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# Chapter 153: The Price of Silence
Junho’s fist unclenched beneath the table, then tightened again. His knuckles whitened as his fingers pressed hard against his palms—as if he wanted to hit someone, but knew that someone was himself. Minjun watched Junho’s face grow progressively paler. The café’s lighting carved his cheekbones into sharp relief, while his eyes fixed on something distant. Jazz music drifted through the speakers. At the counter, someone called out an order: “One Americano!” It was so ordinary. So mundane. As if Minjun and Junho existed in an entirely different world from this one—their conversation’s tension standing in stark contrast to the café’s casual peace.
Minjun’s voice was low, but there was something resolute beneath it. “Who died?” He wanted to end the question with a period, not a question mark. Junho finally met Minjun’s gaze. Something broken lived in those eyes—like shattered glass, each fragment reflecting something different, the scattered light darkening Minjun’s chest.
“You don’t need to know that name,” Junho said. His voice dropped lower, almost swallowed by the café’s background music. “It’s in the contract. ‘The victim’s identity is protected.’” His words fell like a sigh, pressing down on Minjun’s chest.
“Victim?” Minjun’s eyes widened. “So someone was hurt?” His voice grew increasingly formal, as if politeness itself were exposing his ignorance. Junho’s fingers still trembled—not the tremor of a lie, but something genuine. Minjun was skilled at hiding emotion, but equally skilled at reading it in others. Junho was afraid. Not of Minjun, but of something larger.
“Hyung, this is—” Minjun started.
Junho raised a finger, cutting him off. “Don’t.” The gesture looked like he was physically sealing Minjun’s lips, leaving a mark on his chest. A other café patron glanced their way. Junho seemed to notice, lowering his hand. He took a deep breath. His chest rose and fell as if carrying something heavy—his heart crushed beneath a massive weight, his breathing suffocated by it.
“Right now, we’re just two friends meeting at a café. That’s all. Understand?” His words were like an act—his movements perfectly natural, as if they really were just friends, really were just here for drinks. Minjun nodded. Said nothing. He already knew: in a café, in public, with other people around, this was all there could be. Their conversation might already be recorded. Captured on camera. This moment itself could become evidence. Minjun’s body went rigid at the thought. His muscles tensed, every sense sharpening. He could hear every sound in the café, catch every small movement.
Junho picked up the menu. Pure theater. Flawless theater. As if they really were friends, really were just here for coffee. “What’ll you have?” His voice was bright, but his eyes remained dark. “Coffee… an Americano.” Minjun answered. His voice didn’t waver, but his hands trembled slightly. “Good. Same for me.” Junho raised his hand to signal a staff member. His voice was cheerful. “Two Americanos, here please.” The staff member confirmed the order, and Junho set down the menu. Silence flowed between them—not uncomfortable, but something deeper. As if they shared the same secret and were both trying not to speak it aloud. Minjun looked at the contract copy on the table. Eight pages. That’s what had changed his entire life.
“Are you scared?” Junho asked suddenly. His voice was low, his eyes searching Minjun’s. Minjun didn’t answer. He didn’t know how to express fear. It was deeper than fear, stronger than anxiety. It felt like floating on water while being pulled toward the depths, not knowing where the bottom was. That not knowing was the most terrifying part. His mind was being swept away by a massive wave, every sense taut with the threat of it.
“You’re scared,” Junho said again. This time it wasn’t a question but a statement. His eyes found Minjun again. “And that’s normal. Everyone would be scared. But you have to get through this. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“This isn’t like a movie. This is reality, and reality is far more complicated and far more dangerous. That’s why you need to stay quiet. Don’t tell anyone. Not your fellow actors, not the staff, not even your family.”
“My family—” Minjun began.
“Especially your family,” Junho cut him off. “Understand?”
Minjun nodded. He barely had a family anyway. His mother lived in the countryside, and they rarely spoke. His father had been gone for ten years already… Minjun stopped that thought. Now wasn’t the time to think about his father.
The Americanos arrived. A café staff member set down two cups and left. Junho picked up his cup and took a sip. His face remained pale, but his movements were natural. Like he really was just meeting a friend for coffee. Minjun picked up his cup too. The warmth of the coffee transferred to his fingertips. It was the only warmth around him. Everything else was cold, heavy, and black.
“What did PD Park Mira say?” Junho asked.
“She complained about the dark circles under my eyes.”
“Take better care of yourself. Do you know what it means for an actor to manage their face?”
“Yes.”
“And on set, act normal. Like the other actors, like the other staff. Like nothing’s changed.”
“Yes.”
“Especially don’t tell Sungjun. That kid…” Junho paused. “That kid will write about anything. Got it?”
Minjun nodded. Sungjun was a rising actor at the same agency over the past few months. Blond hair, handsome face, had built recognition through commercials and music videos, and recently landed a supporting role in a drama. They’d joined the agency during the same period, but their trajectories diverged completely. Sungjun always seemed bright and approachable, but there was something calculated about him. Like everything was part of his plan.
“And keep our relationship the same. Mentor and junior. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Yes.”
