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# Chapter 171: Lies in the Mirror
Min-jun opened his eyes on the film set. The smell of the makeup chair hit his nose—vaseline and foundation mingling in the air. His body sat motionless while hands worked across his face. The makeup artist’s touch felt neither warm nor cold, just clinical, routine. Fingers swept foundation across his skin in practiced strokes.
“Your face looks pale,” the makeup artist said brightly. She’d probably said this a hundred times today. Her words seemed designed to chase away the tension hanging in the air. “Stressed lately?”
Min-jun didn’t answer. He stared into the mirror, and the face staring back wasn’t his own. Or rather, it was—but it wasn’t. It was the face of someone named Min-jun, yet simultaneously the face of someone else, someone who would live inside this film. Two faces overlapped. He could no longer tell which one was real. His eyes met the mirror’s eyes, the same color but reflecting a different light.
The makeup artist continued. Concealer covered the dark circles beneath his eyes—traces of sleepless nights, hours spent counting the mold map on his semi-basement ceiling. All of it disappeared beneath the foundation. Makeup was a brilliant invention. The art of covering truth. That was all it was. Min-jun understood how dangerous that invention truly was. How easy it was to hide the truth. How dangerous.
“Good. Now for the eyeshadow.”
He closed his eyes. Darkness came. In that darkness, he heard Junho’s voice. The voice from the café. Cold. Desperate. Commanding. “Min-jun, what do you need?” The question was still embedded in his brain like a nail. His heart still responded to that voice. His hands still felt its weight.
When he opened his eyes, she was applying eyeshadow. Blue-gray. A subdued color. Perfect for acting sadness. Or was it perfect for hiding it? Makeup was another performance. Drawn lies on the face. Min-jun wondered how this color would express his emotions. Could he show sadness? Could he hide it?
“The director wants a heavier expression in this scene,” the makeup artist said. “More emotional depth.”
Min-jun’s mouth twitched. Could that be called a smile? No. Just muscle contracting. Movement without feeling. Acting without acting. His body still carried that weight. His heart still felt the heaviness of that question.
The corridor to the set was long. Studio lights reflected off white walls. Film sets were always bright as day—artificial sunlight in a fabricated space, a perfect mimicry of nature’s lie. As Min-jun walked, he thought he was descending into hell. Yet hell was bright and warm. His footsteps echoed on the glass floor. His heart still responded to his body’s rhythm.
“Min-jun hyung, how are you feeling?”
Someone called from behind. Min-jun turned. An actor. Tae-hyun. Thirty or so. Playing his father in this film. A kind face. A genuine smile. But his eyes were calculating. Always performing eyes.
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah? You’re always fine.” Tae-hyun laughed. It sounded warm. But Min-jun knew what it really meant. You’re too quiet. You’re hard to read. You’re hiding something.
He was right. Min-jun knew it. He was still hiding it. His body still carried that weight. His heart still felt the heaviness of that question.
The set was a living room. Some family’s living room. Pastel-colored sofa, artificial sunlight streaming through windows, family photos on the walls. All of it was a lie. A family that never existed. Yet the lie was so convincing. Standing in that living room, Min-jun thought it was more real than his semi-basement. More authentic than the mold map on his ceiling. This fake house felt more genuine.
“First take. Ready?”
Director Park Mi-ra spoke. A woman in her early fifties. Gray-streaked hair. Sharp eyes. Eyes that saw through actors’ lies. Or demanded them. Authentic lies. That was cinema.
“Yes.”
“This scene is you and Tae-hyun meeting after a long time. What do you feel seeing your father? Sorry? Guilty? Love? What will you choose?”
Min-jun didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. Because he felt all of it simultaneously. He couldn’t choose just one. So he chose none. He was still searching for that emotion. Still searching for that truth.
“I’ll just… be myself.”
“Yourself?” The director narrowed her eyes. “Who are you, exactly?”
That question was perfect. Precise. Who was Min-jun? The person who fell apart in Junho’s café? Or the actor standing here now? Or somewhere in between? He didn’t know the answer. He still didn’t understand the question.
“Rolling.”
The camera started.
Min-jun entered through the living room door. Slowly. As if stepping into that house for the first time. Tae-hyun sat on the sofa, pretending to read a newspaper. Acting. Everything was acting. On this stage called cinema. Min-jun knew this. He still couldn’t accept it.
“Father.”
His voice came out. He couldn’t tell if it was his voice or the character’s. It was somewhere in between. A middle voice. A middle existence.
Tae-hyun lowered the newspaper slowly. As if it were the heaviest newspaper in the world. The weight of acting. Min-jun’s eyes wavered watching it.
“It’s been a long time.”
Tae-hyun’s voice was warm. A father’s voice. But Min-jun’s real father had never spoken like that. His real father had said…
“Min-jun, you want to be an actor? Then do it. I failed, but you… you could be different.”
A voice from ten years ago. Heard from the rooftop. Then only wind. The sound of a falling body. The silence that followed.
Min-jun’s face changed. Something flowed from beneath the makeup artist’s foundation. Tears. Real tears, not acted ones.
“Cut!”
The director called out.
Everything stopped. The set froze. Tae-hyun stopped moving. The artificial sunlight ceased. Only Min-jun’s tears continued falling.
