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# Chapter 20: Until I Hit the Wall
Minjun’s fingers loosened one by one from the rooftop railing. He looked down at his own hands. They were still trembling. No—beyond trembling, they seemed to be sending some kind of signal. A signal that something was wrong. A signal that something he could no longer control was rising up from within him.
“I was afraid… that I would shatter.”
Minjun finished his final sentence. The rooftop wind carried his words away. Into the forest of Gangnam buildings, into the subway entrance at Gangnam Station, into some place of disappearance. Minjun had no way of knowing who heard his words. Perhaps no one had heard them at all.
We began pressing his shoulder firmly. The hand that had been light at first now carried weight. As if trying to keep him from vanishing.
“You will shatter. An actor must shatter.”
Our voice had changed. It was no longer consoling in tone. Instead, it was precise, cold, and declarative.
“I think every good actor has to break something inside themselves. The truth emerges from those broken pieces. The apology to your father, the guilt, and all that force you’ve been suppressing… it all has to break. Only then can people see you. See the real you.”
Minjun looked at us. Her face was half-hidden in the sunlight. Her eyebrows looked sharp. Like the expression of a judge assessing someone.
“It won’t be easy. Breaking is painful. But…”
We paused for a moment. Her gaze turned toward Gangnam Station.
“But you’ve already shattered. Ten years ago. When your father left, you already broke, and you’ve been living broken ever since. That’s why no one has ever really seen you.”
Minjun’s throat moved. He tried to swallow but couldn’t. As if his body had frozen again.
Junho grabbed Minjun’s other arm. He didn’t press as hard as we did. Instead, he pressed gently, persistently.
“What are you feeling right now?”
Junho’s question was simple. But that simplicity tormented Minjun further. Because he couldn’t tell what he was feeling. Sadness? Anger? Or simply exhaustion? Every emotion was tangled together, and he couldn’t tell where one ended and another began.
“I… don’t know.”
Minjun answered.
“That’s good. Not knowing is the right answer.”
Junho said. His voice was very calm. As if he too were someone who had felt this frustration for a long time.
“And you don’t need to know right now. You revealed something in the studio today. You’ll find out what it was later. When the PD calls you again.”
Would the PD call him again? When those words reached Minjun’s ears, something trembled. Hope? Or greater fear? Minjun couldn’t tell.
When he tried to leave the rooftop, his feet stopped. He wanted to look at that railing one more time. At the space where he’d met his father once more. Even though that meeting had been on a stage, it had been the most truthful moment.
“Do you want to be alone?”
We asked. She didn’t follow Minjun. Junho was already walking toward the elevator. We followed him.
“Yes. Just for a moment…”
Minjun answered.
Left alone on the rooftop, Minjun walked back to the railing. His fingers grasped the cold metal again. This time there was no trembling. Instead, there was a heaviness, as if a decision had been made.
Gangnam’s buildings sparkled as they caught the fading sunlight. One of them was the Netflix building. Inside it, his voice remained. Words spoken to his father. “I’m sorry.”
He couldn’t tell how deep those two words were. But in this moment, standing at the rooftop railing and looking out at Gangnam’s evening, Minjun felt that something had changed. He couldn’t feel that he himself had changed, but he was certain the air around him had changed. As if someone had sucked away all the air surrounding his body.
The locker room at Thesstar Entertainment. A small space where actors stored their things. A few lockers, a mirror, and a bench. A very shabby space. But for the actors, it was a sanctuary. The only place to escape the company’s eyes and cameras.
When Minjun entered the locker room, Seongjun was standing in front of the mirror. Examining his face. Or rather, inspecting it. He touched under his own chin with his finger. As if checking whether something was wrong.
“You went to the Netflix audition today, right?”
Seongjun asked without taking his eyes off the mirror. His voice was bright. But that brightness was fake. Minjun could tell. After spending months in the same space, he’d learned how to distinguish a false smile.
“Yes.”
Minjun answered. He opened the locker next to the mirror. Inside, he had almost no possessions. A spare outfit or two, and a towel. All of them cheap.
“How was it? Did you get rejected?”
Seongjun asked again. This time he turned from the mirror and looked at Minjun. His face was bright, but his eyes were dark. As if he were wearing two different faces.
“The results haven’t come out yet.”
Minjun answered. He used formal speech. Formal speech was always necessary with Seongjun. Outwardly friendly, but actually competitors.
“Hmm…”
Seongjun muttered. His hand arranged his own hair. The bleached blonde passed through his fingers.
“I did a CF shoot yesterday. A famous cosmetics brand. Pretty good opportunity, right? For a rookie to be at this level, it’s quite fast.”
Minjun didn’t answer. He organized his clothes. Even hanging them in the locker was a meaningful movement. An expression of consciousness that he was doing something.
“But here’s what’s strange…”
Seongjun continued. He liked to keep talking. It was his way of displaying superiority.
“Why don’t you have any roles, Minjun? I heard you’ve only been doing extras for four years… Is this Netflix your first supporting role?”
Minjun’s hand paused briefly. It was a very subtle movement, but Seongjun’s eyes would have caught it. Because Seongjun always observed others. Looking for weaknesses.
“Yes.”
Minjun answered again. One syllable. It was the best he could do in this conversation.
“You must have had some tough times. The industry these days is so competitive. It’s easy for your confidence to hit rock bottom after one or two rejections.”
