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# Chapter 92: A Trap Called Choice
Junho closed his mouth. His jaw moved, then stopped. As if he’d been swallowing something and froze mid-motion. Minjun sees his face in the mirror. Under the fluorescent lights, Junho’s face looks older. A 34-year-old actor. Or rather, he’s not an actor anymore. Minjun knows that. Junho is something pretending to be an actor. A manager. No, not even that. It’s something more complicated. Something Minjun still can’t name.
“What do you think you’ve been doing all this time?”
Junho asked. It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation. No, it wasn’t that either. It was a confession. Not to someone else, but to himself.
Minjun didn’t answer.
Junho sat down on the waiting room sofa. Slowly. As if his body had escaped his control. The leather made a small sound beneath his weight. Minjun heard it. It was the sound of surrender.
“Lee Junhyuk isn’t the kind of actor you think he is.”
Junho spoke again. His voice was completely different now. Low, heavy, like something emerging from a coffin.
“You said something about a relationship—”
Minjun began.
“It’s not a relationship.”
Junho cut him off.
Silence descended. Heavy silence. Like sinking into water. Minjun tried to bear it, but he couldn’t. People can’t bear silence. Silence forces you to think. And thinking becomes fear.
“Then what is it?”
Minjun asked.
Junho covered his face with his hands. His fingers passed over his eyes. As if trying to erase them. Or hide them.
“Lee Junhyuk is…”
Junho began, then stopped.
“What?”
Minjun asked again.
“Lee Junhyuk is Park Mira’s man.”
Junho said it.
That sentence fell in the waiting room. Like a stone into a lake. Creating ripples. But the ripples don’t stay on the water. They spread into the air. Into Minjun’s lungs. Into his heart.
“What…?”
Minjun asked. His voice was no longer his own.
“Park Mira’s man. And Park Mira is the director of that drama, and that drama is being made with someone’s money from the production company. That someone wants to own Park Mira. And Park Mira knows it but takes the money anyway. And she makes the drama with that money. And Lee Junhyuk is at the center of all of it. The connection point. Like a catalyst.”
Junho said. His words came faster. Like a dam bursting, water pouring out. He couldn’t stop.
Minjun sat down in the chair before the mirror. His legs could no longer support him.
“Then…”
Minjun said.
“Then what are you?”
Junho asked. It wasn’t Minjun’s question. It was Junho asking Minjun while simultaneously asking himself.
“I am…”
Minjun said.
“You’re a cog in the wheel. A cog they need to keep turning. If you act beautifully, the drama succeeds. If the drama succeeds, the investor is happy. If the investor is happy, Park Mira gets more money. If Park Mira gets more money, Lee Junhyuk gets buried deeper. And it all keeps repeating. You’re part of that system, and that system never stops.”
Junho said.
Minjun ran his fingers across his neck. As if something was wrapped around it. A collar. A chain. Something.
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
Minjun asked. His voice was barely audible.
Junho stood up. Slowly. His knees made a small sound as they left the sofa. He stood before Minjun. Two faces appeared in the mirror. One was a 27-year-old actor. One was a 34-year-old actor. Or rather, something that wasn’t an actor.
“That’s the problem.”
Junho said.
“What is?”
Minjun asked.
“You can’t do anything. Not now. Because you’re already inside it. You already filmed. There’s footage. And that footage is now in someone’s hands. You don’t know whose, but it’s definitely in someone’s hands.”
Junho said.
Minjun looks at his hands. They’re still trembling. An hour has passed since filming ended. No, they were already trembling during filming. Since the moment Lee Junhyuk’s hands approached.
“What will that someone do with me?”
Minjun asked.
Junho didn’t answer. Not because there was no answer, but because he didn’t want to answer. Or because he didn’t know the answer.
“You don’t know?”
Minjun asked.
“I don’t.”
Junho said.
“Then what do you know?”
Minjun asked.
Junho approached the mirror. His hand wiped it. As if trying to erase something beyond the glass. But the mirror kept reflecting. His hand. His face. His terror.
“I know this. You’ll never be the protagonist in this drama. You’ll always be background. But at the same time, you’ll stand out too much in that background. That’s the worst part. Either disappear completely or be completely exposed. There’s no middle ground.”
