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# Chapter 146: Lies on Set
At 7:42 AM, when Min-jun’s eyes opened, mold stains marked the ceiling. The distinctive smell of a semi-basement room stung his nostrils. He hadn’t slept all night. Or rather, he hadn’t wanted to sleep. The moment he closed his eyes, he heard Joon-ho’s voice, and behind it came someone’s scream. From the balcony. Someone had fallen. Someone. The thought scrambled his mind. Morning light filtered through the window, creating ripples across the bed.
He picked up his phone. The screen was empty. No messages. No missed calls. Only silence. Joon-ho hadn’t contacted him since last night. Forty-eight hours since signing the contract. Twenty-five billion won. That number kept repeating in Min-jun’s mind. Twenty-five. Billion. Won. His fingers trembled. Someone once said an actor must know his own hands. Hands cannot lie. Hands always reveal the truth. Min-jun clenched his fist. The trembling wouldn’t stop. When he squeezed his palm, the sensation felt strange.
The set was a studio on the outskirts of Gangnam. A text had come from PD Park Mi-ra at 11 PM the night before. “Arrive at the studio at 8 AM tomorrow. First scene reading. Don’t be late. We’ll do an emotional test in front of the camera.” As Min-jun read the message, it felt like something sent to someone else. It felt like someone else’s life, not his own. In that moment of reading, street noise from outside filled his mind. Car horns, conversations, the sound of airplane wings. Every sound disturbed his heart.
When he got in the taxi, it was 7:56 AM. The driver was a man in his fifties, and trot music played on the radio. The driver hummed along. “I loved you, I’m sorry, but now goodbye…” Min-jun looked out the window. A Gangnam morning. Office workers heading to work, students coming out of convenience stores, women jogging. Everyone looked normal. Everyone was living their own lives. Whose life was Min-jun living? Fine dust particles drifted in the air outside. When he breathed it in, his throat felt scratchy.
When he arrived at the studio entrance, it was 8:04 AM. Four minutes late. PD Park Mi-ra was already standing to one side of the set, with the lighting and camera teams arranging equipment. The moment she saw Min-jun, her eyebrows rose. In that instant, Min-jun felt his heart rate increase. “You’re late?” she asked. “I’m sorry. Traffic was—” Min-jun answered. It was a lie. There had been no traffic. He’d deliberately taken a later taxi. Or unconsciously. Even he didn’t know.
“This is a Netflix drama, so time is everything. Come ten minutes early next time.” Park Mi-ra said. “Understood.” Min-jun replied. Park Mi-ra was a woman in her early forties, one of Korea’s most renowned drama producers. Her gaze was sharp, and when she looked at you, it was like observing bacteria under a microscope. Min-jun knew that look. It was the same one Lee Su-jin had given him yesterday. The moment she looked at him, he felt cold sweat running down his neck.
“Do you know what an actor does? He lies. But anyone can lie. A real actor makes a lie look like the truth while lying. Understand?” Min-jun nodded. He didn’t speak. In this moment, words were dangerous. The set was arranged as a living room. A sofa, a coffee table, a city backdrop visible through the window. The lighting was set to warm tones, but it was false warmth. Everything was false. This living room was false, this lighting was false, and he standing here in this moment was false. The scent of freshly brewed coffee drifted from the coffee table. It brought a warmth that contrasted with the cold air outside.
“The first scene is you and actor Oh Hyun-jun having breakfast. Since it’s a Netflix drama, the emotion needs to be deep. It’s not just breakfast—it’s showing the moment when the relationship between these two people begins to crack. Understand?” Min-jun nodded again. “Your lines?” Park Mi-ra picked up the script. Min-jun took it. The paper was cold. The letters were black. He began reading his lines. “I didn’t know morning could be this cold.” Just one sentence. But what should that sentence convey? Despair? Loneliness? Anger? Min-jun read it again. “I didn’t know morning could be this cold.” It wasn’t about the weather. It was about a relationship. About a person. About love growing cold.
Min-jun thought of his situation. Last night’s contract with Joon-ho. Twenty-five billion won. That money had chilled his chest. Or rather, it had revealed what was already cold. How long had his heart been this cold?
Actor Oh Hyun-jun entered the set. He was a man in his early thirties who had played leading roles in several dramas. His face was handsome. His voice was low. The moment he saw Min-jun, he extended his hand.
“I’m Oh Hyun-jun. Nice to work with you.”
“I’m Min-jun. Thank you.”
Their handshake was formal. It was an actor’s handshake. There was no sincerity. Both knew. This was acting.
