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# Chapter 60: Before That Name Is Spoken
“I want to know.”
Minjun spoke. His voice was already fractured, as if he’d begun the process of understanding something without meaning to.
We looked at Minjun. Then at Junho. What lay beneath that order was unmistakable—seeking Junho’s permission. Or preparing to proceed regardless of his objection. Perhaps both.
Junho didn’t move. Not his hands, not his face, not his eyes. Like a stone monument. But beneath that stillness, hundreds of emotions were layered upon each other. Minjun could sense it. He’d already learned to read Junho’s expressions.
“That person was…”
We began to speak. Then stopped. We had to breathe again. Deeply. Like before descending tens of meters underwater.
“That person was my friend.”
We said it.
“Pardon?”
Minjun asked, as if doubting his own ears.
“The rookie actor Lee Sujin sexually harassed. That was my friend.”
We spoke again. This time more slowly. As if our own mouth was refusing to pronounce these words.
Minjun’s face went pale. As if blood drained away in an instant. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. But no sound came.
“Past tense?”
Junho asked. Us, not Minjun.
Our eyes wavered. What lay in those eyes was already an answer. But as if we couldn’t speak it aloud.
“Yeah. Past tense.”
We said it. As if hearing our own voice through someone else’s ears.
Minjun’s head tilted slowly backward. As if someone were pressing his jaw with their finger. His eyes fixed on the ceiling. The café’s lighting. White fluorescence. He stared as if trying to hold back tears through sheer force of will.
“Minjun…”
Junho began. But even that remained unfinished.
“When?”
Minjun asked, still facing the ceiling.
“Two years ago.”
We answered.
“How?”
Minjun asked again.
“That’s…”
We started. Then stopped. As if the next words couldn’t leave our mouth. Like trying to drink poison.
“Tell me.”
Minjun commanded, still facing the ceiling. Working desperately to keep his voice from shaking.
“He took a settlement. A large amount. So my friend thought he could do something with that money. Get treatment, take a break, or quit acting and find something else.”
We spoke.
“But?”
Minjun asked.
“But money doesn’t work that way. It couldn’t fill that wound. A settlement is just hush money. Money you receive in exchange for silence. That’s all.”
We spoke. Our voice was growing quieter.
“So?”
Minjun asked again. Still facing the ceiling.
Our fingers began tapping the table again. Tap, tap, tap. But this time it wasn’t rhythm. Just unconscious tapping. A desperate attempt to expel emotion from our body.
“So my friend… One night two years ago, on the balcony of his apartment…”
We spoke.
Minjun’s body went rigid. As if electricity coursed through it. His eyes snapped from the ceiling to us. Fast. As if someone were forcing his head to move.
“No.”
Minjun said. It wasn’t a question. It was a refusal.
“Yes.”
We answered.
“No. No, that’s not—”
Minjun spoke again. As if repetition could make it false.
Junho’s hand moved. Toward Minjun’s arm. But stopped just before touching. As if even his hand didn’t know how to handle this moment.
“The settlement was 25 billion won.”
We said it suddenly.
When Minjun heard that number, he felt his chest tearing. The exact same number. His own penalty clause. Whether it was coincidence didn’t matter. What mattered was what that number meant.
“Lee Sujin set the same amount as my penalty clause…?”
Minjun began.
“Yeah.”
We answered. As if we understood his question without him finishing it.
“The same amount as the settlement?”
Minjun asked.
“As far as I know, yes. My friend’s settlement was 25 billion won. And the penalty clause Lee Sujin set for you is also 25 billion won.”
We answered.
“Then that means…”
Minjun said.
“It’s a message.”
Junho cut in. For the first time. His voice was cold and clear.
“What kind of message?”
Minjun looked at Junho.
“A message Lee Sujin is sending to you. The same amount. The same weight. It means you should stay silent, just like my friend did.”
Junho explained.
The café’s background music changed. Someone’s piano performance. Very slow tempo. As if someone’s weeping had been translated into an instrument.
Minjun’s fingers began moving on the table. Tap, tap, tap. Not rhythm, but tremor. The way his nervous system processed shock.
“So I…”
Minjun began.
“You’re trying to convince yourself you did something wrong.”
We spoke, cutting him off.
“But you didn’t. You did nothing wrong. You’re just a piece on her board. A chess piece she moves.”
“A piece?”
Minjun asked.
“Yeah. A piece on the chessboard. Something for Lee Sujin to move. And the opponent in that game…”
We spoke.
“…is me. Ever since my friend died, the opponent in the game Lee Sujin’s been playing to escape her guilt—that’s me.”
Our voice became clear now. The clarity that comes after making a decision.
