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# Chapter 23: Distance from the CEO
CEO Lee Su-jin’s office wasn’t large. Smaller than Min-jun had imagined. The windows were expansive, overlooking the Han River cutting through Seoul. But the desk was small, as was the chair. As if announcing that the CEO rarely used this space.
“Actor Min. Sit.”
Su-jin spoke. Her voice was low and precise. Toneless. Min-jun took the seat across from her. Jun-ho stepped back. He knew he wouldn’t be part of this conversation.
“I watched yesterday’s footage.”
Su-jin opened first. She didn’t meet Min-jun’s eyes directly. Instead, she set down the tablet in her hand. Several screenshots from yesterday’s shoot floated across its surface. Min-jun’s face repeated in various expressions. The face when holding his father’s hand. The face when tears formed. The face when his lips trembled.
Min-jun couldn’t look at his own face. He recalled what they’d said in front of the mirror. ‘Every actor thinks it. The more roles you play, the less you know what your own face is.’ This felt like that moment. He couldn’t distinguish whether the face on the tablet was his or someone else’s.
“The PD reported good reactions.”
Su-jin continued. She still wasn’t looking at Min-jun directly. Instead, she gazed out the window. The Han River glittered in the morning sunlight. That glitter was cold and sharp.
“Thank you.”
Min-jun answered. His voice was small. The air in this office seemed to demand such a voice.
“You’ve been with our company for four years.”
Su-jin suddenly shifted topics.
“Yes.”
“What did you do in those four years?”
The question seemed simple, but it was razor-sharp. Min-jun’s throat tightened. Four years. Where had that time gone? Extra roles. Supporting parts. Rejections. More rejections. And even more rejections. But how could he explain that here, in this office, before this woman?
“I did my best.”
Min-jun said. It was true. But simultaneously, it was a lie. Because he didn’t even know what “best” meant.
Su-jin finally looked at Min-jun directly. Her eyes were black. Very black. As if they absorbed all light. Min-jun felt himself reflected in those eyes. Small, weak, insufficient as an actor.
“You know you have a junior named Sung-jun, right?”
Su-jin asked.
“Yes. Same cohort.”
“Sung-jun is different from you. That kid appeared in three dramas over four years and five commercials. And now he’s an actor earning 280 million won in commercial fees. What about you?”
Su-jin’s voice remained low, but something cold seeped in. It wasn’t criticism. It was something more frightening. It was a statement of fact. An irreversible, clear fact.
Min-jun couldn’t answer. He didn’t know how much his commercial fees were. Most of the time, he hadn’t been paid at all. To build experience. For his portfolio. Or simply to survive.
“But when I watched yesterday’s footage, I thought: why has this kid been so low all this time? Your acting is far superior to Sung-jun’s. The emotional depth is different. So what was the problem?”
Su-jin stood. She walked toward the window. Toward the Han River. Min-jun could only see her back. The spine of her suit. Her broad shoulders. Her firm waist. As if the building itself were her backbone.
“The PD said something. That you revealed something in the studio. While dealing with your relationship to your father, while dealing with your own wounds, you truly broke. And that breaking showed on screen.”
Su-jin continued looking out the window.
“But I see it differently. You didn’t break. You were finally revealed. For four years, you hid yourself. You desperately hid yourself from being seen by anyone. And yesterday, you stopped hiding.”
That statement entered Min-jun’s chest. Similar to what they’d said, but different. They’d spoken of it positively. That breaking was necessary. But Su-jin was simply stating it as fact. You stopped hiding. Whether that was good or bad hadn’t yet been decided.
“What will you do from now on?”
Su-jin suddenly asked, turning toward him. Still looking out the window.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand…”
“If this drama succeeds, you’ll become a new actor. With this role, you finally become ‘an actor people see.’ After that?”
Min-jun tried to speak, but words wouldn’t come. After that? He’d never thought about after that. Surviving the present was already everything. In a situation where tomorrow might not come, planning the future was a luxury.
