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# Chapter 152: Silence in the Café
The café three levels below Gangnam Station was empty at exactly 10 a.m. Most of the window-side tables sat vacant, with only a single office worker hunched over a laptop near the counter. Minjun paused at the entrance. His reflection stared back at him in the mirror-like glass—the dark circles under his eyes that PD Park Mi-ra had pointed out looked even more pronounced now. Like someone had punched him. He touched that spot with his fingertip. There was no pain, but somehow that made it worse. His heart hammered somewhere deep in his chest, and the tremor traveled all the way to his fingertips.
When choosing a table, Minjun automatically selected the farthest corner. Away from the windows, away from the counter, and most importantly, out of sight of other patrons. The moment he sat, he reread the KakaoTalk message from Junho. ‘Bring the contract copy. And don’t let anyone know.’ His fingers held the phone, trembling slightly at the tips. Soft jazz played in the café’s background, punctuated by the occasional sound of someone sipping a drink.
Junho arrived nine minutes later. Exactly 10:09. He wore a black hoodie and didn’t remove his sunglasses as he scanned the café. When his eyes found Minjun, he froze. As if spotting him was itself a burden. A few seconds passed before he slowly walked toward the table. The espresso machine hissed to life, and the jazz seemed to adjust its tempo to match his pace.
“You been alright?” Junho’s voice was low as he sat down. But beneath that quietness lay something else—something calculated, not the gentle mentor tone from before. Minjun nodded. He didn’t speak. Words were dangerous. The wall clock showed 10:10, and his heart raced inside his ribs.
Junho removed his sunglasses. Dark circles shadowed his eyes too. Not from sleeplessness, but from something he was holding back. His pupils kept moving—to the door, the counter, the other customer, back to Minjun. His anxiety seemed to seep across the table. Minjun followed the movement of those eyes, feeling the unease contained within them.
“You bring the contract?”
Minjun pulled the copy from his bag. Eight pages of A4 paper. The document that had changed his life. Junho didn’t take it—he only watched as it was placed on the table. His hand trembled slightly. Very slightly. But Minjun saw it. Sunlight from the café window caught his fingers, making his heart feel heavier.
“You read it?”
“Yes.”
“All of it? Pages one through eight?”
“Yes.”
Junho exhaled. There was something heavy in that breath—as if he were setting down the weight of every conversation and relationship that came before. He met Minjun’s eyes directly. Exposed without the sunglasses, his gaze looked more dangerous. In it, Minjun could see his own future. Opaque. Dark.
“What are you thinking right now? Really?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I really don’t know.”
Junho leaned forward across the table. His voice dropped lower, nearly buried beneath the café’s background music. “Do you understand what you’re in right now? What you signed? You have an obligation to stay silent. A legal one. If you tell anyone about this, you have to return all 25 billion won. Plus damages on top of that.”
Minjun’s fingers stiffened. He tried to trace the wood grain of the table, but his gaze wavered. The memory of yesterday flooded back—the moment he’d received those 25 billion won. His emotions had been complicated then too. Joy mixed with dread. “Who died?”
Silence. Was it three seconds? Five? Time seemed to stop. Junho’s face hardened as if Minjun’s question had struck him physically. His fingers disappeared below the table. Minjun could see them clenched into a fist. His own breathing quickened. His chest tightened, his hands shook.
“You don’t need to know that.”
“But I took 25 billion won.”
“Yeah. You did. And you’re going to keep your mouth shut about it.”
Minjun lifted his head. Their eyes met. In that moment, something broke. The mentor-and-junior relationship that had existed before—it shattered completely. “Hyung, I—”
“You’re nothing.” Junho’s voice rose. Just slightly. But it was enough. The café counter clerk looked up. Junho immediately took a breath, lowering his voice again. “Sorry. What I mean is… you don’t need to understand this right now. You’re an actor. You just do your job. That’s all.”
“My job?”
“Yeah. Like always. Go to set, act well, come home at night, sleep, wake up with a face nobody knows. That’s it.”
Minjun looked down at the contract again. The legal language, the sentences. There were parts he’d deliberately skipped while reading. Especially Section 3’s confidentiality clause and Section 4’s liability exemption. And the damages provision on the final page. If he’d read all of it carefully, he probably wouldn’t have signed. But he had signed. For 25 billion won. His mind grew heavier. He didn’t know what he’d chosen or what he’d lost.
“Don’t lie.”
“I really don’t know.”
Junho leaned forward. His voice dropped so low it was nearly swallowed by the café’s background music. “Do you understand your situation? What you signed? You have a legal obligation to stay silent now. If you tell anyone about this, you have to return all 25 billion won. And pay damages too.”
Minjun’s fingers went rigid. He tried to follow the wood grain on the table, but his vision shook. “Who died?”
Silence. Three seconds? Five? Time stopped. Junho’s face froze as if the question had hit him. His fingers moved below the table. Minjun saw them clench into a fist.
“You don’t need to know.”
“But I took 25 billion won.”
