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# Chapter 1: The Fate of a Supporting Actor
Min-jun stood before the mirror. Under the fluorescent lights of the locker room, his face was devastatingly ordinary. One hundred seventy-four centimeters tall, lean frame, light brown eyes, natural black hair—someone might call it “harmless.” But Min-jun called it “forgotten.”
Failed again.
His lips moved in the mirror. An expression that could be either a smile or a twitch. He slowly opened his locker. Inside were a black t-shirt, gray pants, worn sneakers, and a business card from three years ago when he’d joined the company. The text on the card had already faded to black.
Destar Entertainment. Actor Min-jun.
November 2023, Gangnam, Seoul. The locker room of Destar Entertainment was silent despite it being 3:50 PM. Most of the actors who’d returned from shoots had already left in their cars. Only Min-jun and a few rookie actors remained. The wall clock ticked relentlessly. Tick, tick, tick. It sounded like a heartbeat.
His phone rang.
Min-jun checked the number. A KakaoTalk notification. He turned on the screen and sighed. The letters seemed to tremble. No—it wasn’t the screen trembling. It was his hand.
[Actor Kim Junho]: Min-jun, you free? Wanna grab coffee?
Min-jun held the phone in one hand and closed his locker with the other. The motion came automatically. Four years of habit. He opened the message, closed it, opened it again. Junho. That name alone made his chest tighten.
Kim Junho was a semi-star actor at Destar. Eight years of experience. He frequently played the second male lead in dramas. Recently he’d even been nominated for a film award. More importantly, he was the only senior who’d ever been kind to Min-jun.
Min-jun stared at the screen. His eyes moved—left, right, up, down—like a student searching for the correct answer. But he already knew the answer. Junho always asked casually like this when he had good news. Or bad news. There was no difference. The fact that there was no difference was the most terrifying part.
[Min-jun]: Yes. I’m leaving the locker room now.
Fingers moved quickly. He ended with a period. Always formal. Always careful. As if standing on a precarious stone above a ravine.
As he left the locker room, Min-jun looked in the mirror one more time. The figure reflected was still ordinary. But now his eyes held something else. Anxiety. It rippled across the surface of his eyes like waves on water.
The café was near Gangnam Station. Refined interior, a ceiling that seemed impossibly high, and absurdly expensive Americano. Min-jun walked down the stairs looking for Junho. A window seat. Always the same seat. Junho was already sitting with two cups of coffee in front of him.
“Min-jun, sit.”
Junho’s voice was low. Composed. But something in it seemed to tremble. Or rather, that’s how Min-jun’s ears interpreted it.
Min-jun sat carefully. His movements were cautious—like handling a wine glass. Junho remained silent for a moment, gazing out the window. November in Seoul had already crossed into winter’s threshold. Leaves were turning brown. Scarves wrapped around people’s necks.
“Did you get the audition results?”
The question came suddenly. Junho still looked out the window. He didn’t meet Min-jun’s eyes.
“Yes.”
Min-jun’s voice grew quieter.
“How’d it go?”
“I didn’t get it.”
Junho turned then. His eyes met Min-jun’s. They were deep. Like an ancient well. And in those eyes, Min-jun saw himself—small, lonely, and undeniably ordinary.
“How many this time?”
“Five this month. This year… twenty-three total.”
As Min-jun spoke the numbers, it didn’t feel like he was speaking. Like someone else was moving his mouth. Junho sighed. It wasn’t a sigh of pity. Min-jun knew that. It was a sigh of understanding.
“The Netflix drama?”
“That one too.”
“What?”
This time Junho’s voice rose. He leaned forward. Min-jun picked up his coffee cup. Still hot. It burned his lips.
“Two weeks after filming wrapped, the PD called. Said they were going with a different actor.”
“Why all of a sudden?”
“They… didn’t give a reason.”
Min-jun set the cup down. The sound of cup meeting saucer was small. But unlike the café’s background music—jazz piano—it was unmistakable. The sound of failure.
Junho looked back out the window. His jaw tightened. Min-jun noticed. It was a subtle movement, but his eyes caught it.
“That drama was… a good project.”
“Yes.”
“Netflix means international release too…”
“Yes.”
Min-jun said nothing more. He knew his circumstances better than anyone. Junho knew it too. Because they both knew, there was nothing left to say.
The café’s background music changed. From piano to strings. Like a signal for a scene change. Junho drank his coffee. His throat moved. One sip, two sips. Seconds passed between them.