“Good. That’s it. That emotion. That’s perfect.” Joy in the director’s voice. “One more time. Same emotion.”
But Min-jun couldn’t summon that emotion again. Emotion was real only once. The second time was always acting. So he remembered that first tear and replicated it. Moved his muscles the same way, controlled his breathing the same way, shed tears the same way. Scientific emotion. Calculated sadness.
“Good. Rolling.”
Second take.
“It’s been a long time.”
Tae-hyun’s voice sounded different this time. Lighter than before. As if he knew it was a line. Because he did. The second take was always more artificial.
Min-jun cried. The same way. The same intensity. But it wasn’t real anymore. He was still searching for that emotion. Still searching for that truth.
“Cut. Good. Next scene.”
The set’s atmosphere shifted. Actors began moving. Staff started repositioning cameras. The living room began to disassemble. The fake family fell apart piece by piece. Walls were moved. The sofa cleared away. The artificial sunlight switched off.
Min-jun stood there. Unmoving. Watching the living room disappear. It wasn’t strange to watch. He already knew that everything vanishes.
His phone rang. In his pocket. Min-jun pulled it out. Junho’s name on the screen. Again. And again. Always.
He didn’t answer. Just let it ring. The sound stopped. Almost immediately, a text arrived.
“Let’s meet after shooting. I have something important.”
Min-jun read it twice. Three times. What could “something important” mean? He already knew the most important thing. That lies are more convincing than truth. That you can’t survive without acting. And…
And that he’d already lost something.
The path out of the set. A corridor. The same white walls. The same artificial lights. The makeup removal room. A mirror. His face was there. Foundation still visible. Eyeshadow running. Tears drying. Traces of acting. Remnants of emotion.
As he looked in the mirror, someone spoke beside him. The makeup artist.
“Your performance today was good. Real emotion showed through.”
Min-jun answered. “Thank you.”
But it was a lie. Another lie. A false gratitude for praise. And he realized how natural that lie had become. Now lies were the most natural thing. Truth had become strange.
He turned away from the mirror. He didn’t want to see his face anymore. Because it wasn’t his face. It was an actor’s face. A character’s face. And somewhere between the two, Min-jun was disappearing.
He picked up his phone again. Junho’s message. Read it again. “I have something important.” He still didn’t understand what it meant. But one thing was certain. This wasn’t the end. This was the beginning. The beginning of something darker. And Min-jun knew he wasn’t ready for it.
But he had to go. Actors always do. To the stage. To the lights. To the world of lies.
6:47 PM. He left the set. Seoul’s evening air touched his face. Cold. Humid. Carrying the scent of the city. It was the only truth. Air. It couldn’t lie. Always the same smell. Always the same temperature. Unchanging reality.
The path to the subway station. People swarmed. Commuters heading home. Each carrying their own lies. They’d acted at work. Now they’d perform different roles at home. No one was real. Everyone was an actor. Unconscious actors.
Min-jun was one of them. He just knew he was acting.
His phone rang again. Junho. Again.
This time, he answered.
“Where are you?”
“On the subway…”
“Come to Gangnam Station. Our usual café.”
The café. Timestone. What had happened there? Min-jun searched his memory. Americano. Cold americano. Junho’s cold eyes. Why those eyes were so desperate. Still a mystery.
“Understood.”
He ended the call.
Gangnam Station. Line 2. People flooded in. 6:58 PM. Peak commute hour. Min-jun entered that current. Like a wave. A wave doesn’t have individual droplets. It’s just movement. Min-jun felt the same. Not an individual existence, just motion. Flow. Part of the system.
The café was still there. Junho sat at the window table. Two americanos. One already cooling. The same scene. Repetition. A loop. Min-jun realized it. He was repeating the same scene. Same lines. Same movements. Same results.
“Sit.”
Junho spoke. The same voice. The same tone. Like a line.
“Yes.”
Min-jun sat. Instead of looking in a mirror, he looked at Junho now. His face. Also a lie. A benevolent lie. A protective lie. But a lie was still a lie.
“How was today’s shoot?”
“It was good.”
“Yeah? Good?” Junho laughed. But there was no laughter in it. “Min-jun, you always say everything’s good. The shoot’s good, the emotions are good, everything’s good. But have you ever actually been good?”
That question. Another question. Another lie. So Min-jun didn’t answer. Instead, he looked at Junho like he looked in mirrors. Trying to see what was behind his face. Wanting to know what lay beneath.
“Junho hyung.”
“Yeah?”
“What do you want from me?”
That question. The question that changed everything. Junho’s face shifted. Like an actor switching to a new emotion. But this wasn’t acting. This was real. And that made it more terrifying.
Junho opened his mouth, then closed it. Picked up his americano, then set it down. His fingers tapped the table. A rhythm without rhythm. A sign of anxiety.
“What are you thinking right now?”
Min-jun answered slowly. “I looked in a mirror. On set. And I couldn’t find myself in it. There was only an actor. Min-jun wasn’t there.”
Junho was silent. For a long time. In that silence was everything. Every lie. Every truth. Every impossible thing.
And finally, Junho spoke.
“You already know.”
“Know what?”
“That this is a trap.”
The time was 7:23 PM. Outside the window, Seoul’s evening was growing dark. And Min-jun, at last, understood. Something real was about to begin.