof that he was here.
But no one saw him.
Even under the bright fluorescent lights of the subway car, Minjun was transparent. Yesterday was different. Yesterday, people turned their heads as he walked. Yesterday, baristas wanted to call his name. Yesterday, he existed.
Today was different.
This morning, an article dropped. Two lines. A well-known actor’s film project fell through due to investor bankruptcy. Nothing special. Film companies collapse every day. Projects disappear daily. But the article trended for a different reason.
Because of his father.
His father’s company was involved in the investment. His father’s money was gone. So the news transformed from entertainment gossip to economic scandal, and the comments became accusations aimed at him. “Acting with his father’s money.” “A rich kid and he can’t even do this.” “Gold spoons really are different.” Things like that.
Minjun closed his eyes.
The subway entered the tunnel. Beyond the window, only black. Infinite black. Darkness with no depth. Watching it made him feel like he was traveling through someone’s insides. Inside someone’s stomach. Inside someone’s lungs. Inside someone’s heart.
He kept hearing Junho’s words.
“You’re still acting for your father.”
The words wouldn’t leave him. Junho had been his friend. Was. Past tense. Three years ago, they took acting classes together, watched movies through the night together, dreamed together. But as Minjun got cast in dramas, booked commercials, confirmed film leads, Junho slowly drifted away.
Or rather, Minjun had pushed him away. The higher Minjun climbed, the more Junho felt like an anchor. Like weight.
And yesterday, Junho called. After two years.
“You see that article? Your father’s company… that’s bad.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“So what are you gonna do?”
“About what?”
“The movie. You already got investment, right?”
“I’m still talking with the production company.”
“But the investor went bankrupt?”
Silence fell. Then Junho spoke again.
“Do you really want to do this? Honestly?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“It seems like you’re still acting for your father. Trying to become what he wants. Trying to justify his investment. Do you even know what you really want?”
Minjun didn’t answer. He had no words. Because Junho was right.
If he was right, then everything was a lie.
False desire. False ambition. False passion. And worst of all—a false self.
The subway stopped at the next station. The automated announcement floated through: “Euljiro 3-ga Station. Euljiro 3-ga Station.”
The platform doors opened. People rushed in. Summer evening humidity clinging to them. All hurried expressions. Faces hardened. Each living their own life.
A woman stood next to Minjun. She raised her phone, positioning the screen toward her face. A selfie. She tapped the screen a few times and lowered it. She’d uploaded it to SNS. Probably with a hashtag like #subway aesthetic.
No one recognized Minjun.
Even with the article. Even trending. Even with thousands of comments. In this subway car, he was no one. Nobody knew who he was. And that made it lonelier. Yet somehow, it felt right.
This is reality. This is truth. I am no one.
The subway moved again. The tunnel flowed past the window. Black walls. Faded billboard advertisements occasionally appeared above them. Real estate. Matchmaking services. Soju brands. All faded. All aged. Like they came from the past.
Minjun fixed his gaze on one of them. A male actor holding a soju bottle, smiling. His face was bright. Overflowing with confidence. That was the advertisement’s real purpose. To sell soju, he had to sell his happiness. His smile. His existence.
Am I being sold like that too?
His phone rang.
Minjun jumped. He looked away from the advertisement and pulled out his phone. The screen showed “Dstar Entertainment.” His agency. His manager.
This call might decide everything.
Minjun took a deep breath and answered.
“Hello?”
“Actor Min? You available to talk right now?”
The manager’s voice. Like a corporate employee’s. Polite but not warm. Emotionless.
“Yes, of course.”
“The CEO requested this. Can you come to the office tomorrow at 10 AM? There are some contract matters we need to discuss. Does that work for you?”
Minjun’s heart sank.
Contract matters. Discussion.
It could mean several things. Contract termination. New projects. Penalties. Or…
“Yes, thank you. 10 AM tomorrow. I understand.”
Minjun replied. He didn’t recognize his own voice. It wasn’t his voice. It was an actor’s voice. Always the right pitch. Always the appropriate emotion. Always the expected response.
“Then we’ll see you tomorrow. Fighting!”
The manager’s voice was too bright. That scared him more.
The call ended.
Minjun looked out the window again. The subway still moved through the tunnel. Black walls. Infinite darkness. A path where nothing is visible. A future no one can know.
Tomorrow morning.
He thought.
Tomorrow morning, I meet the CEO. I have to choose.
When the article is live. When comments pour in. When trending. When my father seems disappointed. When the company offers me something.
Will I accept it then?
Or refuse?
One thing was certain. The price of that choice would be steep.
His relationship with his father. His friendship with Junho. His soul. And most importantly—the chance to know who he really is. All of it would be the cost of that choice.
The woman beside him raised her phone again. This time looking at her own photo. The phone’s light illuminated her face. She smiled. Smiling at her own image.
Is that what loving yourself means?
Minjun wondered.
Being able to smile when you see yourself? Or is that a lie too?
The subway continued forward. Breaking through the tunnel. Breaking through the darkness.
And inside it, Minjun felt himself growing smaller. Like someone was slowly erasing him. Like an eraser on paper. Like fingers wiping away a drawing.
Is this what being an actor is?
Slowly erasing yourself. Becoming someone else. Abandoning your emotions and wearing someone else’s. Killing your desires and reviving someone else’s.
That might be the essence of acting.
If so, he was a perfect actor.
Because he was no longer himself.
The subway arrived at another station. Euljiro 3-ga. People exited. New people boarded. All strangers. All living within their own worlds.
In this crowd, Minjun realized something. He wasn’t a famous actor. He wasn’t an ordinary person either.
He was nothing.
And that was the most honest version of himself.
The tunnel flowed past the window. Black. Infinite black. Inside it, he continued to be erased.
Tomorrow at 10 AM.
When that time comes, what will he be?
—
END OF CHAPTER