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# Chapter 121: The Face in the Mirror
At 4:23 PM, the fluorescent lights in the hallway caught Minjun’s reflection as he stepped out of Studio A. Someone was there in that mirror, but it didn’t feel like him. Exhausted. Deep lines etched between his brows. Only a ghost of a smile lingered at the corners of his mouth. Minjun hadn’t looked directly at any mirror, yet he could feel his own reflection. In the dark window glass, his image seemed barely there—as if he’d already ceased to exist.
I’m already gone.
That line kept repeating. Ten minutes had passed since he’d closed the script, but the words were burned into his brain. It wasn’t Jiho’s line anymore—it felt like his own. Minjun walked slowly down the corridor. When someone greeted him, he nodded without looking at their face. He was afraid to meet anyone’s eyes. Afraid they’d see the emptiness inside him.
He stopped in front of the elevator without meaning to. His finger pressed the button automatically. His body moved while his mind lagged behind. Is this what an actor becomes? he wondered. Body and consciousness splitting apart, one continuing to move while the other stayed behind. The elevator doors opened. Empty. He stepped in. Without pressing anything, the doors closed and it descended.
You only play dead characters.
Sungjun’s voice echoed in his head. The tone of it. The sharp edge hidden behind that laugh. Sungjun had changed two years ago, ever since his face became recognizable through commercials and music videos. His eyes had shifted. Like a hunter entering the arena. And today, when that gaze passed over Minjun, he’d felt like he was already dead—not even prey, just a stone lying in the road.
The elevator reached the ground floor. Doors opened. Minjun stepped out. The lobby of Destar Entertainment always smelled the same—air conditioning, floor wax, someone’s perfume. Every time he caught that scent, he knew exactly where he was. Here. Always here. Just like Junho had said: Stay here. As if you don’t exist.
He headed toward the café area on the left side of the lobby. He needed to drink coffee. Or rather, he needed to pretend to drink coffee. If you acted like you were doing something, maybe it would look real. That’s what actors did.
The café counter was empty—self-service. As Minjun picked up a cup, someone spoke beside him.
“Minjun.”
He knew that voice. It was Uri.
Minjun turned. Uri was holding an Americano, looking tired. Black hoodie, no makeup—probably just finished filming. Uri’s eyes searched his face, asking something without words.
“Done with the reading?” Uri asked.
“Yeah.”
“How was it?”
Minjun didn’t answer. He pretended to pour coffee, watching the stream darken from brown to black. Like my mind, he thought. Getting darker and darker.
“Minjun?” Uri’s voice came again.
“Yeah, it was fine.” He lied.
Uri didn’t seem to believe him. He stepped closer and looked at Minjun’s hands. The hands holding the cup. They were trembling. Slightly, but noticeably. Uri saw it.
“Your hands are shaking,” Uri said.
Minjun set the cup down on the table. His fingertips were cold. They’d been cold since morning. He wasn’t sure when it started—maybe last night under the convenience store lights. That’s when the chill had set in.
“Something happened at the reading?” Uri asked again.
Minjun looked at Uri. His eyes were serious. Not an actor’s eyes—something else. Observant eyes. Eyes trying to read another person’s emotions. Maybe that’s why Uri does musicals, Minjun thought. To see into people’s depths and express them.
“Sungjun came,” Minjun said.
Uri’s expression shifted. Barely, but noticeably. “Sungjun?”
“Yeah. After two years.”
Uri took a sip of coffee. “What did he say?”
“Nothing special.” Minjun lied. “We just… said hi.”
“Then why are your hands shaking?”
Minjun looked at his hands. They really were trembling. Like he was cold. But the lobby was warm—the AC was running strong. Yet his hands were ice. Strange.
“Probably vitamin deficiency,” Minjun said.
Uri laughed—the kind of laugh that meant I don’t believe you. “Vitamins don’t make your hands shake.”
“Then what?”
Uri sighed long and deep. “I don’t know. But… have you been eating lately? Are you eating properly?”
Minjun didn’t answer. Eating meant you were alive. He wasn’t sure if he was eating these days, or if he was alive at all.
“I’m eating,” he said.
Uri studied him, then spoke slowly. “The reading—what was it really like? Don’t lie.”
Minjun looked at Uri’s eyes. There was something there. Not an actor’s eyes. A friend’s eyes. No—deeper than that. Eyes that knew something. Eyes that were worried.
“The character…” Minjun said slowly. “He’s already dead.”
“Yeah?”
“Like a ghost. Or more like… a hallucination that keeps appearing. Something the protagonist’s mind created. But he keeps showing up anyway.”
Uri drank his coffee. “Does that bother you?”