Seongjun said. His tone seemed consoling. But it wasn’t consolation. It was confirmation. Confirmation that he was in a better position. Confirmation that he was already on the path to success.
“I’m fine.”
Minjun said.
“That can’t be true. No one’s fine. In this industry.”
Seongjun turned back to the mirror. He examined his face again. His finger touched below his lips. As if checking whether something was missing.
“But you know…”
Seongjun continued. His voice became quieter. As if he didn’t want to be saying this either.
“I heard that… you’re supposed to have a meeting with our company’s CEO?”
Minjun’s body stiffened. It was news he hadn’t known himself. Wait, no. Junho had said something like that. But it was still just a plan, not confirmed.
“I don’t know.”
Minjun answered. He closed the locker door. The sound it made was very loud. As if it were an expression of his will to forcibly end this conversation.
“I have something to do, so I’ll go first.”
Minjun said. It was a lie. It wasn’t that he had something to do, but that he wanted to escape this space. To escape from Seongjun’s eyes. To escape from the way those eyes observed him.
When he left the locker room, Minjun’s chest raced again. The trembling that seemed to have stopped on the rooftop started again. Walking through the hallway of Thesstar Entertainment, Minjun began counting his heartbeats.
One, two, three.
The company’s walls turned gray. As if their color changed in sync with his heartbeat.
When Minjun knocked on CEO Lee Sujin’s office door, Junho was already sitting inside.
“Come in.”
Lee Sujin’s voice came through the door. It was a command. Not a request.
The door opened. The office air was cold and clean. Like the air in a hospital or courtroom. The air of a place where emotion wasn’t permitted.
Lee Sujin sat with her back to the window. The sun shone behind her. Because of this, her face was hidden in backlighting. As if making it impossible to tell who she was.
“Actor Min. Sit down.”
Lee Sujin pointed with her hand to the chair across from her. That chair was very low. Like a chair where a defendant sits before a judge.
Minjun sat. His eyes automatically turned toward Lee Sujin. But because of the backlighting, he couldn’t read her expression. It was intentional. A symbol of power. Being able to see the other person while they couldn’t see you.
“The Netflix audition. How was it?”
Lee Sujin asked. Her hand picked up a pen on the desk. As if signaling that she was about to record something.
“Thank you. It was a good opportunity.”
Minjun answered. Formal speech, careful.
“That’s not an answer. I asked about your feelings. How was it?”
Lee Sujin’s voice became lower. But that lowness was more threatening.
Minjun opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“I… met my father again.”
Minjun said.
Those words floated in the office. As if they hadn’t come from his own mouth, but from someone else’s.
Lee Sujin’s pen stopped.
“Explain.”
She said.
Minjun explained. What happened in the studio. The actor on the bed. His father’s hand. And his own silence. He explained all of it. Without choosing words, just letting them flow out.
Lee Sujin listened without speaking. Her pen began moving again. Recording something.
“Good.”
Finally, Lee Sujin spoke.
“That’s the best you can do. That silence. That emotion. Keep it. That’s what makes you an actor.”
Minjun didn’t answer. Instead, he looked at Lee Sujin. The backlighting still obscured her face.
“Before you go, one thing.”
Lee Sujin spoke again.
“Do you know an actor named Seongjun?”
Minjun’s body stiffened again.
“Yes. We’re the same batch.”
“Don’t compare yourself to him. He’s an actor who climbed through appearance. But you’ll climb through emotion. They’re different paths. And if the paths are different, the destinations are different too.”
Lee Sujin’s words entered Minjun’s ears. Were they comfort? Or a warning? Minjun couldn’t tell.
“Thank you.”
Minjun said.
“Go.”
Lee Sujin pointed toward the door with her hand.
When he left the office, Junho was waiting in the hallway.
“How was it?”
Junho asked.
“I don’t know.”
Minjun answered. It was the most honest answer he could give.
“That’s good. Not knowing is normal. You’ve hit a wall right now. You don’t know what that wall is, but there’s definitely something there. And you have to break through it.”
Junho tapped Minjun’s shoulder. The weight of that hand was very heavy. As if it carried his entire life.
“And one more thing.”
Junho continued.
“We’re watching you. You’re not alone.”
Minjun looked at Junho. His face was full of fatigue. As if he too had been fighting something for a long time. But within that fatigue was something warm. The certainty that he was being watched. The certainty that he wasn’t alone.
“Thank you.”
Minjun said.
That night, Minjun returned to his officetel. It was a very small space. A bed, a desk, and a refrigerator. All furniture that reflected his salary. Cheap, worn, but his own.
Minjun lay on the bed. He looked at the ceiling. There was nothing there. Just a white ceiling. Like his future. A space where nothing was visible.
But within that space, Minjun felt something moving. His father’s hand. His father’s face. And what he had said in that studio. “I’m sorry.”
Those words were alive inside him now. Like a seed someone had planted. Whether it would grow or die, he still couldn’t tell. But something was definitely changing.
Minjun looked at his own hands. They were still trembling. But he realized now that the trembling wasn’t fear. It was a signal of change. Not a signal that he was slowly falling apart, but a signal that he was slowly awakening.
He remembered what she had said on the rooftop. “You have to break.”
Then he would continue to break. He would hit the wall. Until that wall crumbled.
As the night deepened, Minjun’s eyes slowly closed. And in his dream, he was still lying on that bed. Holding his father’s hand. And silent. Until all words lost meaning, until only silence remained.