“Yeah. You did. And you’re going to shut up about it.”
Minjun looked up. Their eyes locked. Something shattered in that moment—the mentor-junior relationship fractured completely. “Hyung, I—”
“You’re nothing.” Junho’s voice rose slightly. That was enough. The café clerk glanced over. Junho immediately breathed and lowered his voice. “Sorry. I mean… you don’t need to understand this. You’re an actor. You just act. That’s all.”
“Act?”
“Yeah. Like normal. Go to set, perform well, come home at night, sleep, wake up as someone nobody recognizes. That’s it.”
Minjun looked back at the contract. The legal terms, the clauses. There were sections he’d deliberately skipped—especially the confidentiality clause in Section 3 and the liability exemption in Section 4. And the damages provision on the last page. If he’d read it all carefully, he probably wouldn’t have signed. But he had. For 25 billion won.
“Hyung, I—”
“What?”
“I don’t think this is right.”
Junho laughed. It wasn’t really laughter—it was a sigh. A sigh of sorrow. “Minjun, there’s no such thing as ‘right’ in this industry. There’s only ‘survival.’ You’re surviving right now. That’s enough.”
“That’s not survival. That’s compromise.”
Junho looked at him again. His eyes were cold—as if he were seeing someone different from the person he’d known until now. “Compromise? Minjun, what are you thinking? You’re a rookie actor. You spent four years as an extra. And now you’ve got 25 billion won. With that, you could buy an apartment, a car, live without working for a year. That’s compromise?”
“Then what’s the price? What’s the cost of the money I received?”
“Cost?”
“Yes. The price of this money.”
Junho leaned back in his chair. He was silent for a long time. The café’s background music continued—piano notes that sounded like someone’s heartbeat. Slow. Heavy.
“The cost is… that you’re here. That you’re alive. You need to understand that.”
Minjun’s fingers trembled. His heart seemed to rise into his throat. “Who died, hyung?”
“I’m sorry.” Junho closed his eyes, then opened them. They looked more exhausted now. “Later. You don’t need to know right now. Really. Knowing would make it more dangerous.”
“More dangerous?”
“Yeah. More dangerous. Right now, you’re nobody. That’s better for you.”
Minjun looked at his own hands. They were still trembling. He realized how terrifying it was to lose control of his own body. His body wasn’t following his mind. Or had his mind abandoned his body? He opened his mouth. He wanted to say something, but nothing came out of his throat.
Junho leaned forward again. His voice was very low, almost a whisper. “Minjun, you’re my person now. Someone I have to protect. So you need to listen to me. And you absolutely cannot show that contract to anyone. Absolutely. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll keep going to shoots. You’ll keep working as an actor. And in between, you’ll stay silent. Just silent. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Let’s part ways here. You leave in ten minutes. I’m going first. And I hope someone sees us. Then you’re just my junior actor, I’m your hyung, and we ran into each other by chance. Got it?”
“Yes.”
Junho stood. He looked at Minjun’s eyes one last time. Something complicated lived in that gaze—apology? Fear? Determination? Minjun couldn’t tell. Junho left the café slowly, pulling his hood back up, putting his sunglasses back on.
Minjun was left alone. At the café table. With the contract copy. He picked up the document again. His hands shook. He started reading from page one. This time, every sentence. Especially Section 3’s confidentiality clause.
‘The contractor shall never disclose any information related to this contract to any third party. In case of violation, the contractor must return all amounts provided and pay additional damages.’
His eyes lingered on that sentence. The word ‘never.’ It was absolute. No room for compromise. He had signed this sentence. Written his name. Minjun. But it didn’t feel like his name—it felt like someone else’s. Whose hand had written that name?
Outside the café, Gangnam Station bustled with the 10:20 a.m. crowd. When Minjun emerged, he tried to find Junho. But he’d already vanished—into the subway entrance, a taxi, or somewhere in the street. Minjun put the contract copy in his bag and started walking. He didn’t know where to go, but he felt compelled to move.
His phone rang. Unknown number. He didn’t answer. It rang again. Still no answer. Then a KakaoTalk came through from an unknown number.
‘Hello, Actor Minjun. I’m Chairman Lee Sujin. If you have time, I’d like to meet at my office at 3 p.m. today. There’s something important.’
Minjun’s fingers stiffened. Lee Sujin. Chairman of The Star Entertainment. CEO Lee Sujin. Why was she suddenly calling him? Had he done something wrong? Or had Junho’s situation been exposed? His heart raced again.
He replied: ‘Understood. Thank you.’
3 p.m. He had five hours until then. What should he do for five hours? Go back to the set? Go home? His feet automatically carried him toward the subway station. Gangnam Station’s platform was crowded. People flowing in and out, in and out. Minjun joined the stream. He was one of them now. Someone nobody looked at twice. Someone no one noticed.
The subway arrived. He boarded. Through the window, he saw tunnel darkness. And in that darkness, his own reflection. Like a mirror. Whose face was that? His own? Or someone else’s? He couldn’t tell.