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# Chapter 204: Shadows in the Café
Nine o’clock sharp on a Saturday morning. Morning light filtered through the windows of the café on the first floor of Dustar Entertainment’s building. The streets in front of Gangnam Station were already packed with people—despite the weekend, everyone moved with purpose toward their destinations. Women clutching designer shopping bags, office workers sipping coffee as they walked, young men constantly checking their phones. Everyone was going somewhere. Everyone except Min-jun, who sat motionless, staring out at the street beyond the glass.
The café hummed with the aroma of roasted coffee beans, the soft sounds of the barista working, the quiet murmur of customers. But to Min-jun’s ears, it all felt distant, muffled.
His water glass was empty. He couldn’t remember when he’d finished it, but the bitter taste of melted ice lingered on his tongue. He reached for the glass, then set it back down. The simple confirmation that nothing remained inside weighed on him. The moisture on his fingertips felt cold.
“Sorry I’m late,” Junho appeared, dressed in a black cashmere coat that probably cost over a million won. Min-jun glanced down at his own gray hoodie, purchased three years ago, its seams already coming loose. The clock read 9:05. He’d been sitting here for twenty minutes—not to kill time before Junho arrived, but to delay this moment. He needed time. Time to breathe.
“No, I just arrived myself,” Min-jun lied. He’d been here for twenty minutes. But the truth was, he hadn’t been waiting. He’d been trying to postpone what was coming. Trying to hold onto a moment where he could still breathe.
Junho sat across from him without removing his coat. A signal that he wouldn’t stay long. His face was different from yesterday’s phone call—then he’d seemed composed, but now something else flowed beneath the surface. Resolve. He’d come here to execute a decision already made. Min-jun caught the familiar scent of Junho’s cologne.
“Do you remember what I said last night on the phone?” Junho asked. Min-jun searched his memory. “Yes. You said you had something important to tell me.” Junho’s eyes deepened. “That’s right.”
Junho raised his hand and signaled the barista, who approached. Without looking at the menu, Junho ordered: “Americano. Hot.” Min-jun watched Junho’s fingers. They were trembling—barely perceptibly, but trembling. Junho probably didn’t even notice. But Min-jun saw it. Reading small movements was the only talent he possessed as an actor.
“Min-jun.”
Something shattered when Junho called his name. Normally, Junho called him “you”—at the office, in private, always. But now he used his name. Like someone about to confess something. Or announce something grave.
“Someone died.”
The world stopped.
Min-jun looked at Junho’s face. Where were his eyes looking? Out the window? No. Nowhere. They were just floating in empty space.
“Who… who died?” Min-jun’s voice trembled.
“You don’t need to know that.” Junho’s voice remained calm.
Min-jun’s hand moved toward the water glass, but his fingers shook so badly he stopped. The glass was still empty. He stared at his trembling fingers—they looked like the hands of an addict.
“But this… it’s connected to you. More precisely—it’s because of you.”
Min-jun couldn’t comprehend what Junho was saying. What did it mean? His own voice was shaking now. Not someone else’s voice. His own. But had he ever heard himself sound like this? He couldn’t remember.
“Someone sacrificed themselves for you. To be exact… they died.”
The barista brought Junho’s coffee. The aroma tickled Min-jun’s nose—the bitter scent of roasted beans. Under normal circumstances, he would have loved it. Now it twisted his insides. His mind reeled.
Junho picked up the cup but didn’t drink. He just held it. Buying time, perhaps. Min-jun watched Junho’s fingers tremble slightly around the ceramic.
“If this gets out… you’re finished. Your acting career is over, and you could go to prison.”
“What did I do?”
“You haven’t done anything yet. But from now on…”
Junho set down the cup. Coffee spilled slightly, leaving a brown stain on the white saucer. He didn’t look at it.
“Someone died to protect you. And right now, it looks like an accident. But if someone tells the truth… it becomes murder. And the responsibility for that murder…”
Junho paused. He closed his eyes as if gathering courage to speak the next words.
