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Chapter 101: The Call in the Dark
When Joon-ho’s arm relaxed, Min-joon realized for the first time how much he was trembling. From his elbow to his fingertips, from his neck to his toes, his entire body was seized by an uncontrollable tremor, as if some internal mechanism had broken down. Joon-ho knew it, so his hand slowly stroked Min-joon’s back, like playing an instrument, calming the strings.
“Let’s get in the car,”
Joon-ho said, his voice now calm, the calmness of someone who had made a decision, who no longer needed to persuade.
Min-joon looked up, and Joon-ho’s face was starkly illuminated under the parking lot’s fluorescent lights. The face of a man nearing 45, with bags under his eyes, wrinkles on his forehead, but more striking than all of that were his eyes, fixed on Min-joon, not looking away.
“Where are we going?”
Min-joon asked, his voice still trembling.
“Home,”
Joon-ho replied.
“Your home?”
“Your home,”
Joon-ho said, and with that, everything changed. Min-joon’s heart contracted again. The thought of taking Joon-ho to his tiny, semi-basement apartment, with its moldy ceiling, where he had lived for four years, was daunting.
Joon-ho read the change in Min-joon’s expression, as he always did, almost like he had a sixth sense to understand Min-joon’s thoughts.
“Are you afraid of sharing your space with someone?”
Joon-ho asked.
“Yes,”
Min-joon replied, this time without any pretenses.
“Why?”
“Because then I won’t be able to disappear,”
Min-joon said, and after those words, he realized what he had just said, and that realization made his face flush.
Joon-ho didn’t laugh. Instead, his hand cradled Min-joon’s face, like a mother handling a child, but more deeply, more cautiously.
“You won’t disappear,”
Joon-ho said, and with that sentence, he led Min-joon to the car, as if it was the final word.
As Min-joon sat in the passenger seat, he took a closer look at the interior of the car for the first time. Previously, he had only focused on Joon-ho’s voice. But now, other things caught his attention. The small doll on the dashboard, a blue rabbit, and the CD case with soundtracks from 20-year-old movies. Joon-ho’s taste remained intact in this space.
Joon-ho started the engine, and it hummed quietly. The car exited the parking lot.
“Do you want to know why I’ve been keeping an eye on you?”
Joon-ho asked while driving, at a red light.
“Yes,”
Min-joon replied.
“I saw things in you that I couldn’t do. Things that didn’t match your age. Purity? No, that’s not it… It’s that you don’t give up, even in despair,”
Joon-ho said, as the light turned green and the car moved again.
“I thought you’d be a supporting actor, someone who would eventually give up. But you… you fell differently. Like falling itself was part of the act,”
Min-joon looked at his hand, placed on the passenger seat, still trembling.
“I just… survived,”
Min-joon said.
“That’s the hardest thing to do,”
Joon-ho replied.
The night in Seoul flowed quickly, from Gangnam to Gangbuk, from south to north along the Sinbundang line, towards the direction of Sillim-dong, where Min-joon’s semi-basement apartment was located. As the distance progressed, the buildings became lower, older, more worn out, like going back in time.
“Is this the right place?”
Joon-ho asked, in front of Min-joon’s alley.
“Yes,”
Min-joon replied.
Joon-ho slowly maneuvered the car into the alley, which was too narrow for large vehicles, but he navigated it with precision, as if he knew this space beforehand.
“How many times have you been here?”
Min-joon asked.
“Many times,”
Joon-ho replied, without further explanation.
When the car stopped, Min-joon’s apartment entrance came into view. A small staircase, and below it, the semi-basement window, through which his bed was visible. Joon-ho turned off the engine and silently got out, followed by Min-joon.
The night in Sillim-dong was quiet, with most buildings already asleep, except for the convenience store lights and the blue lights of a few PC rooms, which remained awake, a space for people who were awake while Seoul slept: students, the unemployed, those who worked late into the night, and actors.
“I’m embarrassed about this house,”
Min-joon said, descending the stairs.
“Why?”
Joon-ho asked, following behind.