“What can I even tell you?”
Junho’s question sounded like he was asking himself.
“Senior…”
Min-jun opened his mouth.
“…isn’t this doing pretty well?”
The moment the words left his lips, Min-jun regretted them. Not regretted—shame overwhelmed him. He heard how weak his own voice sounded. It wasn’t a question. It was a whimper.
Junho set down his cup. His fingers traced the rim. Repeatedly. Slowly.
“Min-jun, why do you want to be an actor?”
“What?”
The question caught Min-jun off guard. Junho had asked this before. But this time there was something different in it. Min-jun couldn’t tell what.
“I’m genuinely curious. Why acting? You could do something else. Office work, civil service, anything. Why this?”
Min-jun looked at Junho. His eyes were still deep. But now Min-jun saw something else in them. Loneliness. Or more precisely, the same kind of loneliness he felt. Ancient. Like loneliness accumulated over ten years in that well.
“I don’t know. I really don’t know.”
Min-jun’s voice was almost a whisper now.
“I watched movies as a kid. And actors. People expressing someone else. I liked that. The idea that you could become someone else. That you could be something other than yourself.”
Junho closed his eyes slowly as he listened.
“Being something other than yourself… you liked that?”
“Yes.”
“Do you still?”
Min-jun couldn’t answer. He closed his mouth. His lips formed a straight line. It was a bigger answer than any words.
Junho opened his eyes and looked at him.
“If there’s one piece of advice I can give you… it’s probably this. In this industry, there are only two things. Successful actors and discarded actors. Nothing in between. No gray area.”
“Right.”
“And right now… you’re standing at a red light. You’ve survived four years as an extra and supporting actor. But if this continues… you’ll become a discarded actor. People will forget you. Just like that drama.”
Min-jun’s fingers began moving on the table. Tapping out a rhythm like drumming. It was neurotic—a behavior he couldn’t control even though it was his own.
“So… what should I do?”
“You need to grab a real opportunity. A big one. A single role can change everything. It doesn’t even have to be a lead. But a role people won’t forget. That’s what can save you.”
Junho finished his coffee. When the cup was empty, it made a small sound. An empty sound. It perfectly expressed Min-jun’s current state of mind.
“How long do I have?”
“A month? Two months? I don’t know. The industry moves fast. You need to move fast too. Or else…”
Junho didn’t finish. But Min-jun knew what came after “or else.” He knew what it meant—giving up something, like his father had. It was something like death.
As Min-jun left the café, he walked through Seoul’s already-darkening streets. The evening air of November was cold. His breath rose in white clouds. Like something blooming inside his body. It wasn’t despair. Despair was already a familiar emotion. This was something else. Like despair had evolved to the next level… something.
His phone rang. An unknown number.
Min-jun picked up with one hand. His fingers trembled in the cold air.
“Hello?”
“Ah, Actor Min? This is Lee Soo-jin, representative of Destar Entertainment. Do you have a moment?”
Min-jun’s heart stopped. No—it didn’t stop. It raced. Like it might explode. His voice came out. But he couldn’t tell if it was his own.
“Yes, Representative Lee. I’m available.”
“Good. Can you come to the office tomorrow at 10 AM?”
“Yes. Understood.”
“And Min, one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Wear whatever’s comfortable tomorrow. You don’t need to dress up. Just come as you are. Okay?”
The call ended.
Min-jun lowered the phone. His hand trembled. People passed him on the night streets of Seoul. No one knew who he was. But that didn’t matter now. What mattered was tomorrow. Tomorrow morning at 10. Destar office. Representative Lee.
Was this the “opportunity” Junho mentioned? Or a signal that it was “the end”?
Min-jun began walking. Without purpose, without direction. Just moving forward. Fallen leaves crumbled beneath his feet. The sound was like someone’s final breath.
That night, Min-jun returned to his studio apartment. Fourteen and a half pyeong. That was the size of his world.
The bed was in the left corner. The desk by the window. The refrigerator crouched in a space too small to call a kitchenette. The window faced south, so after 3 PM sunlight poured in. That was everything. There was no other room. The bathroom was shared. There was no concept of a living room. Get up from bed, and there’s the desk. Get up from the desk, and there’s the refrigerator. Min-jun’s life repeated in this narrow rectangle.
He lay in bed. 3:15 PM. Sunlight came through the window, illuminating his face. When he closed his eyes, he saw red. A color like rupturing blood vessels, like something breaking.