The reading began. The camera was already rolling, and the lights illuminated them. Park Mi-ra sat behind the monitor, her face expressionless.
“Action.”
Min-jun and Oh Hyun-jun sat on the sofa. Between them was the coffee table. Between them was distance. It wasn’t specified in the script, but they both knew. These two people were no longer close.
Oh Hyun-jun spoke first. “You came home late yesterday, didn’t you?”
Min-jun delivered his line. “Yeah. Work ran late.”
“That’s a lie, isn’t it?”
Min-jun paused. That moment was in the script. That silence was there. And during that silence, Min-jun thought of his own lie. The contract with Joon-ho. Twenty-five billion won. Someone falling from the balcony. Would all of it show on his face?
“Yeah. It’s a lie.”
Min-jun spoke the line. It was deep. It wasn’t acting. Or rather, it was acting. But the most genuine acting. Because it was the truth.
Park Mi-ra called out, “Cut.”
“Good. Again.”
They started again. And again. And again. Time passed. From 8 AM to 1 PM. During that time, Min-jun repeated the same line thirty-seven times. “I didn’t know morning could be this cold.” Thirty-seven times. The words looked increasingly hollow. The words grew increasingly heavy.
When lunchtime came, Park Mi-ra said, “Good. That’s enough for today. Come back tomorrow.”
Min-jun nodded. He left the set. He went to the locker room and changed clothes. He looked in the mirror. Who was the man in the mirror? It wasn’t Min-jun. It was Min-jun’s shadow. Or Min-jun’s mask. Or it could have been Min-jun himself.
When leaving the locker room, his phone rang. It was Joon-ho.
“Yeah?”
“Did the shoot go well today?”
“Yes.”
“Come to our office.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
The call ended. Min-jun held the phone for a while. Inside that small device was someone’s voice. That voice commanded him. And he would obey. Because he had already made a contract. For twenty-five billion won.
Walking to the office, Min-jun passed through Gangnam streets. People passed by. People living their own lives. People carrying their own secrets. Min-jun realized how alone he was. In this city, among these millions of people, he was the loneliest.
When he arrived at Thestar Entertainment’s office, it was 2:18 PM. Joon-ho was waiting in his office. His expression was calm, but his eyes were anxious.
“Sit.”
Min-jun sat.
“The shoot?”
“It went well.”
“PD Park Mi-ra?”
“She said it was good.”
Joon-ho stared at Min-jun’s face for a long time. That gaze was an examination. It was a verification. It was a silent question: “You can still stay silent, right?”
“There’s one more thing you need to do.”
Min-jun’s heart stopped.
“Representative Lee Su-jin is going to ask you something. Or maybe she already has. When that happens, you need to act like you don’t know anything. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t deliver that line like you’re acting. Say it sincerely.”
Min-jun met Joon-ho’s eyes. His eyes were serious. It wasn’t a threat. It was fear. Joon-ho was afraid. Of what? Of it being revealed. Of it being exposed. Or of Min-jun betraying him.
“Understood.”
“Good. Now go.”
Min-jun stood up. He walked toward the door.
“Min-jun.”
Joon-ho called from behind.
“Yeah?”
“Hang in there.”
What was that? Comfort? A threat? Or self-deception? Min-jun didn’t answer. He opened the door and left.
Walking down the hallway, Min-jun looked at his hands. They were still trembling. An actor must know his own hands. Hands cannot lie. Hands always reveal the truth. So what was this trembling? Was it fear? Guilt? Or the despair of not knowing who you are?
Outside, the sun was still bright. 2:47 PM. Seoul’s sky was blue. A clean color. But Min-jun’s heart was black. Or gray. Or colorless. It was simply emptiness.
Walking back from the set, or from the office, Min-jun couldn’t tell exactly where he was going. His feet moved automatically. His body moved automatically. But where was his soul? It might have fallen from the balcony last night. Or it might have been trapped in the 25-billion-won contract.
By 6 PM, Min-jun was back in his semi-basement room. He lay on his bed. He looked at the mold stains on the ceiling. They were still there. They seemed like they would never disappear. Like his guilt.
His phone rang. An unknown number. Min-jun stared at it for a while, then answered.
“Hello?”
“Min-jun? It’s me.”
The voice was warm. But that warmth was colder. Because it might have been a lie. Like everything else in this world.
“Oh… you?”
“Can we meet tomorrow? At a café?”
Min-jun didn’t speak. Silence flowed. In that silence, everything was decided.
“Understood.”
When he answered, it was no longer his own voice. It was an actor’s voice. It was the voice of someone telling a lie. And Min-jun was certain now. That who he was no longer mattered.
END OF CHAPTER 146