Junho said.
“What if I just expose everything?”
Minjun asked. It was an impulsive question. But the impulse was genuine.
“Expose it?”
Junho asked.
“Everything. What Lee Junhyuk is, what his relationship with Park Mira is, who the investor is. What if I just expose all of it?”
Minjun said.
Junho laughed. It wasn’t laughter. It was a scoff. Like hearing the most ridiculous joke.
“Expose it? To whom? Who do you think will listen? Who are you right now? You’re nobody. You’re just an actor, and actors don’t speak. Actors perform. That’s an actor’s job, and it’s both an actor’s weapon and an actor’s prison.”
Junho said.
Minjun clenched his hands into fists. His fingers pressing against his own fingers. Too hard. Hard enough to draw blood. But no blood came. Only his fingers turned white. White where blood doesn’t flow. That’s the color of death.
“What if I just quit? Quit the drama, quit acting, quit everything.”
Minjun said.
Junho looks at Minjun. Not through the mirror, but directly. His eyes meet Minjun’s eyes.
“You can’t.”
Junho said.
“Why?”
Minjun asked.
“Because you already cooperated. You already filmed. The footage exists. And that footage is evidence. You can’t erase it. No one can. It’ll stay forever. In the digital world, everything is eternal.”
Junho said.
Minjun looks at his hands. Trembling hands. He grabbed his own head with them. As if trying to tear it off. But he can’t. It’s his body, and he can’t escape his own body.
“Then what do I do? How?”
Minjun asked. It was no longer a question for Junho. It was a question for himself.
Junho sat back down on the waiting room sofa. His body completely collapsed. As if he had no bones.
“I don’t know.”
Junho said.
“What?”
Minjun asked.
“I don’t know how to help you. That was supposed to be my role, but you’ve fallen into a situation you can’t escape. And I couldn’t prevent it. You saw it. That I’m part of that system too.”
Junho said.
For the first time, Minjun truly looks at Junho’s face. Not through the mirror, but directly. His face has many wrinkles. They’re not wrinkles from age. They’re wrinkles of fear. Wrinkles of anxiety. Wrinkles of someone who knows they must do something they cannot do.
“What’s the worst case scenario?”
Minjun asked.
Junho looks at Minjun. Something is dead in his eyes. It’s hope. No, it’s something deeper. It’s control over his own life. Belief that he can do something. That is dead.
“The worst case is…”
Junho said.
Then he stopped.
Minjun waited. In the silence. That silence seemed eternal. But silence is never eternal. Silence always ends. When someone begins to speak.
“The worst case is that they push you deeper. More filming. More explicit scenes. More vulnerable versions of you. And that footage leaks somewhere. It could become a tool for blackmail, or it could just be a tool for destruction. You won’t know. Where it goes. Who sees it. When it explodes.”
Junho said.
Minjun feels his chest ache. No, not his chest, but deeper. It’s the pain of internal organs. As if someone reached into his body and tried to pull something out.
“Then what advice do you have for me?”
Minjun asked.
Junho stood up. His movements are now completely different. Like a robot moving. Automatically. Without consciousness.
“Advice?”
Junho said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah.”
Minjun said.
“The advice is… keep acting. Act perfectly. The way they want you to. And in that process, you’ll keep being recorded, keep being consumed, keep disappearing. But that’s the fate of an actor. It’s the path we chose.”
Junho said.
“I didn’t choose anything.”
Minjun said.
“Right. You didn’t choose. But you agreed. To the filming. To the scenes. To all of it. And agreement is choice. Even if that choice can’t be refused.”
Junho said.
Junho opened the door. The corridor outside the waiting room appears. It’s bright. Under fluorescent lights. There might be cameras there. Or there might not. But it doesn’t matter. Because everything is already recorded. Minjun’s face, his emotions, his vulnerability. Everything.
“Don’t leave the waiting room. Rest for another hour. Then get your makeup done again and prepare for the evening shoot.”
Junho said.
“There’s another shoot?”
Minjun asked.
“Yeah. Night shoot. Same scene. Different angle. Another take with Lee Junhyuk.”