He looked at the ceiling.
White. More accurately, off-white, cream-colored white. It had probably yellowed slightly over time. But you could still call it white. Nothing was drawn on it. No cracks. No mold. Just a flat surface. Min-jun had looked at that ceiling hundreds of times. Or thousands. The exact number didn’t matter.
A month? Two months?
Junho’s voice echoed. It was the voice from yesterday’s call. Or was it three days ago? His sense of time had become blurred. Since quitting work, every day felt like a repetition of the same day.
“You need to grab a real opportunity. A big one.”
That’s what Junho said. His voice held excitement. Or maybe desperation. Min-jun had lost the ability to precisely analyze Junho’s emotions. His ability to read feelings had dulled. He’d learned to read others’ emotions through four years of acting, but now even that had disappeared.
“One or two months and you’ll have results. Destar’s preparing a big project.”
Junho continued. His friend was now a famous actor. Semi-famous, really. He’d had minor roles in films and supporting roles in dramas. But he wasn’t the lead yet. Still, he’d already stepped into another world. Min-jun remained here. On that borderline, on that line he could seemingly never cross.
Min-jun picked up his phone. The screen was dark. Battery at 76%. He turned it on. Instagram opened automatically. It was the app he’d been visiting frequently these past months.
He pulled up his account.
@minjun_actor
Followers: 312
Posts: 47
Bio: Actor
He hadn’t included his birthdate. He didn’t want to reveal he was born in 1993. He was already 31. A critical age for an actor. He told himself it wasn’t too late, but time kept flowing. Like sand in an hourglass, from top to bottom, endlessly.
Most posts were performance photos. Theater in small venues, film festivals at video media centers, Reels shot at cafés. Most followers were friends or colleagues. Or old schoolmates. None of them really knew him. Because he wasn’t a celebrity. He was just “their friend.” “Oh, that friend’s an actor too,” kind of interest.
He clicked the search bar. His fingers typed.
junhokim_official
Followers: 470,000
Posts: 328
Bio: Actor | Film Actor | Drama Actor | Musical Actor (sometimes)
He scrolled through recent posts. A film festival red carpet photo. Junho wore a black suit. It suited him. The clothes were clearly expensive. Min-jun knew what brand Junho wore. Junho always made sure to show such things. Not really showing off—he just let it slip naturally. That hurt more.
But his eyes looked tired.
Min-jun didn’t miss it. Junho’s eyes looked directly at the camera, but like he was searching for something. Or like he’d lost something. Like that moment when you realize what you originally had, only to realize it’s no longer in your hands. A subtle expression. Most people wouldn’t notice. But Min-jun was an actor. He’d learned to read every muscle in a face.
Junho’s struggling too.
The thought made his heart feel slightly lighter. It was a bad feeling. To feel relief at a friend’s pain. Min-jun despised himself.
He set down the phone.
He looked at the ceiling again.
Still saying nothing. The white ceiling remained silent. But that silence seemed most honest. The only thing in this world that didn’t lie was silence. The moment you spoke, everything became a lie. “I’ll do well.” “I’ll succeed soon.” “This is my chance.” Every word was a lie.
But silence was different.
Silence just existed.
His heart was beating. Slowly, but continuously. His pulse was normal. His breathing was normal. He wasn’t dead. He was alive. That was the most unfortunate part.
Noise came from outside. Someone in the next room was playing music. K-pop. A girl group’s thin voice came through. They sounded happy. He couldn’t hear the lyrics clearly, but the melody was bright. Bright and hopeful, like nothing in the world worried them. Listening to that music, Min-jun realized he’d passed through that age. The age that idols’ fans occupied was already far away.
The music suddenly stopped. Silence returned.
And tomorrow would come.
Tomorrow. The word caught in his chest. 10 AM. Destar Building. Representative Lee. And that “big opportunity” Junho mentioned.
Min-jun had asked Junho, “What are you doing? Why so sudden?”
Junho laughed. “You need to act again. I’m serious. You have talent. I haven’t seen it, but others have. Destar’s Representative Lee is interested in you. I introduced you.”
Introduced. That word stuck with him. Junho had introduced him to someone. Like selling merchandise. Should Min-jun feel grateful, or should he take it as an insult? Over time, those emotions had become confused.
Or it would end.