“You don’t live in a place like this, hyung. What you see… ”
Min-joon started to say but stopped before opening the door.
“What do you think I see?”
Joon-ho asked.
Min-joon didn’t answer, instead pulling out his key, a red key he had used since childhood, inserting and withdrawing it hundreds of times, its metal end worn and without luster.
The door opened.
The semi-basement apartment’s smell wafted out, a mix of mold, old bedding, and the scent of someone living there. Joon-ho didn’t frown; instead, he slowly stepped inside.
“Can I turn on the light?”
Min-joon asked.
“Yes,”
Joon-ho replied.
Min-joon reached for the wall switch, and the fluorescent light flickered, then stabilized, casting an uncertain glow, as if the room itself was uncertain of its existence.
The room was revealed, approximately 10 pyeong in size, with a bed, desk, closet, and the moldy ceiling, which resembled a map or a living organism. Min-joon had stared at it many times.
“Do you look at this ceiling?”
Joon-ho asked.
“Yes,”
Min-joon replied.
“Every day?”
“Yes,”
Min-joon said, adding, “Every morning when I wake up.”
Joon-ho gazed at the ceiling, as if there was something written there, a code, a message.
“What do you think about here?”
Joon-ho asked.
“Death,”
Min-joon said, without any pretenses.
“Every day?”
“Yes,”
Min-joon replied.
Joon-ho looked at Min-joon, his eyes locking onto Min-joon’s, not looking away.
“And you’re still alive,”
Joon-ho said.
“Yes,”
Min-joon replied.
“What does that mean?”
Joon-ho asked.
“What’s what?”
Min-joon asked.
“That’s what it means to be an actor. To see death every day, but to live. And to give that experience to your character. Then the character seems real, like it’s alive even when it’s dead,”
Joon-ho said.
Min-joon absorbed Joon-ho’s words, into his body, like taking medicine, deeper than that, like an injection, flowing through his veins.
“Hyung, what do you see every day?”
Min-joon asked.
Joon-ho sat on the bed, on Min-joon’s bed, and the bed sank under his weight.
“I see failure. Every day, from the moment I wake up to the moment I sleep. I’m a second-rate actor, forever second-rate. And when I realized that… I died to that fact. But I still get up, still act, because there’s no other way. No, there’s another reason,”
Joon-ho paused.
“What is it?”
Min-joon asked.
“It’s because of you,”
Joon-ho said.
A long silence followed Joon-ho’s words. Min-joon stood still, near the door, looking at Joon-ho, who was sitting on his bed. This man, who needed him so much, was sitting on his bed.
“Hyung, why do you need me?”
Min-joon asked.
“Because you still have hope,”
Joon-ho replied.
“I can become like you, hyung,”
Min-joon said.
“It’s okay. You can become first-rate, second-rate, or fall, but in front of all those outcomes, you’ll still stand. And that… ”
Joon-ho couldn’t continue.
“What is it?”
Min-joon asked.
“That’s what’s eternal. The character may die, but the actor remains. The actor may fall, but the person remains. That’s what it means to be a true actor, to always remain, to be remembered by someone,”
Joon-ho said.
Min-joon looked at his semi-basement apartment again, the moldy ceiling, the old bedding, the movie posters on the wall. This was his life, for four years, thinking about death, living, and dreaming of being remembered.
“Does hyung mean you won’t forget me?”
Min-joon asked.
“Yes,”
Joon-ho replied.
“Forever?”
Min-joon asked.
Joon-ho stood up, approached Min-joon, and his hand touched Min-joon’s cheek, warm and gentle, melting Min-joon’s skin.
“Forever,”
Joon-ho said.
And at that moment, Min-joon’s phone vibrated.
A call, at 11:47 PM. Who could be calling at this hour? Min-joon picked up the phone, looked at the screen.
Caller: Park Mi-ra
When that name appeared on the screen, both Min-joon and Joon-ho moved. Joon-ho lowered his hand, and Min-joon’s body stiffened, ready to answer the call.