“You don’t know.”
Su-jin said. It wasn’t reproach. Simply observation.
“When I was an actor, I learned one thing. Success is dangerous. Success changes you. No—it destroys you. You’re no longer yourself. People’s expectations weigh you down. Fans’ love imprisons you. And one word from the media destroys you.”
Su-jin looked at Min-jun. Now there was something different in her eyes. It wasn’t coldness. It was experience. The experience of someone who’d acted for many years. And the wounds that experience left.
“Are you ready?”
“I don’t know.”
Min-jun answered honestly. He didn’t have the strength to lie anymore.
Su-jin laughed. It was brief, but contained multitudes. Sadness and understanding, and a hint of irony.
“Good. At least you’re honest.”
Su-jin returned to her desk. She sat. Now she was positioned higher than Min-jun. Physically and mentally.
“Do you know the broadcast schedule for this drama?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Three weeks. Netflix peak time. Thursday evening at 8 PM. Then every Thursday after that. Eight episodes total. You’re the central role in all eight.”
Min-jun’s fingers began to tremble. Three weeks. Then eight more weeks after that. His face would appear on screens nationwide every single week.
“And I’ve already prepared several things for you. A major magazine photoshoot next month. A radio interview the month after. And after the drama ends, I’m preparing several film auditions. All good projects.”
Su-jin picked up the tablet again. Scrolled. Dozens of files appeared. All with Min-jun’s name.
“But remember this: all of this is only possible if this drama succeeds and you maintain that level of acting in the next shoot. If you don’t perform at yesterday’s level in the next shoot, all these plans will change. Understand?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Min-jun answered. But his voice wasn’t filled with gratitude. It was filled with fear.
Su-jin gestured toward the elevator. The meeting was over.
Jun-ho was waiting in the hallway. When Min-jun emerged, he spoke immediately.
“How was it?”
“Good, I think, but…”
Min-jun answered. Walking toward the elevator.
“But what?”
“I don’t know. It feels like too much is happening.”
Jun-ho pressed the elevator button. Numbers were rising. Descending from floor 12 to 11 to 10 to 9.
“That’s exactly what success is.”
Jun-ho said.
“Success is so…”
Min-jun trailed off.
“So what?”
“Frightening.”
The elevator arrived. The doors opened. It was empty inside. Like an empty box.
3 PM, the locker room at The Star Entertainment. Min-jun stood before the mirror again. Same position as yesterday. But with different emotions.
She was there. Removing her makeup. Applying makeup remover to her face, wiping it away with tissue. That repetitive motion looked like some kind of ritual.
“Do you think we’ll succeed?”
Min-jun asked. Looking at the mirror.
“At what?”
She answered. Not looking at the mirror.
“This drama. Our acting. Everything.”
She looked at the mirror. Now her face was almost bare. Makeup stripped away. It looked both younger and more vulnerable.
“Success and failure aren’t decided by us. They’re decided by people. We just do what we can. Do our best as actors. That’s all.”
She answered.
“But the CEO said success is dangerous.”
Min-jun said.
She laughed. A lonely laugh.
“She was talking about when she was an actor. That era is different now. Now there’s social media, you can communicate directly with fans, deliver your message directly. That’s different from back then.”
“I’m still scared.”
Min-jun said.
“Of course. You’re not the person you were before anymore. That’s scary. Being seen by someone is always scary. But…”
She paused. Looking at Min-jun’s eyes through the mirror.
“But you’re already broken. So there’s nothing left to break.”
When Min-jun heard that, something made him laugh. Her words weren’t logical. But they felt true.
7 PM, Min-jun’s studio apartment. Min-jun lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. There was a small water stain on it. From months ago. He’d requested maintenance, but repairs still hadn’t come.
His phone rang. Jun-ho. Not a call, but a text message.
“Min-jun. Wanna meet at a cafe tomorrow? The four of us.”
