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# Chapter 46: The Man in the Mirror
The word would not release him.
Suicide. Suicide. Suicide.
The word that had fallen from Lee Sujin’s lips refused to dissipate into the air. It seeped into his lungs like cigarette smoke, penetrating deeper with each breath. From his lungs to his blood vessels. From his blood vessels to his heart. A poison circulating through his entire body.
The office lighting seemed to have suddenly brightened. No—the lighting hadn’t changed. His eyes had simply become more acute. Every wrinkle on Sujin’s face was visible now. The dark circles beneath her eyes. The fine lines around her lips. And the message that face was sending was unmistakably clear.
I know. Everything.
“You’re making that face because you understand exactly what I’m saying,” Sujin said.
She picked up the pen from her desk again. This time, she didn’t spin it. She simply pressed it against the paper with her fingertips, like pressing a button. What the pen was marking remained unclear, but it was likely a series of dots. One dot. Another dot. Dots repeating endlessly.
“The Netflix role,” Sujin began again, her voice as measured as a teacher explaining mathematics to a student.
“You’ve already lost it.”
Minjun’s breathing stopped.
“Out of five roles you auditioned for last year, you failed four. Two Netflix roles—you failed both. And this one is your third. Your third rejection.”
“That’s—”
Minjun opened his mouth, but Sujin cut him off, continuing instead.
“Yet you keep auditioning. Why? Because you need hope. You can’t survive without it. So I gave you hope. ‘A decision hasn’t been made yet.’ And that hope kept you alive. Didn’t it?”
Minjun didn’t answer. But his lips were trembling.
“What do you think would happen if I told you right now that you’ve been rejected?”
Sujin’s question was like an experiment. A scientist asking, “How will this chemical react?” while mixing substances in a lab.
Minjun knew what would happen to him. If he truly grasped how dependent he’d become on this hope over the past week, he would understand what would remain once it vanished. Nothing. An empty space. And that space would need to be filled quickly, or it would consume him entirely.
“But here’s the interesting part,” Sujin continued.
“You’re thinking about our conversation right now. Us. That actress. That actor. Do you remember what she said to you? ‘Run away.’ ‘Ignore the penalty.’ ‘Never come back.’”
Minjun’s chest dropped. It didn’t matter how Sujin had learned this. What mattered was that she knew. And knowing meant he was completely transparent. Like an ant trapped in a glass box.
“So what are you going to do now? Are you really going to run away? Leave this company? And the penalty clause—do you have the money? Do you have enough to pay the penalty and start over?”
Sujin leaned back, settling into her chair like an audience member watching a film. There was genuine curiosity in her expression—she wanted to see what choice he would make. And within that curiosity lay an answer she already possessed. She knew exactly what he would choose.
“You’ll stay here. Because you can’t do anything else. You never will. And that is freedom. The moment you realize you have no choice, paradoxically, you become completely free. Because you no longer need to choose. You just obey.”
Minjun listened to Sujin’s words. He recognized their truth. She wasn’t simply threatening him. She was showing him his future. And that future was so clear, so inevitable, that it seemed already decided.
The office held only two sounds: the noise of Seoul filtering in from outside, and the rapid beating of Minjun’s heart. The two sounds merged, as if the world itself was screaming at him.
“But the funny thing is, you can accept that too,” Sujin said, her voice softening slightly, like a mother soothing a child before slumber.
“Because you’ve already given up. You don’t believe you’re capable. You don’t think you’re good enough as an actor. So if any condition is offered to you, you’ll be grateful. You’ll live in gratitude.”
That struck him precisely because it was true.
“Do you still want the Netflix role?” Sujin asked.
Minjun didn’t answer.
“Good. I can do something for you. I know a casting director. And that director respects me. So if I ask, he’ll see you again. Another audition. And this time, you’ll actually have a chance at that role.”
Minjun looked at Sujin.
“In exchange?”
