Spotlight: The Second Act – Chapter 113: The Temperature of Lies

Chapter 113: The Temperature of Lies

It had been 40 minutes since Min-jun left the café. He finally realized where he was. Not Gangnam Station, but Sillim Station. He had no memory of taking the subway or how his conversation with Joon-ho ended. The only reality was the extreme coldness of his fingers. That was all that felt real. The coldness of his fingers and the fact that someone inside him was feeling that coldness. That someone was alive.

As Min-jun walked down the escalator at Sillim Station, he checked his phone. There was a message from Joon-ho, sent at 3:47 PM.

“Whatever you’re doing, don’t say anything until the contract comes out. It’ll get complicated if Lee Su-jin finds out. Understand?”

The next message was sent at 4:12 PM.

“The contract will have a confidentiality clause. Once you sign it, you won’t be able to say anything about this drama. Not the casting process, not the pay, not the schedule, not even the fact that this drama exists. Understand?”

And then, at 4:51 PM.

“You’re already the main character. You’ve already been chosen. You can’t refuse anymore.”

Min-jun put his phone away. Joon-ho’s words felt like a rope around his neck, slowly tightening. But he couldn’t cut the rope because he thought it was saving him. At the same time, he knew it was killing him.

Instead of going to his officetel, Min-jun entered a convenience store, GS25. The fluorescent lights were extremely bright, like a mirror reflecting his inner self. Min-jun stood in front of the shelves, staring at the instant noodles, kimbap, and triangle kimbap. They were all things that had nothing to do with him. Things he needed, but not things he wanted.

The convenience store clerk looked at Min-jun, but didn’t recognize him. Min-jun was still a person who nobody recognized, even after becoming the main character. Because the main character only exists on screen, not in reality.

Min-jun left the convenience store without buying anything.

His phone rang at 5:23 PM. It was Lee Su-jin, the CEO. The person who held his entire life in her hands.

Min-jun didn’t answer the call. Instead, he listened to the ringtone four times before it stopped, and then a text message arrived.

“Min actor, can you come to the office now? We need to discuss the contract.”

Min-jun read the message multiple times. Each word felt like a command, not a request.

Min-jun took the subway again, from Sillim Station to Gangnam Station, in the opposite direction. It was like his life was a pendulum, swinging back and forth. Moving forward, then backward, repeating the cycle. In that repetition, he was slowly disappearing.

When he arrived at the building of Deastar Entertainment at 6:08 PM, the evening was deepening. But the city of Gangnam was still bright. Neon signs, car lights, and building lights were all shining. Everything was illuminating him, but in that light, he was almost invisible.

Lee Su-jin’s office was on the 20th floor. As Min-jun took the elevator, other employees got out. They looked at him and recognized him. The rising star, the main character of the Netflix drama. But their eyes didn’t show respect, only curiosity. The kind of curiosity a snake shows towards a mouse.

The 20th-floor hallway was quiet, as most employees had already left. Min-jun stood in front of Lee Su-jin’s office door, which was made of glass. He saw Lee Su-jin inside, arranging papers on her desk. Documents, contracts.

Min-jun knocked on the door three times, then waited.

“Come in,” Lee Su-jin said. Her voice was a command, not an invitation.

Min-jun opened the door and entered. Lee Su-jin’s office was smaller than he expected. The window showed the Gangnam evening view, and on the desk, there were multiple contracts, at least ten. Not one contract, but multiple contracts.

“Sit down,” Lee Su-jin said, gesturing with her hand.

Min-jun sat in the chair in front of the desk. Lee Su-jin remained standing, her height shorter than Min-jun’s, but feeling much taller.

“We received a call from PD Park. You’ve been cast,” Lee Su-jin said, her voice devoid of emotion.

“Yes, thank you,” Min-jun replied.

“There’s no need to thank me. This isn’t because of your skill, but because of luck and timing. And someone’s choice. You were chosen because someone wanted you.”

Lee Su-jin sat down in front of the desk, her face clear under the lighting. Every detail was sharp, from her skin to the wrinkles around her eyes.