Minjun felt himself understanding. Slowly. Like water seeping through. Why Lee Sujin chose him. Why she gave him the Netflix role. Why she simultaneously set that penalty clause. Everything began connecting with terrible consistency.
“If I leave that project…”
Minjun said.
“Then I have to leave too.”
We said.
“And do what?”
Minjun asked.
“Tell the world why my friend died. Publicly. So everyone knows.”
We answered.
Junho’s face hardened. As if he’d already known this. As if he’d already anticipated this moment.
“Then you’ll be in danger.”
Junho said.
“I’m already in danger.”
We answered.
“No. Until now you were safe because you stayed silent. But if you speak, Lee Sujin will see you as prey.”
Junho explained.
“That’s my problem.”
We said.
“No. Now it’s our problem.”
Minjun said. Without meaning to. As if someone had opened his mouth.
We looked at Minjun for a long time.
“Do you understand?”
We asked.
“Understand what?”
Minjun asked.
“That you can’t leave this game now. You’ve already spoken. You said ‘our problem.’ With those words, you’ve bound yourself to us.”
We spoke.
Minjun felt what his body had done. What his mouth had said. And that it was irreversible.
“I know.”
Minjun said.
“Really?”
We asked.
“Yeah. I was already too deep. I was just pretending not to know.”
Minjun answered.
Right after those words, Minjun thought of his father. What his father had said while holding his hand. “Minjun, you want to be an actor? Then try. Dad failed, but you… you could be different.”
Had his father known what came next? No, his father had simply wanted his son to attempt something. To do what he couldn’t.
But now Minjun understood. What it meant to attempt something. And where that attempt led.
“If we proceed, the Netflix drama will end.”
Junho said.
“I know.”
Minjun answered.
“There will be a penalty clause too. Lee Sujin will demand it from you. 25 billion won.”
Junho continued.
“I know.”
Minjun answered again.
“Do you really understand?”
Junho asked. As if doubting Minjun’s comprehension.
Minjun looked at Junho. At his eyes. What lay in those eyes was fear. Not for himself, but for Minjun.
“Hyung, if I may ask you something?”
Minjun asked.
“What?”
Junho asked.
“If I go through with this, will you keep protecting me?”
Minjun asked.
Junho didn’t answer. Instead he looked at Minjun’s face. For a long time. As if he needed to store this expression somewhere.
“Yeah. I’ll keep protecting you. Because in the end, you’re my responsibility.”
Junho said.
When Minjun heard those words, something flowed from his eyes. Tears. That was when he realized he was already crying.
“When do we start?”
Minjun asked. Without wiping his tears.
“Not yet.”
Junho answered.
“When?”
Minjun asked.
“After the Netflix shooting progresses further. Until then, there’s no way to protect you. You could be accused of breach of contract. Once the shooting gets underway and Lee Sujin takes her eyes off you, that’s when our opportunity comes.”
Junho explained.
Minjun understood. Strategy. Timing. Junho’s mind was already thinking several moves ahead in this game.
“Until then…”
Minjun said.
“Until then, you act like nothing’s happened. In front of Lee Sujin. In front of the company. In front of everyone.”
Junho said.
“So I have to keep lying?”
Minjun asked.
“Yeah. Like an actor.”
Junho answered.
Everything in the café was pressing down on Minjun. The walls, the tables, the lighting, and our eyes. Everything telling him—you can’t go back now. You’ve already come in. Now getting out isn’t your choice anymore. It’s theirs.
Minjun’s fingers began tapping the table again. Tap, tap, tap. But this time something different was mixed into the rhythm. The boundary between lies and truth. The boundary between actor and human. The trembling rhythm of fingers caught between them.
After leaving the café, the three descended to B1 of Gangnam Station. A bench in front of a convenience store. It was past midnight, a time when foot traffic was sparse.
Sitting on the bench, Minjun thought about how he’d ended up here. Himself from four years ago. An extra. A nameless actor. Where was that version of himself now?
Still nameless. But for a different reason now. Because having a name meant being tracked.
“Minjun.”
We said.
“Yeah?”
Minjun answered.
“Thank you. If I’d been alone, I think I would’ve stayed silent forever.”
We said.
“Don’t say that.”
Minjun answered.
“Why?”
We asked.
“Because this isn’t about gratitude. It’s our work. Work we do together.”
Minjun said.
Junho remained seated at the end of the bench. Light from above falling on him like a spotlight. As if he were becoming part of this game too.
“What now?”
Minjun asked.
“Sleep. Tomorrow comes next.”
Junho answered.
But Minjun knew. That tomorrow wouldn’t come. That tonight would continue. In his sleep. In his dreams. That number would keep repeating. 25 billion won.
His fingers started moving again. Minjun’s fingers. Tap, tap, tap.
End of Chapter 60