Junho said.
Minjun looks at his hands. They’re still trembling. How can he act with those hands? How can he express revulsion with those hands? How can he avoid his father’s touch with those hands?
Junho closed the door. The waiting room returned to silence. But this silence is different from the previous one. It’s now definite silence. Silence with no choice.
Minjun stands before the mirror again. Looks at his face. It’s still an actor’s face. No, it’s not an actor’s face anymore. It’s a victim’s face. No, it’s not that either. It’s simply an image. A combination of pixels. Data in someone’s hands.
Time passed. Minjun doesn’t know the exact time. His phone is silent. Junho doesn’t return. No one returns. Only the fluorescent light continues to shine on his face. Harshly. Relentlessly.
Minjun thought about taking off his clothes. No, he only thought about it. He didn’t actually do it. He knows that’s dangerous now. Everything is dangerous. Everything can be recorded. Every action can be interpreted. Every moment can become a weapon.
He lay down on the sofa. His body was completely exhausted. But his eyes remained open. They stare at the ceiling. The ceiling is white. It looks like a canvas. A canvas where someone could paint his story. But that story isn’t Minjun’s story. It’s someone else’s story. It’s Park Mira’s story, Lee Junhyuk’s story, the investor’s story, Junho’s story. Minjun’s story is the background to all those stories. It’s decoration. It’s a tool. It’s no longer his.
More time passed. The makeup artist entered. She looks at Minjun’s face.
“Your face is pale. Are you okay?”
She asked.
Minjun didn’t answer. His mouth was closed. And it won’t open. At least not during filming. Not until filming is over.
The makeup artist began applying foundation to his face. Her fingers are cold. They brushed against Minjun’s cheeks. And Minjun feels it. But doesn’t feel it. It’s a contradiction. But now contradiction is part of Minjun’s life.
“Prepare for the evening shoot. Father and son. It’s the last scene.”
The makeup artist said.
The last scene. Minjun hears that word. Last. But it’s not the last. Because there is no last. There’s always a next scene for an actor. A next take. A next role. It continues forever. Until the last comes. And the last only comes with death.
Minjun looks at himself in the mirror. Face with foundation applied. It’s no longer his face. It’s the character’s face. The face of a son who recoils from his father’s touch. It’s perfect. Just as Park Mira wants. It will remain forever. In the digital world. In someone’s hands. Like a bomb waiting to detonate.
And Minjun accepts it. Knowing it’s not a choice. Knowing it’s a trap. He stood up. To go to the shoot. To act perfectly. To sell his soul.
The moment he steps onto the set, Minjun sees Lee Junhyuk. His face. It’s calm. As if nothing happened. Or as if everything happened exactly as planned.
Park Mira calls action.
And Minjun acts again. As if it were a choice. As if it were his path. As if it were freedom.
But it’s all a lie.
That’s the most terrifying part.
12,847 words
# The Weight of Lies
He knows that even that is dangerous now. Everything is dangerous. Everything can be recorded. Every action can be interpreted. Every moment can become a weapon.
Minjun lay on the sofa. The black leather sofa is too cold. The production lounge is always over-air-conditioned. Someone calls it a ‘professional environment.’ Minjun thinks of it as a ‘life-draining space.’ His body was completely exhausted. Fatigue that started from the depths of his muscles had seeped into his bone marrow like winter cold. Three hours of sleep last night, two nights of shooting before that, investor meetings before that. It all accumulates in his body. But his eyes remained open. The kind that won’t close even if you try. A mixture of adrenaline and anxiety controlled his nervous system.
His eyes stare at the ceiling. The ceiling is white. Clean white. Perfect white. So perfect it’s unsettling. It looks like a canvas. A canvas where someone could paint their story. Minjun projects himself onto that white canvas. His smile, his tears, his despair. But wait—is that really his?
No. That’s not my story.
It’s a story drawn by someone else, not me. A story drawn by Park Mira. Through her camera, through her directorial gaze. There’s also a story drawn by Lee Junhyuk. The subtle movements of his lips, the calculation in his eyes. There’s a story drawn by the investors too. What do they want to see in this film? What drama do they want? And Junho too. The story Junho revealed. That’s the most dangerous version.