“Answer it,”
Joon-ho said.
Min-joon pressed the call button.
“Yes, director,”
Min-joon said.
“Min-joon, where are you now?”
Park Mi-ra’s voice was different from usual, urgent, decisive.
“I’m at… home,”
Min-joon started to say.
“Come to the set tomorrow at 9 AM. There’s an important meeting. And come alone,”
Park Mi-ra said.
“Yes, director. What’s going on?”
Min-joon asked.
“You’ll find out tomorrow. You need to rest. Tomorrow will be long,”
Park Mi-ra said, and the call ended.
Min-joon put down his phone, and the screen dimmed. He looked at Joon-ho again, who was gazing out the window, at the night in Sillim-dong, the streetlights, the sounds from the PC room.
“Hyung, what are you thinking about?”
Min-joon asked.
“I feel like I’ve failed,”
Joon-ho said.
“What did you fail at?”
Min-joon asked.
“Protecting you,”
Joon-ho said, his eyes still on the window.
“From this industry, from all of this,”
Joon-ho added, his shoulders slumping, bearing the weight of it all alone.
“Hyung didn’t fail,”
Min-joon said.
“Park Mi-ra said tomorrow will be long,”
Joon-ho said.
“Yes,”
Min-joon replied.
“That can be a good or bad sign. An actor lives in between those signs, between good and bad. And that uncertainty kills us, slowly,”
Joon-ho said.
Min-joon looked at the ceiling again, the moldy stains, the shapeless map. Time was flowing above it, the night deepening, the next day approaching, minute by minute, hour by hour.
“Hyung, will you be with me tomorrow?”
Min-joon asked.
“I can’t promise that,”
Joon-ho replied.
“Why?”
Min-joon asked, his voice smaller.
“Because you have to go alone. With your own legs, your own voice, your own face,”
Joon-ho said, turning to Min-joon, their eyes meeting, with something deep and black in Joon-ho’s eyes, like love, fear, or both.
“No one can help you with that. That’s what it means to be an actor,”
Joon-ho said, his words final, like a judgment, like fate.
“Then what will hyung do?”
Min-joon asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I’ll wait here, until morning,”
Joon-ho said, his voice soft, but with a firm determination.
“And when you return from the set, I’ll still be here,”
Joon-ho added, lying down on the bed, on Min-joon’s bed, his body sinking into the mattress, the springs creaking, like a sigh of pain.
Min-joon didn’t move, still sitting on the floor, back against the wall, feeling the cold wall through his spine, knowing that this man was staying up all night for him, to protect him, to watch over him until morning.
Outside, the night in Sillim-dong continued to flow, the convenience store lights flickering, someone entering, someone exiting, the sounds from the PC room, game effects, laughter, curses, footsteps on the asphalt, laughter piercing the night air, tears somewhere, and above it all, tomorrow was slowly approaching, from the horizon, beyond the dark night, slowly, steadily, without stopping.
Min-joon checked his phone, the time, 12:13 AM, 8 hours and 47 minutes left. It was a long time, a very long time, like the day had stretched into multiple days, but at the same time, it was short, very short, morning would come soon, the sun would rise, and the world would keep turning, unstoppable.
It was just time, flowing time, unending time, always at the same pace, neither fast nor slow, just flowing, passing, going by.
Min-joon put down his phone, the screen dimmed, and darkness fell again.
In that darkness, Joon-ho’s figure appeared again, lying on the bed, eyes closed, not sleeping, but listening to Min-joon’s breathing, watching over him.
Min-joon thought, what would come after this night? Success? Failure? Or the gray area in between?
He didn’t know yet. No one could know.
But one thing was certain, after this night, his life would change, completely, irreversibly, forever.
Time passed, one minute, two minutes, five minutes.
The night in Sillim-dong continued, a place that never slept, where dreamers gathered, where those who had failed tried to get back up, where students studied through the night, where the unemployed wandered, and where actors lived.
Min-joon was one of them now.
And Joon-ho was watching over this street, all night, until morning, and beyond.
The night continued.