Tomorrow might be the end of everything. Representative Lee might see him and be disappointed. “That’s it?” That kind of expression. Min-jun had seen it many times. In small theaters, at video media centers, even on friends’ faces.
But in that uncertainty, his heart still beat. Evidence that he was alive. Evidence that it wasn’t over.
Like an actor, he waited for tomorrow’s stage.
Min-jun woke at 5 AM.
Before dawn had completely broken. 5 AM. No sunlight yet, but darkness not quite complete either. That ambiguous time. Beyond the window, Seoul’s night lights were gradually fading. Streetlights were turning off one by one. Like the world was falling asleep.
Min-jun’s eyes opened in bed. He didn’t look at the ceiling, but to the side. A wall came into view. Gray wall. Moisture had seeped into it. Mold might grow. But it was too dark to see clearly.
He got up. He headed to the bathroom. As he passed through the corridor, he saw other doors. Each one closed. Behind them were other people’s small worlds. Or maybe no one was home. Min-jun had rarely seen the other people in this building.
He entered the bathroom. The fluorescent light flickered on dimly. A mirror hung on the wall. An old mirror. Its surface had small stains. Water marks or mold—he couldn’t tell.
Min-jun looked at the mirror.
His face was there. An ordinary face. Not particularly handsome, not particularly ugly. Just ordinary. Round eyes. Medium-sized nose. Mouth was… well, just a mouth. For an actor, it was a face without distinctive features. That was the problem. Without features, you’re not remembered. Without being remembered, you don’t get roles. Without roles… you’re not an actor.
But under his eyes, something had appeared.
Light dark circles. Evidence of a sleepless night. Min-jun had barely slept last night. Whenever he closed his eyes, thoughts came. Tomorrow. Destar. Representative Lee. Junho.
He washed his face with cold water. When the cold touched his skin, nerves awakened. Like the water was bringing him back to life. He dried with a towel. The towel was rough. He took several breaths.
He came back and dressed.
Black t-shirt. Gray pants. Worn sneakers. Junho’s words came back to him.
“Come comfortable. No need to dress up. Just be yourself.”
“Be yourself.” That was the hardest part. Min-jun didn’t know who he was. An actor? But he barely acted. Then unemployed? But he didn’t want to call himself that. An office worker? He’d already quit. Then what was he?
He stood before the mirror again. He saw himself in the black t-shirt and gray pants. He looked like an extra in a movie. A nameless office worker, or a nameless person on the street. That was his position.
He had breakfast. The refrigerator wasn’t well stocked. Two eggs, cheese, bread. He cooked the eggs. Made toast. Added cheese. Mechanically. Like it was a job.
While eating, he looked out the window. The sun was rising. The western sky was gradually brightening. No, the eastern sky. Min-jun had lost his sense of direction. Even living in this room, he didn’t properly know which way was which.
He checked the time. 6:45 AM.
Too early. The appointment was 10 AM. Three hours left. But Min-jun was already trembling. His fingers shook. His heart raced. Like he was already on stage.
He showered again. Warm water soaked his body. He used soap. The scent was neutral. Neither particularly good nor bad. He washed his hair. His fingers massaged his scalp. Like he was soothing himself.
He came out and dried. He put on the same clothes again. Black t-shirt, gray pants, worn sneakers.
He looked in the mirror. Still ordinary.
He checked the time again. 7:30 AM. Still two and a half hours.
Min-jun lay in bed. He looked at the ceiling. Still white. Still nothing drawn on it.
9:40 AM. Min-jun stood before the Destar Building.
He’d walked ten minutes from Gangnam Station, Exit 3. The buildings were tall. Like they were meant to overwhelm his dreams. Blocking the sky. Min-jun looked up at the sky, but couldn’t see it. The sky was already divided and fragmented by buildings.
The Destar Building was gray. Its walls looked like reinforced glass. Cold, reflective surfaces. Min-jun saw his reflection in the wall. A small figure in a black t-shirt. Like an insect.
He entered the lobby. The air conditioning’s cold touched his face. The lobby was spacious. Tiled in white, ceiling high. People rushed past with purpose. They all seemed to have somewhere to be. Min-jun followed them toward the elevators.
He stood before the elevator. He read the numbers. Floor 15. That was where Representative Lee’s office was. Junho had said, “Fifteenth floor. You’ll know when you get there.”
He pressed the elevator button. Metal doors opened. Inside was empty.
End of Chapter 1: The Fate of a Supporting Actor