“This is the contract,” she said, picking up one of the papers.

Min-jun tried to read it, but the font was too small.

“The key points of this contract are three,” Lee Su-jin continued. “First, you must keep all information about this drama confidential. The casting process, pay, schedule, script, even the existence of this drama. Second, you cannot participate in any other project until this drama is completed. Only projects approved by us are possible. Third, if you violate this contract, you’ll have to pay a penalty of 300 million won, and we can claim additional damages.”

Min-jun felt his breathing become shallow as he listened to these conditions. 300 million won was equivalent to four years of his salary, an amount he couldn’t pay back even if he worked his whole life.

“Do you understand?” Lee Su-jin asked.

“Yes, I understand,” Min-jun replied.

“But there’s one more thing,” Lee Su-jin said, picking up another document. This one wasn’t a contract, but some sort of agreement.

“During the filming of this drama, you must receive counseling from a psychiatrist. Mandatory. And the records of those counseling sessions will be kept by us. For your mental health.”

Min-jun felt his face turn pale as he heard this. It meant Lee Su-jin knew about his past, about his attempted suicide.

“You know what you did last week, don’t you?” Lee Su-jin said. “Where you were, what you did. We know everything. And this contract has a clause that such incidents must not happen again. If they do, we can make them public, along with your mental health records. Understand?”

Min-jun didn’t respond. His mouth couldn’t open. His throat felt constricted, as if someone’s hand was around his neck.

“Do you have any questions?” Lee Su-jin asked.

“This… is this a threat?” Min-jun asked in a very low voice.

Lee Su-jin laughed, a deep, genuine laugh.

“It’s not a threat, it’s a contract. A contract is something both parties sign, and both parties benefit from. You become the main character, and we manage you. This is a fair deal.”

Lee Su-jin’s voice was cold, like ice, and firm, like stone.

“But what about… Joon-ho?” Min-jun said.

“Joon-ho? What did he do?” Lee Su-jin asked, picking up another document with Min-jun’s name and Joon-ho’s name on it.

“Joon-ho is your manager, and when you sign this contract, he’ll have to sign it too. Because the manager is also responsible. If you violate the contract, Joon-ho will be responsible too. His career could end because of it. Understand?”

Min-jun realized that this wasn’t just a simple contract; it was a trap that bound both him and Joon-ho together. If he moved, Joon-ho would have to move with him. If he didn’t move, Joon-ho would make him move.

“So, you have to be careful. Very careful. Because every choice you make affects others,” Lee Su-jin said. “Being the main character is something to be congratulated for. But at the same time, you’ve taken on the expectations and responsibilities of many people. And only those who can bear that responsibility can become true main characters.”

Min-jun felt himself becoming smaller and smaller. He was small even four years ago, as a newcomer, an extra, a supporting actor, an invisible person. And now, as the main character, he was even smaller. Because he no longer belonged to himself.

“Read the contract, and come back tomorrow with Joon-ho to sign it,” Lee Su-jin said, already returning to her work, as if Min-jun had already disappeared.

Min-jun took the contracts. They felt heavy, but not heavy in a physical sense. They were just paper, but their weight was crushing him. His shoulders, his chest, his heart. Everything was under the weight of those papers.

“I have one more question,” Min-jun said in a very soft voice.

“What is it?” Lee Su-jin asked, not looking at him.

“Does… Joon-ho… does he know something that I don’t?” Min-jun asked.

Lee Su-jin stopped moving, her pen hovering above the paper. It was a very slight movement, but Min-jun caught it. She knew something. Something she wouldn’t or couldn’t say.

“You don’t need to know,” Lee Su-jin said. “You just need to act. Be the main character, act, and follow the contract. That’s all.”

“But that’s not acting, that’s lying,” Min-jun said.

Lee Su-jin looked up, her eyes extremely cold, like frozen ice. Colder than ice.

“What is an actor’s job?” she asked. “An actor tells lies. An actor lives someone else’s life and tells lies about it. An actor feels emotions they don’t really feel and lies about it. An actor makes unreal things seem real. That’s an actor’s job. So, if you’re telling lies, that means you’re a good actor.”

