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# Chapter 62: The Price of a Deal
Minjun’s body was moving, but he knew he wasn’t controlling it. As if someone were puppeting his nerves. He tried to stand from the chair, then stopped. He tried to sit back down, then halted midway. In the end, he remained suspended—half-risen, half-fallen. Beneath the café’s fluorescent lights, even his own body seemed uncertain which side it belonged to.
We kept talking. As though we knew that if we stopped, we’d never speak again.
“So Sujin chose you. Because you were already comfortable with silence. Four years as an extra, accepting that no one ever saw you. She thought someone like that could keep one more secret.”
Our voices grew quieter. As if each word drained something vital from us.
“Your penalty clause equals my friend’s settlement amount. Coincidence? No. Sujin set it up deliberately. So you’d understand the value of this deal. So you’d grasp how much you’re receiving. And how much it costs.”
Minjun heard our words, yet didn’t hear them. As though his ears refused to accept this information. His lips moved. He tried to speak, but no sound came. Instead, his eyes welled with moisture—not tears, but something like his own eyes rejecting this reality.
Junho moved. This time, without any signal to stop. He placed his hand lightly on Minjun’s arm. Gently. As if to remind Minjun that he was being touched. But Minjun seemed not to feel it. He remained suspended, motionless.
“What happens if I take the role?”
Minjun finally spoke. His voice sounded like someone else’s voice. Very low. Very distant.
“You become famous. A Netflix actor. And simultaneously, you become Sujin’s property. Because you know about my friend’s death. And if you speak, your career ends. Sujin will sue you for defamation. She’ll say the person who received a settlement went to the media again. And it’s true.”
We spoke as though we were prisoners, and our words were guilty verdicts.
“So you have to stay silent forever. The more famous you become, the more silent you must be. Because the weight of what you could say grows heavier. When you were nobody, no one would have believed you anyway. But when you’re famous, your words become a weapon. That’s why Sujin wants to keep you on a leash. With your own success.”
The café fell silent. Or rather, all sound grew distant. As though Minjun had entered another world entirely. A place with no music, no voices, no machine sounds. Only our words and his heartbeat.
“Do you know why I told you this?”
Minjun asked. Still in that distant voice.
“Why?”
We asked back.
“Because now you know you’re already trapped. So I’m telling you. Thinking it might help. Or maybe…”
We stopped.
“Or maybe what?”
Minjun asked.
“Or maybe I’m so lonely. Carrying this alone has been so hard. So I wanted to share this weight with you. I’m sorry.”
Our voice shattered completely. Like a glass falling to a floor.
Slowly, Minjun decided to lower his body into the chair. As though accepting that he was now permanently fixed to something. He sat. And placed his arms on the table. His fingers came close to touching ours on the surface.
“How did your friend…”
Minjun started to speak. But didn’t finish.
“From a balcony.”
We finished for him. As though we wouldn’t be able to say it if we didn’t now.
“Yeah.”
“So the police…?”
“Ruled it a suicide. Sujin’s lawyers applied enough pressure. And my friend’s parents… they chose to use the settlement money from Sujin to hold the funeral and then disappear quietly. That was the condition.”
We spoke.
Minjun’s hands trembled. As though his body couldn’t wait for his brain to process this information. His fingers began tapping on the table. Tap, tap, tap. The same rhythm as our anxiety. A way to push distress outside the body.
“What if I refuse?”
Minjun asked.
“Then the Netflix role goes to someone else. And you… you stay as you are. An extra. A supporting actor. Someone no one sees. And Sujin doesn’t sue you for the penalty. Because you refused the contract. That’s your choice, and Sujin has no legal problem.”
We spoke.
“So I either take the deal or I’m nothing. That’s it.”
Minjun said. There was a strange calm in his voice. As though he’d already accepted the worst.
“Yeah.”
We answered.
Junho spoke for the first time. He’d been silent throughout this entire conversation.
“Minjun, before the Netflix role, if you could’ve chosen, what would you have chosen?”
Junho asked.
Minjun looked at Junho. Trying to understand the intent behind the question. Something was in Junho’s expression. Not sympathy, but something stronger. As though he were offering Minjun something.
“I…”
Minjun started to speak. Then stopped. Checking if he was ready for the truth.
“I wanted to be an actor. That was all. I wanted someone to see me. Even if no one did, just in case. That’s how I started. But…”
Minjun said.
“And now?”
Junho asked.
“Now…”
Minjun spoke. And fell silent. That silence was long. As though he had to review his entire life to answer this question.
“Now I hate being an actor. But I don’t know what else to be.”
Minjun finally said.
The moment those words left him, the café’s air shifted again. As though someone had opened a window and fresh air poured in. But it wasn’t freshness—it was reality. When Minjun spoke his truth, the walls of his prison became clearer.
“But you’ll keep acting.”
Junho said. Not as a question, but as confirmation.
“What?”
Minjun asked.
“Because you’re already trapped. In Sujin’s hands. Or more precisely, in the hands of your own choice. The habit of silence you built over four years.”
Junho said. His voice was strangely gentle. As though he were delivering a very cold truth in a very warm voice.
“So you have only one choice. Escape from there. Right now. This moment. If you don’t escape now, you’ll be trapped forever.”
Junho said.
“How do I escape?”
Minjun asked.
