이 포스팅은 쿠팡 파트너스 활동의 일환으로, 이에 따른 일정액의 수수료를 제공받습니다.
Chapter 117: Before Reading the First Line
The script reading was scheduled to start at 10:00 AM, and Min-jun stood in front of the Star Studio building at 9:43 AM. Through the glass door, he could see the lobby, with a reception desk in the center, two sofas, and a potted plant that caught his eye. The leaves of the plant were dusty, and no one seemed to care for it. Min-jun’s gaze was fixed on the plant for some reason. The September morning air was still cool, and the streets of Nonhyeon-dong in Gangnam were already bustling with people heading to work, the sounds of motorbikes, and the chatter of office workers coming from a convenience store.
Min-jun placed his hand on his chest. His heart was racing, and his chest felt like it was sinking. It had been like this since the night before, after Joon-ho’s words, after hanging up the phone, and throughout the night. His heart was beating rapidly, as if affirming his own existence.
Min-jun told himself, “I need to go in.” But his feet wouldn’t move. Joon-ho’s words from the night before still lingered in his ears. “Your face is no longer yours.” After hearing those words, Min-jun had stood in front of the mirror in his office-tel’s bathroom for a long time, staring at his own face and wondering whose it was. Whose eyes, nose, and lips were these? If, from this moment on, they belonged to Lee Soo-jin, PD Park Mi-ra, or Netflix, then where was he? The reflection in the mirror didn’t answer; instead, it simply observed Min-jun, like a stranger.
Soo-jin’s voice also echoed in his mind. “You’ve been cast in the Netflix drama. Filming starts next month.” Min-jun’s reaction at the time wasn’t joy or relief; it was fear, a deep and dark fear. And then there were Joon-ho’s words. “Soo-jin isn’t trying to help you. You still don’t understand, do you?” Min-jun flexed and clenched his fingers repeatedly, trying to calm himself, but his chest only sank further. His hand touched the cold, hard wall.
At 9:47 AM, Min-jun finally opened the door and entered the building. The lobby had a distinct smell, a mix of old carpet, fluorescent lights, and the aroma of coffee someone had drunk that morning. The receptionist, a young woman, looked up. She might have been another dreamer attending a beauty school in Seoul or a college student, or perhaps someone who simply needed the money. “Are you Actor Min-jun, here for the script reading?” Min-jun nodded, his voice low. He felt like even his voice was no longer his own.
The elevator was to the left of the lobby, with metal doors and old buttons. Someone had left the button for the 8th floor pressed. Min-jun pressed the button for the 3rd floor. The button was cold and hard, sucking the warmth out of his fingers. As the elevator ascended, Min-jun took another look at the lobby. The dusty potted plant was still in the same place, neglected and unseen. The elevator doors opened, and Min-jun stepped inside. Just as the doors were closing, his face was faintly reflected on the metal surface, blurry and without detail. Yes, this seemed right. An actor with only an outline, a person without specifics, someone who could be filled in by anyone.
The elevator stopped at the 3rd floor. The corridor was quiet, with fluorescent lighting making everything appear bleached. At the end of the corridor, Min-jun saw a door with “Studio A” written on it. Four people were already standing there, two of them chatting. They looked younger than Min-jun, probably in their early twenties. One was checking his phone, and another was reading the script. Min-jun recognized none of their faces, which somehow brought him a sense of relief. No one knew him, and he didn’t know anyone else. A fair starting line, or so it seemed. But this was also a lie; these people were likely more experienced actors who had appeared in dramas, ads, music videos, and more. Min-jun, on the other hand, was still just an extra, or at least, he used to be. Now, he was a supporting actor, at least on paper.
A voice called out from behind, “Min-jun?” Min-jun turned to see a woman, likely in her early thirties, with short hair and a black jacket, carrying a thick stack of documents. Her eyes were tired, with dark circles underneath, the eyes of someone who had stayed up all night. “I’m PD Park Mi-ra,” she said. Park Mi-ra was different from what Min-jun had imagined over the phone. He had pictured a woman in her forties with a low, authoritative voice, an adult who couldn’t be disobeyed. But the real Park Mi-ra was short, probably around 160 cm, with large eyes and fatigue etched under them. Her eyeliner was slightly smudged, a sign of rushing out that morning.
Park Mi-ra’s tone was friendly, yet odd. Min-jun remembered Joon-ho’s words, “Don’t trust PD Park Mi-ra. She treats actors like tools.” Min-jun didn’t know how to connect the dots between Joon-ho’s warning and the person standing in front of him. Friendly tone, but what lay beneath? Park Mi-ra looked at Min-jun, long and hard, as if measuring him. Min-jun tried to endure her gaze, a skill he had mastered. Enduring, his specialty.