Junho drank his coffee again. More this time. As if drinking it would end this conversation. Minjun drank his too. It was bitter and hot. Like everything was bitter and hot.
“Where are you going to hide the contract?” Junho asked.
“Should I hide it?”
“Of course. Someone could find it. Especially the police.”
The word “police” dropped onto the table like a bomb. Minjun’s heart hammered against his ribs. “Will the police come looking?”
“I don’t know.” Junho shrugged, but his shoulders trembled. “But they might, so we need to be prepared. The contract somewhere safe. Same with the money.”
“The money?”
“Never spend that money. Not for at least six months. And even after that, be careful. Understand?”
Minjun’s head spun. Police. Contract. Money. These were all words connected to crime. And now Minjun was complicit. Or more precisely, he was someone who knew and stayed silent. Was that the same as being complicit? Different? Minjun didn’t know the law. And that terrified him even more.
“And if someone asks?” Junho continued. “Any reporter, any cop, anyone who asks about this—you say ‘I don’t know.’ That’s it. That’s all.”
“But I signed the contract.”
“That’s an investment contract. Entertainment companies make contracts like that with rookie actors all the time. There’s nothing unusual about it.”
Minjun doubted that. The contract’s contents were clearly something else. It was a contract for silence, and the price of that silence was twenty-five billion won. But he didn’t ask further. Asking was dangerous. The more you knew, the harder it became to keep quiet.
Junho checked his watch. 10:34 PM. They’d been sitting together for twenty-four minutes. Was that enough? Or too long? Minjun didn’t know. Time felt meaningless. Like they were existing in a different dimension entirely.
“Alright, let’s go. Separately. Five-minute intervals.” Junho said.
“Yes.”
“And next time we meet, we act like this conversation never happened. Understand?”
“Yes.”
Junho pulled cash from his wallet. Not a credit card. Cash. Untraceable cash. That shocked Minjun too. Junho seemed experienced at this already. This kind of transaction, this kind of hiding. Or more precisely, he’d been taught it by someone. All of this.
Junho stood. He looked at Minjun one last time. There was something desperate in his eyes. As if saying wordlessly: Please, stay silent. Minjun nodded. It was all he could do.
Junho left the café. His retreating figure still wore the black hoodie, his shoulders still hunched. As if someone had placed something heavy on his back that he couldn’t put down.
Minjun waited five minutes. In the café. His coffee had gone cold. He drank it anyway. Bitter and cold. Like everything was bitter and cold. The jazz music continued playing. Other customers went about their business. No one noticed Minjun. No one knew what he’d just done. That was the most terrifying part. And somehow, the most reassuring.
When five minutes had passed, Minjun stood. He put the contract copy in his bag. And left the café. He left Gangnam Station’s basement level three behind, ascending. Escalators, stairs, ground level. And Seoul’s sunlight hit his face. Bright sunlight. But it wasn’t warm either. Everything was black. Everything was heavy.
He pulled out his phone. A KakaoTalk message had arrived. From PD Park Mira.
Park Mira PD: 2 PM on set. Script reading with main cast. Don’t be late.
Minjun read it and put the phone away. He had to go to set. He had to be an actor. He had to act normal. He had to stay silent. That was all that was left for him. Silence. And the price of that silence: twenty-five billion won.
He walked the Gangnam streets. Still busy. People kept passing. Cars kept moving. The world kept turning. As if nothing had happened. But Minjun knew. Something had changed. And it couldn’t be undone.
As he descended into the subway station, Minjun passed a mirror. A large mirror on the station wall. He looked at his reflection. The dark circles under his eyes were still there. His face was still pale. But something else had changed. What was it? Minjun stared at himself in the mirror. It was still him. But at the same time, it wasn’t. Like someone was wearing his face, controlling his body.
He passed the mirror and boarded the train. The car moved. Minjun watched the darkness outside the window. The darkness of the subway tunnel. It seemed to represent everything. Darkness. And silence within that darkness.
2 PM. The set.
PD Park Mira was already sitting at the monitor. When Minjun arrived, she looked up. “Did you look at your face? Those dark circles are still there. What are you doing? Get it fixed before shooting. Tell the staff to redo your makeup.”
“Yes, Director.”
Minjun walked toward the staff. Among them, he became another actor. Another face. Another voice. Where was his true self? He didn’t know. Maybe it had been left behind on that café table. Between eight pages of contract, beneath the weight of silence and twenty-five billion won.
The script reading began. Minjun’s role was a father. It was ironic. Because his own father had died ten years ago, and since then, Minjun had never been able to play a father. But now, he had to play a father who kept silent. A father with secrets.
His first line was this: “Don’t say anything. Just tell them you don’t know.”
When Minjun read it, his delivery was perfect. PD Park Mira nodded. “Good. That’s exactly the feeling. A father protecting secrets.”
Minjun read it again. The same line. And this time with deeper understanding. Because now it was no longer an actor’s line. It was his real life.
In the café, he’d received twenty-five billion won. And with it, he’d received silence. That was the heaviest burden. Not the money. The silence itself.
The set’s lighting illuminated his face. And under that light, Minjun was an actor. Another actor. Another face. Another silence.