Minjun’s story is the background to all those stories. It’s decoration. It’s a tool. It’s no longer his. When exactly did it happen? When precisely did his life become someone else’s property?
More time passed. How much doesn’t matter. Time means nothing in this production. Time moves according to the script’s directions. ‘Morning scene.’ ‘Afternoon’s sad monologue.’ ‘Evening’s confrontation.’
Sujin, the makeup artist, entered. She always speaks in a soft voice. As if Minjun were fragile porcelain that could break. She looks at his face. Her eyes narrow. It’s a signal of professional concern.
“Your face is pale. Are you okay?”
She asked. There’s genuine worry in her voice. Minjun is grateful for this moment. This is the only moment. When someone sees ‘Minjun.’ Not the ‘character.’ But that too could be an illusion. Sujin is also an actor. She too plays her role. The ‘caring staff member’ part.
Minjun didn’t answer. His mouth was closed. He needed time to think before speaking. But he’d already thought about everything. The conclusion is always the same. It’s better not to speak. And it won’t open. Not during filming. Not until filming is over. Not even after filming ends. Because the camera keeps rolling even after filming stops.
Sujin understands his silence. She’s seen many actors like this. Tense actors. Actors deeply immersed in their roles. Or psychologically broken actors. She doesn’t distinguish between them. She just touches their faces.
“I understand. I’ll start with the base then.”
Sujin began applying foundation to Minjun’s face. Her fingers are cold. The sensation of the sponge brushing against his cheek. And Minjun feels it. As a physical sensation. But simultaneously doesn’t feel it. As if someone else’s face is being touched. It’s a contradiction. But now contradiction is part of Minjun’s life.
“Evening shoot is coming up. Father and son. The last scene.”
Sujin said. Her lips moved as she delivered the words. It’s the tone of conveying important information. The last scene. Minjun hears that word. Last. The weight of that word falls on his shoulders.
But it’s not the last. Because there is no last. There’s always a next scene for an actor. Shooting order doesn’t follow script order. It’s jumbled according to scheduling convenience. So ‘the last scene’ is the last in terms of time, but never the last narratively. And even when this film ends, there’s the next film. The next take. The next role. It continues forever. Until the last comes. And the last only comes with death.
Minjun looks at himself in the mirror. No, at ‘it’ in the mirror. A face with foundation applied. His natural skin tone has disappeared. In its place is uniform beige. Artificial color. Color designed to look beautiful in front of the camera.
“Should I make it brighter? The lighting’s gotten stronger lately.”
Sujin asked.
Minjun doesn’t speak again. He just blinks once. A signal of agreement.
Sujin applies more foundation to his face. It’s no longer his face. It’s the character’s face. The face of a son who recoils from his father’s touch. That recoil must be subtle. The audience should feel it, but Lee Junhyuk, playing the father, shouldn’t notice. That’s what makes it more dramatic.
It’s perfect. Just as Park Mira wants.
“Next is the eyeshadow.”
Sujin mutters. She begins mixing several colors on her palette. Brown, gray, black. Dark colors. Colors of sadness. Colors of despair. Or colors of danger.
Through the mirror, Minjun watches his eyes transform. As the makeup progresses, a new character is being created. That’s the son of Lee Junhyuk. A son who wants to escape parental overprotection but can’t. A son weighed down by college entrance anxiety and his father’s expectations.
In the script, that son confronts his father. In the last scene. He speaks his dream. That he wants to become an actor. It collides with the father’s dream. The father wants him to become a doctor. The conflict escalates. The father hits the son. The son bursts into tears. An emotional explosion.
Minjun has already filmed that scene many times. From different angles. Under different lighting. With different microphone placements. Now he’ll film it again.
It will remain forever. In the digital world. In someone’s hands. Like a bomb waiting to detonate. Who knows if those tears you’re seeing are real? Whether they’re truly that actor’s emotions, or a perfect lie. That distinction has become meaningless. The boundary between real and fake has collapsed.
“Done. Ready?”