Four people. Min-jun, her, Jun-ho. And who? Min-jun thought. The only people close to him at The Star were her and Jun-ho. Could there be someone else?
Min-jun texted back.
“Who?”
Jun-ho’s reply came fast.
“Sung-jun. He’s part of our team now.”
Min-jun’s fingers stopped. Sung-jun? That actor? The one who was doing better than him? The one who subtly looked down on him?
Jun-ho’s next text came through.
“Drama shooting is teamwork. And now you’re part of our team. See you tomorrow.”
Min-jun continued staring at the ceiling. The water stain was still there. It seemed unchanged, but it was probably slowly getting bigger. Everything starts that way. From small cracks. Small changes. And you can’t stop it.
He picked up his phone.
“Got it. See you tomorrow.”
The moment he sent that message, Min-jun felt something approaching. He couldn’t yet know what it was. But it was something his old self had never experienced. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t anticipation either. It was simply change. Inevitable, irreversible change.
Night deepened. Seoul’s night remained bright. Outside the window, there were thousands of lights. Inside each light was someone’s life. Someone’s fear. Someone’s dream. Min-jun had become one of those lights. Now inescapable, visible to someone.
The next morning, Cafe “Studio Blue.” A small cafe near Gangnam Station. A place actors frequented. Quiet, privacy guaranteed, decent coffee.
When Min-jun arrived, Jun-ho was already seated. And so was Sung-jun. Bright brown eyes. Bleached blonde hair. And traces of the gym on his arms from visits whenever he had time.
She was emerging from the restroom. Washing her hands.
“Hey, Min-jun.”
Sung-jun greeted first. His voice was bright. But beneath that brightness, something calculating was hidden. Min-jun could feel it.
“Hello.”
Min-jun answered. Formally.
Sung-jun laughed. It looked friendly.
“What’s with the formal speech? We’re the same cohort. Relax.”
“Oh, sorry. It’s a habit…”
Min-jun said.
“But hey, you did great yesterday, right? The CEO loved it. Seriously, congrats.”
Sung-jun said. And patted Min-jun’s shoulder like a friend. But the pressure of those fingers was anything but friendly. It was a different kind of signal. ‘I know. And I’ve seen you.’
She sat at the table. Jun-ho was drinking coffee. His face was expressionless.
“You know what’s important though? Tomorrow.”
Sung-jun said. Sipping his iced Americano.
“What is?”
Min-jun asked.
“Tomorrow’s our second shoot. The first one, you did really well, but the thing is what comes after. A lot of actors nail the first shoot, but drop off at the second. Because of psychological pressure. Or the CEO’s expectations. Or…”
Sung-jun paused and looked at Min-jun.
“Or what?”
“Or because the first time was luck. Your actual skill shows from the second time on.”
Sung-jun laughed. It was a friendly laugh. But Min-jun knew its true intent.
Jun-ho set down his coffee. That sound was louder than the cafe’s background music.
“Sung-jun, stop. You weren’t even at yesterday’s shoot.”
Jun-ho said. His voice was low but sharp.
“What? I didn’t do anything.”
Sung-jun feigned innocence.
“You know. We all know.”
Jun-ho answered.
She touched Min-jun’s arm. A silent signal. ‘It’s okay. Don’t worry.’
Min-jun looked at Sung-jun. His bleached blonde hair. His bright eyes. And the insecurity in those eyes. Min-jun finally understood. Sung-jun wasn’t threatening him. He was afraid of him.
“I’ll do well at tomorrow’s shoot.”
Min-jun said. Looking Sung-jun straight in the eye.
“Yeah. Fighting.”
Sung-jun finished his iced Americano. And stood.
“I gotta go. Skin care appointment. You guys stay.”
After he left, only Min-jun, she, and Jun-ho remained at the table.
“Does he keep coming at you like that?”
Min-jun asked.
“Yeah. Because he’s scared. You’re rising fast. And he rose on looks alone, but you’re rising on actual skill as an actor.”
Jun-ho answered.