“That’s something you have to decide. But I can tell you one thing. The moment you choose silence, you stop being the protagonist in your own life. You become a supporting character. Forever. Sujin’s actor. Not your own.”
Junho said.
Minjun’s eyes slowly turned toward us. As though he wanted to ask us something. But that question didn’t leave his lips. Instead, he placed his hand on the table. Right beside ours.
“Your friend…”
Minjun said. Very slowly.
“Yeah?”
We asked.
“Did your friend leave anything behind? For you?”
Minjun asked.
Our eyes wavered. As though we were about to reveal something we’d hidden for a long time.
“A diary. And…”
We said.
“And?”
Minjun asked.
“And a letter she wanted to send to Sujin. A letter she never sent.”
We said.
“What’s in the letter?”
Minjun asked.
We didn’t answer. Instead, our hand reached for our bag. As though we’d always carried that letter, waiting for this moment.
Night had deepened. The café was still open, but there were almost no customers. The cleaning staff moved around, avoiding this table. As though they could sense the weight of it.
Minjun was reading the letter. Or trying to. As though his eyes refused to accept the words. His pupils moved. From one sentence to the next. But his expression didn’t change. As though he’d already exhausted all his emotions.
“This is…”
Minjun said.
“Yeah.”
We answered.
“This is a suicide note.”
Minjun said.
“Yeah. And at the same time, it’s a bomb. If you release this, Sujin is finished. Completely. The police will reopen the case. Not suicide, but coercion to self-harm.”
We said.
“Then why didn’t you release it?”
Minjun asked.
“Because…”
We said. And stopped.
“Because?”
Minjun asked again.
“Because I was weak. The amount was too large. Twenty-five billion won. I’m not an actor, just an actor’s friend. I could do so much with that money. But my friend was dead. My friend couldn’t do anything. So I thought I should do something for my friend. But I was weak. Too weak.”
We spoke. Our voice was shattered.
Minjun looked at the letter again. He saw the last sentence.
“Sujin tried to kill me. But why didn’t she? Because I was already dead. Dead in this industry for a year before this. So I’ve decided to really die now. At least if I die this way, someone will remember me.”
Minjun read aloud.
The café fell completely silent. The background music ended. The espresso machine made no sound. Only Minjun’s breathing and our silent tears were heard. Junho still sat there. Like a stone statue. But his eyes moved. From Minjun to us. And back to Minjun.
“You called me.”
Minjun said. Or rather, realized.
“Yeah. I called you. When I heard you had a meeting with Sujin, I called you. When I heard you got the Netflix role, I called you.”
We said.
“Why?”
Minjun asked.
“Because you could become my friend. Or maybe you already are. You don’t know it, but you’re trapped in Sujin’s hands too. So I thought I had to save you.”
We said.
“And you can never do that.”
Minjun said.
“Yeah. I can never do that.”
We answered.
The moment those words left us, Minjun’s body changed. As though someone had sent electricity through him. His chest rose. Fell. Rose again. And a sound came from his mouth. Not crying, but something deeper. As though his body were expressing despair before his mind could.
Junho moved. This time not with careful movements, but with clear intention. He pulled his chair beside Minjun. And began pressing his back with his hand. Gently. As though he were holding Minjun up so he wouldn’t collapse.
“Breathe. Minjun. Breathe.”
Junho said.
Minjun tried to breathe. But it felt like his lungs weren’t working. As though his entire body were rejecting. He opened his mouth wide. Trying to push air into his lungs. One. Two. Three. And slowly, very slowly, his breathing returned.
We still had our hand over Minjun’s. As though we were letting him receive something through our touch. But it wasn’t strength. It was just presence. The presence of someone beside him.
“What happens now?”
Minjun finally asked. His voice was very low. As though he were underground.
“That’s…”
Junho said.
“That’s something you decide. Because it’s your life. You decide.”
Junho said.
Minjun looked at the letter again on the table. Our friend’s handwriting. Handwriting written with trembling hands. A final message. A final cry.
“I…”
Minjun began to speak.
“I still don’t know.”
And in that moment, the café’s wall clock chimed the time. 12:38 a.m. Past midnight.
The night in Korea’s entertainment industry was always deep. But this night was especially deep. As though someone had extinguished every light.
Minjun left the café. We and Junho remained on the bench outside. The bench at the entrance to Gangnam Station. From there, Minjun turned back to look at us and Junho one more time.
“You guys…”
Minjun said.
“Yeah?”
Junho asked.
“You shouldn’t have chosen me. I’m not worth it.”
Minjun said.
“You are worth it.”
We said.
“How do you know?”
Minjun asked.
“Because you wanted to hear this. Because you wanted someone to save you. And because you’re strong. You endured four years.”
We said.
Minjun heard those words, but didn’t believe them. But that was okay. Belief could come later.
“I…”
Minjun said.
“I’m going. Home. I think I need to think about some things.”
Minjun said.
“Yeah. Go.”
Junho said.
“And Minjun…”
We said.
“Yeah?”
“Whatever you choose, we’ll be here. Remember that, okay?”
We said.
Minjun didn’t answer. Instead, he turned around. And disappeared into the night of Gangnam Station. As though he were already part of that place.
Behind him, we and Junho remained on the bench. Night was deepening. And we still didn’t speak. Because now wasn’t the time for words. It was just time to be together. Time between people who failed to save someone, and people trying again to save someone. And in that space was silence. A silence louder than words.