“You need twenty-five billion won.”
“What… what did you say?”
Min-jun couldn’t process what he’d heard. Twenty-five billion? That wasn’t a number that existed in his life. It was something from movies, from dramas. Not from reality.
“Not twenty-five million… but twenty-five billion?”
“That’s right.”
Junho’s voice was detached, as if discussing the weather. As if what he was saying wasn’t real but someone else’s dream.
“With that money, you need to leave Korea. Right now.”
“What… what did I do wrong?”
Min-jun looked at his hands. His fingers trembled worse than Junho’s. Like an addict’s hands.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. You just… existed. That was enough.”
Min-jun couldn’t understand what that meant. Existing was a sin? His mere existence had caused someone’s death?
“I’m going to give you a contract. You’re going to sign it. It states that you will never tell anyone about this. If you do… you’ll be reported to the police for murder.”
“But that’s… a lie.”
“Yes. It’s a lie. But you know how powerful a lie can be. In this industry, lies spread faster than truth.”
Min-jun looked at Junho’s face. Was this really Junho? The warmth he’d always known seemed to have vanished, replaced by something like a mask.
“And where is this twenty-five billion supposed to come from?”
“I’ll arrange it. But it’s a loan. You’ll have to pay it back.”
“I can’t repay it. I’m an actor. I don’t even make three million won a month.”
“I know. That’s why you keep working. Dramas, films, whatever. And you pay me back.”
Min-jun looked at the objects on the table—Junho’s coffee, his own empty glass, the brown stain on the saucer. None of it felt real.
“What if I refuse?”
For the first time, Junho met his eyes. They weren’t cold, weren’t warm. Just empty.
“Then I report you to the police. You go to prison. And in this industry… you’re as good as dead.”
“What did I do?”
Min-jun’s voice nearly broke into tears. But he didn’t cry. He just trembled.
“You didn’t do anything. But you’re going to say you did. And that will protect you.”
Junho stood. He put on his coat. As if this meeting had always been meant to end this way.
“I’ll bring the contract tomorrow morning. You sign it. And you leave Korea within a month. Understood?”
“Yes…”
Min-jun answered, though he wasn’t sure if it was really his answer. It sounded like someone else speaking through his body.
Junho left the café. Watching his retreating figure, Min-jun understood one thing.
His life had ended here.
No—it hadn’t ended. More precisely, it looked like it was ending, but it would continue. Like a collapsing building. From the outside it appears to be falling apart, but inside, someone still lives there.
Min-jun called the barista.
“Another Americano, please.”
“Hot?”
“Yes. Hot.”
He took the cup. Steam rose from it—warm, living steam. It was proof of existence. Hot meant alive. Cold meant dead.
Min-jun drank the coffee. It burned his mouth. But that was proof of reality. Pain was proof of the real world.
A mirror hung on the café wall. The reflection in it looked completely different from three days ago. Even though it was the same face.
His phone rang. The screen lit up with a name: Woo-ri. The message read: “Shooting location changed. I’ll come pick you up.”
Min-jun didn’t answer. He just kept the screen on, staring at the name. As if it were his only connection to another world.
Eventually the call ended. It rang again. This time, the Dustar Entertainment number. CEO Lee Soo-jin.
Min-jun answered.
“Hello?”
“Actor Min. You’re heading to the set today, right?”
“Yes. I’m planning to.”
“Good. But… are you doing okay lately? Something about your face…”
“Yes. I’m fine.”
“Really? It doesn’t look like it to me. But you’re the professional, so you’d know. Do well on set today.”
The call ended.
Min-jun left the café. Not toward Gangnam Station, but in the opposite direction. He didn’t know where he was going. He just walked. Following where his feet took him.
The people on the street still moved toward their goals. But Min-jun understood now. No matter where he went, he would always have to come back. Like all actors do.
And on that stage, he would continue to perform.
Hiding the truth.