“Is that a good thing?”
Min-jun asked.
She laughed.
“Not good, just inevitable. Wherever there’s competition, this always happens. What matters is that you don’t shake. Tomorrow’s shoot. And the one after. You’re already broken, remember? So there’s nothing left to break.”
She took Min-jun’s hand.
“You can do this.”
The cafe’s background music changed. Some female singer’s ballad. The lyrics weren’t audible, but the melody was sad. As if it were foretelling all the things that would happen next.
Min-jun looked out the window. Gangnam Station entrance. 3:47 PM. Countless people coming and going. Each person walking toward their own goal. Toward their own dream. Or running from their own fear.
‘Tomorrow comes.’
Min-jun thought.
‘And the day after. And the day after that.’
In three weeks, all of this would appear on screen. His face. His voice. Everything about him. And he wouldn’t be able to stop it. Like the water stain, once it appears, it only grows. His life too would now change irreversibly.
She was still holding his hand. Jun-ho was drinking new coffee. It was a peaceful scene. But Min-jun knew. This was temporary too. Soon this peace would shatter too. And there was nothing he could do about it.
Leaving the cafe, Min-jun saw his face reflected in the mirror-like glass door. The face in the mirror. He still couldn’t tell whose it was. But now it didn’t matter. Because soon it would belong to everyone.
11 PM, bedroom of the studio apartment. Min-jun’s phone rang. A news alert.
“Actor Min-jun selected as notable rookie in Netflix’s new drama. ‘Expected to become next representative actor.’”
Min-jun read the news and read it again. His name was there. His face too. And his future.
Somewhere he didn’t know, someone was already talking about him. His stage was already being prepared. And now he had to stand there. On stage. Under the spotlight. Visible to everyone.
Min-jun put down his phone. Looked at the ceiling again. The water stain was still there. Had it grown bigger? Or was it the same size?
It didn’t matter. Because soon there would be bigger stains. And they would eventually cover the entire ceiling.
But Min-jun wasn’t afraid anymore. Because she was right.
‘You’re already broken. So there’s nothing left to break.’
Then he could endure everything that was coming. Success. Failure. Expectation. Despair.
Min-jun closed his eyes. Tomorrow was a shoot. And the day after was another. And in three weeks, everything would be revealed.
‘Spotlight: The Second Act.’
That was his story. After the first act ended, the second was beginning. And Min-jun had decided to become the protagonist of that act.
Eyes closed, Min-jun smiled.
Night deepened.
# Spotlight: The Second Act
## Part One: The World Beyond the Window
Gangnam Station entrance. 3:47 PM.
Min-jun sat by the cafe window, barely moving, staring out. The Americano in his hand had already gone cold. A thin film had formed on its surface. He wasn’t drinking it. Didn’t intend to. He was just holding it. Out of some instinctive need to grasp something.
The world beyond the window moved ceaselessly.
People. Countless people. Flowing like cells of some vast organism. Salarymen in black suits, young women carrying pink shopping bags, teenagers with earbuds, eyes glued to phones, mothers pushing strollers. All walking toward their own directions. With precise, purposeful steps.
‘Each toward their own goals.’
Min-jun thought. His eyes followed a woman. In a black suit. She moved quickly toward the subway entrance. Her face held something urgent. The face of someone running late. Or fleeing from something to be avoided.
‘Toward their own dreams. Or…’
Min-jun set the coffee cup down on the table. His hand trembled slightly. A few weeks ago, there was no such trembling. Then everything had been simple. A simple dream. A simple goal. Just wanting to be an actor.
But now it was different.
Jun-ho, sitting beside him, was drinking fresh coffee. He was peaceful. Really peaceful. No anxiety on his face. As if all the world’s events were unrelated to him. Or like someone who’d already foreseen everything.
“What are you doing? Not drinking your coffee?”
Jun-ho asked. He pretended not to notice Min-jun’s changes. Or maybe he genuinely didn’t notice.
