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Chapter 111: The Mirror in the Conference Room
PD Park Mi-ra closed her laptop the moment Min-joon entered. Her movement was swift and precise, like a well-rehearsed gesture. The conference room’s lighting was extremely bright, with the ceiling’s LED panels illuminating everything. Underneath, Min-joon’s shadow was dark and pronounced.
“Hello, Min-joon,” Park Mi-ra said, standing up. She was in her early fifties, with many wrinkles on her face, but her eyes were sharp and piercing, as if constantly analyzing something. When Min-joon met her gaze, he felt like his inner self was being stripped bare, like his true nature was being exposed under the harsh light.
“Thank you, PD,” Min-joon replied. Joon-ho was standing beside him, having already exchanged greetings with Park Mi-ra. He took a step back, his presence both noticeable and unnoticeable at the same time.
“Please, take a seat,” Park Mi-ra said, gesturing with her hand. Min-joon sat down, across from her, with about a meter of distance between them. This distance felt like the gap between a job interview and an interrogation. Min-joon placed his hands on the table, just like he had at the pizza parlor the day before, trying to calm his nerves.
“Yes, PD,” Min-joon said.
“I watched your screen test last week,” Park Mi-ra said, without referring to any papers. Her words were confident, as if she had memorized everything. “What did you feel during that scene?”
Min-joon’s heart began to beat rapidly as he heard the question. This was not a technical inquiry, but a psychological one, probing into the emotions he experienced during the scene. And Min-joon knew exactly what he felt during the screen test.
“Death,” he replied.
Park Mi-ra’s expression didn’t change. “Death? How did you know that?”
Min-joon explained, “I saw it in the script. My character was losing someone, and I knew I couldn’t stop it. So, I felt death.”
Park Mi-ra stared at Min-joon for a long time, her gaze unyielding. Then, she asked, “Do you want this role?”
“Yes,” Min-joon replied.
“Why?” Park Mi-ra asked.
“Because I understand death,” Min-joon said. His words were neither true nor false; they were the words of an actor, a character, or someone trying to become a character.
Park Mi-ra burst out laughing, but it wasn’t a joyful sound. It was a laugh of confirmation, as if she had received an answer she had been expecting all along.
“Very well,” she said. “We’ve decided to cast you as the main character.”
The air in the conference room seemed to freeze, as if time itself had stopped. Min-joon heard his own heartbeat, unsure whether it was excitement or fear.
“Thank you,” Min-joon said, his voice barely above a whisper.
However, Park Mi-ra continued, “There’s one condition. You must completely transform yourself for this role, physically, mentally, and emotionally. This will be an extremely challenging task. Can you handle it?”
Min-joon thought back to the screen test and the feeling of death he had experienced. He knew how that feeling had changed him, how it had lowered his voice and dulled his gaze.
“Yes, I can handle it,” Min-joon said.
Park Mi-ra nodded. “Then, we’ll prepare the contract.”
As she opened her laptop again, Min-joon caught a glimpse of something on the screen, but it was unclear what it was. Perhaps it was a document, an image, or something else entirely.
“Thank you, PD,” Min-joon said again.
Park Mi-ra’s words were no longer a celebration, but a warning. “When your name is announced, your life will change completely.”
Min-joon responded, “I understand.”
Park Mi-ra no longer looked at Min-joon, instead focusing on her laptop screen. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, typing rapidly, as if Min-joon was no longer present.
As Min-joon left the conference room, he realized he had been holding his breath. It felt like someone else was breathing for him, controlling his body.
The corridor’s lighting was much softer than the conference room’s, but Min-joon’s eyes still felt dazzled.
“Congratulations,” Joon-ho said, walking toward the elevator.
His voice was emotionless, but Min-joon sensed a hint of something beneath the surface.
“Hyung…” Min-joon started to say.
“Let’s talk inside the elevator,” Joon-ho replied.
As they stepped into the elevator, Joon-ho asked, “What did you just do?”
Min-joon replied, “What do you mean?”
“You told Park Mi-ra that you felt death. What did you mean by that?” Joon-ho’s voice was low, but it contained a mixture of anger and fear.
Min-joon explained, “I was answering as an actor. I didn’t mean it literally.”
Joon-ho’s expression turned serious. “Min-joon, you’re not just an actor. You’re a person. And people shouldn’t feel death. They should feel life.”
Min-joon asked, “What should I feel, then?”
Joon-ho replied, “You should feel life. You should feel alive.”
The elevator stopped at the lobby, and they stepped out. The bright lights of the afternoon sun hit them, and Min-joon felt a sense of disorientation.
As they walked, Joon-ho asked, “Min-joon, what do you want now?”
Min-joon thought for a moment before responding, “I want to be a good actor. I want to receive recognition.”
Joon-ho’s voice turned cold. “That’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking what you want as a person. Do you want to be an actor, or do you want to be alive?”
Min-joon’s heart sank. He felt a crack forming within himself, a divide between his desire to be an actor and his desire to be human.
“I want both,” Min-joon said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Joon-ho’s expression turned somber. “You can’t have both. You have to choose.”
Min-joon asked, “Why do I have to choose?”
Joon-ho replied, “Because that’s how this industry works.”
As they walked, Min-joon felt like he was losing himself, bit by bit. The city lights around him seemed to be fading, and he was disappearing into the shadows.
They stopped in front of a café, and Joon-ho turned to Min-joon. “I’ll tell you something, Min-joon. I want you. But I want you before you’re completely lost.”
Min-joon’s heart skipped a beat. He didn’t understand Joon-ho’s words, but his body did. His hands were shaking, and his breath was rapid.
“Yes,” Min-joon said, his voice trembling.
Joon-ho’s expression turned serious, and he pulled out his phone. “Look at this.”
It was a news article. The headline read: “Rookie Actor Min-joon Cast as Main Character in Netflix’s Next Project… Expected to be the Next Big Thing.”
Min-joon felt like he was drowning in a sea of messages and expectations. He was no longer himself; he was a character, a persona created by the media and the industry.
As they entered the café, Min-joon’s phone buzzed again. It was his manager, Soo-jin. “Min-joon, where are you? We need to discuss the marketing strategy for your new role.”
Min-joon looked at Joon-ho, who nodded. “You have to go. You’re no longer free, Min-joon. You’re part of the system now. A cog in the machine.”
Min-joon stood up, feeling like he was being pulled into a whirlpool. He looked at Joon-ho, who was watching him with an unreadable expression.
“I’ll go,” Min-joon said.
As he left the café, Min-joon felt like he was losing himself, bit by bit. The city lights around him seemed to be fading, and he was disappearing into the shadows. He was becoming a machine, a cog in the industry’s giant wheel.
The meeting with the marketing team was a blur. Min-joon remembered only fragments: the bright lights, the sound of laughter, and the feeling of suffocation.
When it was over, Min-joon stumbled out of the conference room, feeling like he was drowning in a sea of expectations. He was no longer himself; he was a character, a persona created by the media and the industry.
As he walked away, Min-joon felt like he was losing his grip on reality. The city lights around him seemed to be fading, and he was disappearing into the shadows. He was becoming a machine, a cog in the industry’s giant wheel.
And in the darkness, Min-joon heard Joon-ho’s voice, whispering, “I want you, Min-joon. Before you’re completely lost.”