Min-jun said, “But I can’t lie anymore.”

Lee Su-jin laughed again, this time a genuine, deep laugh. It was as if she had pulled out someone’s soul.

“Then quit being an actor. That’s the easiest way.”

Min-jun felt everything disappear at that moment. The main character, the contract, Joon-ho, everything. And he was left with nothing, a nobody, a person who had endured four years of meaningless existence.

“I think I will,” Min-jun said in a very low voice.

“What will you do?” Lee Su-jin asked.

“I… I think I’m walking the path of quitting being an actor,” Min-jun said.

Lee Su-jin smiled, a smile that was not of joy, but of confirmation, like reading the final move in a game of chess.

“You won’t quit. Because you’re already chosen. And the chosen one can’t make choices. The chosen one can only move within the choice that’s been made. That’s your fate. And you’ll accept it.”

Min-jun didn’t respond. He held the contracts, which still felt heavy, cold, like the temperature of death.

He left Lee Su-jin’s office, backing away, as if he was stepping out of a ritual. And when the door closed, he realized he was extremely alone.

His phone rang at 8:34 PM. It was Joon-ho, with a text message.

“How’s the contract? Any problems?”

Min-jun read the message but didn’t respond. Instead, he looked at his fingers, which were still cold. That coldness was his only reality, the only thing that made him feel alive.

At Sillim Station, Min-jun stood at the end of the platform, surrounded by dozens of people. But they were all immersed in their own worlds, looking at their phones, reading newspapers, or staring blankly. Min-jun realized he had to live in his own world, his own lie.

When the subway arrived, Min-jun hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should get on or just stand there forever, motionless, without making a choice. But he got on, carried by the flow of people, without his own will.

The subway was hot and humid, filled with the smells of perfume and soju. Min-jun breathed in those smells, feeling like he was being pulled into a tunnel, into the darkness.

He got off at Sillim Station and walked to his officetel, to his empty room, to his lie.

As he opened the door, his room was extremely dark. He didn’t turn on the light. Instead, he opened the window, and the evening view of Sillim Station poured in. The bright lights, the moving people, the car lights. Everything was a piece of a world he couldn’t belong to. The brightness was a lie, the darkness was a lie, and he was a lie.

Min-jun lay on his bed, placing the contracts on his chest. They felt heavy, but not physically heavy. They were just paper, but their weight was crushing him.

He looked up at the ceiling, which was part of the ground above. A few centimeters above him, there was a road, and when cars passed by, the ceiling vibrated slightly. Each vibration ran through his bones. He was under the ground, in a tomb, in a room of the dead.

Then, it hit him. The realization.

Lee Su-jin was right. He wouldn’t quit being an actor. Because he was already chosen. And the chosen one can’t make choices. The chosen one can only move within the choice that’s been made.

Min-jun thought back to his past, to the first volume of his life. He was a child who nobody wanted, a child who was abandoned. And then Joon-ho appeared, saying he would make him an actor. Min-jun thought he was saved, but now he realized Joon-ho had pulled him into a deeper trap.

The contracts were still on his chest, feeling heavy, cold, like the temperature of death.

At 10:47 PM, his phone received another text message from an unknown number.

“You think you’ve made choices, but in reality, there are things that have chosen you. What are they? Do you know?”

Min-jun read the message multiple times, and then he understood. He already knew what those things were. The things that had chosen him, the things that would lead him to his downfall. It was a slow, meticulous destruction, and in that destruction, he would look like the main character, under the bright lights, with the applause of many people. And it would all be a lie.

Min-jun started reading the contract, the first page, the legal terms, the obligations, the responsibilities. The word “obligation” felt cold. The obligations he had to follow as an actor, as a contractor, but not as a human being.

The penalty for violating the contract was 300 million won, an amount he couldn’t pay back even if he worked his whole life.

As he read the contract, Min-jun felt the weight of the papers, the coldness of the words. He was trapped, bound by the contract, by the law, by his own choices.

And in that trap, he was slowly disappearing.