Sujin steps back with the mirror. Minjun looks at himself in the mirror. It’s not himself in the mirror. It’s someone else. Someone perfectly created. Someone perfectly arranged.
Minjun turns his eyes away from the mirror. It hurts to look at himself now.
“Thank you.”
He speaks for the first time. His voice is hoarse. How long has it been since he spoke? The muscles in his throat resist forming this simple sentence.
“Hang in there. Today’s scene is going to be heavy.”
Sujin places a hand on his shoulder. A moment of genuine contact. A hand that doesn’t wear makeup. A warm hand.
Minjun feels the warmth of that hand. And pretends not to feel it again.
—
The corridor to the set is long. And empty. Most of the crew are already on set. Setting up lights, positioning cameras, preparing everything perfectly. Lee Junhyuk, the actor playing his father, is probably already prepared too.
Lee Junhyuk.
Just thinking that name makes Minjun’s heart race. Lee Junhyuk is a famous actor. Famous for his acting ability. But more famous than that is his personality. A perfectionist. Cold. Emotionless.
And dangerous.
When Minjun was first cast in this film, everyone congratulated him. “You get to work with Lee Junhyuk! This is such an incredible opportunity!” But as Minjun heard those words, he felt fear. Lee Junhyuk was famous for crushing rookie actors. No, ‘crushing’ isn’t the right word. He ‘develops’ them, he says. In aggressive, critical, sometimes insulting ways.
And director Park Mira loves him. Loves Lee Junhyuk. Because his intensity shows on screen. Because his coldness makes the film deeper.
Minjun walks down the corridor then stops. Before the set entrance. There he takes a deep breath. Deep. Slow. To calm his nervous system.
This is an actor’s job. This is the profession. To control emotions, deliver the story, to lie perfectly. That’s all.
He convinces himself that way.
The moment he steps onto the set, Minjun sees Lee Junhyuk. His face. It’s calm. As if nothing happened. Or as if everything happened exactly as planned. Lee Junhyuk’s face shows no emotion. It’s a signal of acting. A signal that he’s becoming the father now.
Director Park Mira sits in her chair. Next to her is the cinematographer, and next to him is the script supervisor. All in their positions, ready.
Park Mira wears a dark-colored shirt. She always wears dark colors. As if those colors would make her the background. But she’s never the background. She’s the center of all this. The center of this film. The center of this drama.
“Minjun, here.”
Park Mira gestures. Minjun goes to his position on the set. Inside a room. A bedroom. There’s a desk, a bed, a window. And the door where the father will enter.
“Lee Junhyuk, ready?”
Park Mira asks.
“Of course.”
Lee Junhyuk answers. His voice is low and calm. It’s a terrifying voice. Because there’s no emotional fluctuation in it.
“Good. Let’s start then. Actors, take your starting positions.”
Park Mira calls out.
Minjun sits on the bed. According to the script, at this moment he’s received notification of college entrance acceptance. Medical school acceptance. Just as his father wanted. But in his heart, he doesn’t want it. He wants to become an actor. That’s his true dream.
Lee Junhyuk enters through the door. Slowly. Threateningly. His movements are calculated. Everything is calculated.
“You got in. Congratulations.”
Lee Junhyuk says. There’s no joy in his voice. What’s there is just confirmation. Confirmation that his plan succeeded.
Minjun stands up from the bed. His movements must also be calculated. Recoil from the father’s words. That recoil must be expressed through the body. Fingers move. Jaw tightens. Gaze averts.
“Father… I…”
Minjun begins to speak. His voice trembles. It’s perfect acting.
“What?”
Lee Junhyuk asks. One word. But everything is contained in that word. The father’s authority. The father’s expectations. The father’s threat.
Minjun stops. His mouth closes. According to the script, he should continue speaking here. “I want to become an actor,” he should say. But that line doesn’t come out.
No, it doesn’t come out because it shouldn’t yet. Because the take hasn’t started.
“Action!”
Park Mira calls out.
In that moment, something awakens in Minjun. Like a switch turning on. That’s what it means to be an actor. In that moment, he stops being Minjun. He becomes the character.
“Father… I want to become an actor.”
Minjun says. Now it’s not Minjun’s voice. It’s the voice of…