“No. I like it. But…”
“But?”
Minjun’s trembling fingers moved. “The character keeps feeling like me.”
Uri stopped. He looked at those shaking fingers, then spoke carefully. “That’s… actually a good sign. Really.”
“How?”
“When an actor sees themselves in a role, it means you understand that character. That’s what creates the best performances.”
Minjun didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure if Uri was right. But something about the way Uri said it made him feel like Uri understood something. As an actor, or for some other reason.
Uri’s phone buzzed. A notification. Uri glanced at the screen and his expression changed. Rapidly. Something flashed across his face—anxiety? Fear? Minjun couldn’t tell.
“What is it?” Minjun asked.
Uri put the phone down. “Nothing. Just… a message from a friend.”
“Then why does your face look like that?”
Uri smiled. A forced smile. Minjun recognized it—the same smile he wore every day. “I’m fine. Really. Did you do well at the reading? What did Director Park say?”
A subject change. Minjun did that too—the way to escape someone’s questions. Attack with another question instead.
“She didn’t say much. Just kept picking up and putting down her pen.”
“That’s a good sign. Park picks up her pen during scenes she likes.”
Minjun looked at Uri. “Have you worked with Park before?”
“No. But there’s talk. And…” Uri stopped.
“And?”
“And a Netflix drama is dangerous.”
“Why?”
Uri drank his coffee. “Because it’s dangerous. Just be careful. Really.”
Minjun looked at Uri. His eyes were hiding something. Something big. Minjun could have asked. But he didn’t. Respecting someone else’s secrets—that was something actors had to learn too.
The fluorescent lights in the lobby flickered. Once. Then came back on. In that moment, Minjun saw his reflection in the window. Someone was there. Himself, but not himself. The face was exhausted, deep lines carved between the brows, no smile at the corners of the mouth.
“Minjun, are you really okay?” Uri asked again.
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
“Don’t lie.”
Minjun looked at Uri. His eyes were serious. And deep. Like they could read everything inside him.
“I’m really okay,” Minjun said. He smiled. A forced smile. The same one he wore every day. Uri saw that smile but said nothing. Instead, he drank his coffee again.
They stood in the lobby a while longer. Not talking. Just there. Together. That was enough. A way of communicating that went deeper than words—the language of silence.
Minjun moved first. “I should go.”
“Where?”
“Home.”
Uri nodded. “Eat something and sleep. Properly. Got it?”
“Yeah.”
As Minjun turned to leave, Uri spoke. “And Minjun… the role of Jiho. You can do it. I know you can.”
Minjun stopped. Didn’t turn around. Just stopped. That sentence did something. Awakened something. His trembling fingers stilled. As if they’d stopped shaking.
“Thanks,” Minjun said.
“Yeah.”
Minjun left the lobby. He passed through the automatic doors of the Destar building. Outside, it was 4:47 PM. Late afternoon sunlight washed across the Seoul streets. In that light, Minjun’s shadow stretched long—like it belonged to someone else entirely.
On the way to the subway, Minjun stopped at a convenience store. He needed to eat, like Uri had said. To survive. He stood in front of the frozen food section. Kimbap, rice balls, sandwiches, ramen. So many choices. But they all looked the same. They’d all taste the same. Like him. Appearing to have options, but fundamentally the same.
He picked up ramen. The clerk heated it for him. Minjun took a plastic spoon—light, fragile, ready to break. He ate the ramen with that spoon. It had no taste. His tongue couldn’t detect anything. As if his tongue was dead too.
At the register, the clerk said, “You’re here again. You come a lot these days.”
Minjun didn’t answer. He handed over cash. The clerk gave him change—coins. Small, light things. Minjun took them.
When he stepped outside, the sun was setting. The sky shifted from orange to black. Like someone’s life slowly going out.
He descended the subway stairs without holding the railing. His fingertips were too cold. He was afraid of contact. Afraid he’d freeze whoever he touched.
When he reached the platform, the display showed the next train in two minutes. Minjun sat on a bench. Someone’s warmth should still linger there. But he couldn’t feel it. His fingertips were too cold.
The display changed to one minute. The train arrived. Minjun stood and boarded. It was quiet inside. Evening meant fewer passengers. Outside the window, tunnels passed. Darkness. Endless darkness. In that darkness, he saw his own reflection.
I’m already gone. I just look like I’m here because you want to see me.
That line sounded like it came from his own mouth. In his own voice. Or maybe it already had become his voice.
The train stopped at the next station. Someone got off. Someone got on. Minjun didn’t move. He just sat there. Through the window, he watched his reflection. Someone present but absent. Someone who looked like he didn’t exist.
The train moved again.