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# Chapter 172: Illusions of Light
The makeup chair’s backrest supported Min-jun’s shoulders. Fingers glided across his face in the mirror, spreading foundation with a touch that was neither cold nor warm—merely routine. As the studio lights cast their white glow across his skin, the face reflected back seemed no longer his own.
Or rather, it was him. And yet it wasn’t.
Someone named Min-jun and a character from a film overlapped on the same face. Two images—impossible to distinguish which was real—wavered as if competing for dominance.
“Your complexion looks pale,” the makeup artist said brightly, her voice carrying the practiced cheer of someone who’d repeated this line dozens of times today. Her hands continued their work, sweeping across his cheekbones.
“Stressed lately?”
Min-jun didn’t answer. He stared at the eyes in the mirror—the same color as his own, yet radiating a different light. Each touch of the makeup artist’s brush brought a response from his skin, but his mind was already sinking into darkness. The more the set lights illuminated him, the deeper the shadows grew within.
The corridor to the set stretched endlessly. White walls reflected the studio lighting, creating an artificial day that never ended. A false warmth that mimicked sunlight perfectly. Walking down that hallway, Min-jun felt as if he were descending into hell—only this hell was bright and warm.
His footsteps echoed against the glass floor.
“Min-jun, how are you feeling?”
Someone called from behind. When Min-jun turned, Tae-hyun—an actor in his thirties playing his father in the film—approached with a kind face and what seemed like a genuine smile. But his eyes were calculating. Always performing.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re always fine, aren’t you?”
Tae-hyun’s laughter rang out—warm in tone, but Min-jun read the subtext beneath it. You’re too quiet. Hard to read. Hiding something.
It was an accurate observation.
Min-jun knew this truth and was hiding it even now. That weight his body carried. The heaviness of questions pressing down on his heart. With each step toward the set, these burdens sank deeper. He couldn’t tell if he was following the script or if the script was pulling him along.
The set was a living room. Pastel-colored sofa, artificial sunlight filtering through windows, family photos on the walls. All of it false. A replica of a space that had never existed.
Min-jun had to become a son in this space.
“Father…”
The line that left his lips sounded like his voice and yet didn’t. When his eyes met Tae-hyun’s, Min-jun felt himself forgetting who he was. The conversation with his father continued, but his mind had already descended into the depths of darkness.
He left the set.
Bright light from the corridor poured into his eyes. He headed to his room, closed the door, and looked out the window.
Night was falling. As even the studio lights dimmed, darkness finally found its place. Min-jun stared at his silhouette reflected in the glass—different from the mirror. What he saw in the window was fainter.
More real.
He sat there, suspended in that space where neither body nor mind belonged anywhere.
He remained in his room, eyes fixed beyond the window, his mind sinking deeper into darkness with each passing moment. It felt as though he were following a film script, yet he didn’t know what his own script was.