“In exchange, you listen to me. Always. Every moment. You do what I tell you to do. And you never leave this company. Not until your contract ends. Not even after. Because you’ll owe me.”
Silence. It said everything.
“Think about it. The Netflix role. What is it? It’s a life-changing opportunity. It makes you a lead actor instead of a supporting character. And lead actors make money. Real money. And with that money, you could pay the penalty and start fresh.”
Sujin stood. She walked behind his chair. Minjun didn’t turn around, but he heard her breathing behind him.
“You’ve already made your choice. Already. You just haven’t admitted it yet. You need to beg me. Thank me. And I’ll accept that.”
Sujin’s hand came to rest on his shoulder. It was warm. But the warmth was false—like a heat pack’s warmth. Temporary. Soon to fade cold.
“So what are you going to do?” Sujin asked.
Minjun opened his mouth. And spoke.
“Thank you.”
The moment those words left his lips, Minjun realized he was already dead. Or more precisely, he was dying. His self-respect was dying. His freedom of choice was dying. He was dying.
And that death was slow and agonizing.
Minjun didn’t take the elevator when he left the office. He took the stairs. One step. Another step. From the 27th floor to B1. As he descended that long path, his body grew heavier. As if he’d swallowed lead. And that heaviness only intensified.
B1. The practice room zone. His “home.”
He arrived at 10:17 PM.
A mirror lay beside his sleeping bag. He picked it up. He looked at his face.
Who was the man in that mirror?
It wasn’t someone Minjun recognized. It was no longer a man trying to become someone. It was a man already owned by someone.
He set the mirror down.
Then he picked up his phone. There were nineteen messages from Junho. And another one had just arrived.
“Minjun. Please. What are you doing?”
Minjun replied.
“Hyung. Sorry. I’m fine. I was sleeping.”
It was a lie. But lying had become natural now.
Junho’s reply came within a minute.
“Where are you? I’ll come pick you up. Don’t go anywhere. Please.”
Minjun didn’t reply. Instead, he messaged someone else.
“Hello. I… spoke with Director Lee. And I’ve decided. I’m staying. I’m sorry. I can’t accept your advice.”
No reply came from them. He had probably expected that. They likely knew he wouldn’t run. In this industry, almost no one runs. They can’t. Because there’s nowhere to run to. And they lack the courage.
Minjun lay down in his sleeping bag. He turned off the light.
In the darkness, only his breathing could be heard. Fast and shallow. Like a trapped rat. Like his lungs couldn’t draw enough air. Like he was drowning.
And in that darkness, his father’s face appeared.
Had his father made the same choice? Had he thought he couldn’t do it either, and simply decided to obey? Had his father realized at some point that he was already dead?
And had that realization led his father to death?
Minjun closed his eyes. But sleep didn’t come. Instead, his brain kept thinking. Thinking and thinking again. Like a machine.
Night deepened. 11 PM. Midnight. 1 AM.
And at 2:47 AM, Minjun’s phone rang.
Caller: Junho.
Minjun didn’t answer.
It rang again.
Still, he didn’t answer.
And after the third call, a message came through.
“Minjun. Please. Answer the phone. What are you doing? Where are you? I’m heading to the company now. Wait. Please.”
Reading that message, Minjun wanted to cry. But no tears came. As if his tears had already dried up somewhere. As if his eyes could no longer produce them.
Only his chest tightened.
And in that tightening sensation, Minjun realized something.
He was already dead. But his body was still alive. And he had to keep that dead body moving. Because he had to keep living the lie.
The night continued to deepen. And Minjun, in the darkness, picked up the mirror.
The man in the mirror still looked back at him.
But now that man’s eyes were empty.
Chapter 47 Preview: When Junho arrives at the basement practice room, it’s already too late. Or rather, it was too late from the beginning. And Junho will realize there’s nothing he can do. That realization will become the guilt he carries for the rest of his life.