Park Mi-ra handed out scripts, explaining each actor’s role. Min-jun was to play the lead’s older brother, a character who protected the lead like a father. Father. Min-jun’s hand trembled. He hid it under the table. The script’s synopsis read: “A man in his mid-thirties loses his younger brother in a traffic accident. He then takes care of his brother’s friend as if he were his own brother. But this friend knows he’s just a replacement, and that defines their relationship.” Min-jun read the synopsis multiple times. Losing a younger brother, a traffic accident, a replacement – it all seemed too familiar.
The script reading ended at 11:47 AM. Park Mi-ra thanked all the actors, and they smiled, the smiles of successful people or those who wanted to be. “Min-jun, can I have a word with you?” Park Mi-ra asked, leading him out of Studio A. In the corridor, she said, “You’re a really good actor.” Min-jun replied, “Thank you.” Park Mi-ra continued, “But there’s something… off about you. It feels like you’re hiding something.” Min-jun’s heart beat faster. “No, I’m not,” he said. Park Mi-ra asked again, “Really?” Min-jun assured her, “Yes.”
Park Mi-ra smiled. “Okay, I’ll see you at the shoot. And one more thing, did Soo-jin explain the contract conditions with Netflix?” Min-jun’s body stiffened. “Yes,” he replied. Park Mi-ra said, “Good. Then it’s all set. Fighting!” She raised her hand, as if blessing him. Min-jun looked at her hand, the one with a band-aid on her ring finger, pointing at him. “You’re the one we want. Don’t forget that.” Park Mi-ra said.
Min-jun headed to the elevator, his shadow stretching out under the fluorescent lights, like someone else’s shadow, someone who was already someone else. The elevator doors closed, and Min-jun’s face was reflected on the metal surface, still blurry, still someone who could be filled in by anyone. The elevator descended, and the doors opened. Min-jun stepped out into the lobby, where the dusty potted plant remained, still neglected and unseen.
Min-jun walked out of the building, into the still bustling streets of Gangnam. He checked his phone and found three messages. Joon-ho asked, “How was the script reading?” Someone else invited him to meet at a cafe after filming. And the last message was from Soo-jin: “Good job. Now it’s ours.” Min-jun read the last message and realized he was trapped, caught in something, though he didn’t know when it started. Maybe it was when his father died, or when he decided to become an actor, or maybe it was the day he first worked as an extra.
But now he was sure. He was trapped, and the trap was closing in. Min-jun sent a message to Joon-ho, asking to meet. Joon-ho agreed, and they decided to meet at a convenience store they often visited. Min-jun started walking, unsure if his feet were moving on their own or if someone else was controlling them.
At 12:15 PM, Min-jun opened the door to the convenience store. The familiar smell of instant noodles and coffee filled his nostrils, but it now seemed foreign. Joon-ho was already there, sitting at a table with a can of coffee. “How was the script reading?” Joon-ho asked. Min-jun sat down and explained his role, the story of a man who loses his younger brother and takes care of another child as if he were his own. Joon-ho’s expression changed. “Is this a joke?” Min-jun assured him, “No, it’s real.”
Min-jun asked, “Is this a coincidence?” Joon-ho didn’t answer directly but said, “Soo-jin knows. She knows about you, your father, and she knows you’ll move according to her plans.” Min-jun’s heart beat faster. Joon-ho continued, “Soo-jin is a dangerous person. She treats actors like tools, and she knows how to use them. You’re in her grasp.”
Min-jun listened, but the implications were unclear. He only felt his mind becoming more complicated. His father’s death, his life as an actor, and Soo-jin’s intentions – everything was a jumbled mess. “Brother, what’s going on?” Min-jun asked. Joon-ho’s voice was lower, more serious. “You’re moving according to Soo-jin’s plan. She’s using you. Your father’s death, your life as an actor, and your current situation – everything is connected.”
Min-jun’s head spun. He didn’t know his father’s death was related to his current situation. Joon-ho advised, “Don’t trust Soo-jin. Be careful around her. You need to find out the truth about your father’s death and your current situation. Then, you need to get out of this situation.”
Min-jun decided to investigate his father’s death and learn more about Soo-jin. He was determined to escape his current situation and find his own path. With newfound resolve, Min-jun set out to uncover the truth and take control of his life.