“Just…”
Min-jun couldn’t find an answer. What could he say? That I’m scared? That felt too weak. Or that I regret this? That was too late.
Jun-ho took Min-jun’s hand. On the cafe table. In a public place. It was how they defined their relationship. Careful but firm. Hidden but unashamed.
“Everything comes out in three weeks.”
Jun-ho said. It wasn’t a question. It was a declaration.
“I know.”
Min-jun answered. His voice small.
“And after that?”
“Don’t know.”
“Are you scared?”
Min-jun didn’t answer. Instead, he squeezed Jun-ho’s hand tighter. A warm hand. A living hand. A present hand.
‘Tomorrow comes.’
Min-jun thought. It was an inescapable truth.
‘And the day after. And the day after that. Tomorrow keeps coming.’
Like the film on the coffee growing thicker, time flowed without stopping. And three weeks would pass faster than expected. Fast like a nightmare unfolding. Or like something long awaited finally arriving.
The people outside kept moving. They knew nothing of Min-jun’s anxiety. Nothing of how his life would change. They simply walked toward their goals.
‘Will those people someday know me?’
Min-jun thought that.
‘And would that be good? Or bad?’
To find the answer to that question, Min-jun peered further out the window. But the world beyond the window still wouldn’t answer his question. It simply flowed on, indifferent and endless.
“Thinking a lot?”
Jun-ho asked again.
“Always.”
Min-jun answered.
“Maybe it’s time to stop thinking.”
“Can I?”
“I don’t know. But I think you have to try.”
Jun-ho took another sip of coffee. And looked at Min-jun. His gaze was deep. Like someone seeing into the future.
## Part Two: The Face in the Mirror
Leaving the cafe, Min-jun saw his face reflected in the mirror-like glass door.
Who was there?
He’d seen his face often. In mirrors. Phone cameras. Video clips. But he’d never been certain it was his. Like watching a stranger’s face. Familiar yet unfamiliar. His own yet not himself.
The face reflected in the glass looked pale. Even more so in the afternoon light. Or maybe it just looked that way. Min-jun could no longer see his face clearly. The thought that it would soon appear on millions of screens had distorted his perception.
‘This will be temporary too.’
Min-jun thought. His finger touched the glass door. Cold and hard.
‘This face too. This body too. All of it.’
Gangnam’s street was transitioning to evening. The afternoon sun was being pulled between buildings, replaced by colder gold light. The street’s lights began flickering on one by one. Neon signs, LEDs, fluorescents. All competing to brighten the night.
Min-jun walked along the street. Jun-ho beside him. Close yet distant. Together yet separate. Their relationship had always been like this.
“There won’t be many moments like this ahead.”
Jun-ho said. It was true. Min-jun knew it. Once shooting started, time would no longer be his own. It would belong to the production crew. To fans. To the world.
“Yeah.”
Min-jun answered.
“You okay with that?”
“Don’t know. For now, I just have to pretend I am.”
They said nothing more. Sometimes silence spoke louder than words. In Gangnam’s streets, under the evening sky, among hundreds of strangers, the two lived in their silence.
## Part Three: Night’s Realization
11:13 PM. Studio apartment bed.
Min-jun was looking at the ceiling. His phone was in his hand. The screen was off. But turning it on was just a matter of time. It always was.
11:23 PM. The phone rang.
A news alert. He could tell just from the vibration pattern. Text messages were long vibrations, news alerts short ones. It was a signal his body had already learned.
He turned on the screen. Bright light invaded the dark room. His eyes squinted. But quickly adapted.
“Actor Min-jun selected as notable rookie in Netflix’s new drama. ‘Expected to become next representative actor.’”
He read that sentence. Once. Twice. Three times.
His name was there. “Actor Min-jun.” As if it were already confirmed fact. As if he were already that to someone’s eyes.
He clicked the article.
“This drama is expected to bring a new wind to Korean drama. Particularly, rookie actor Min-jun’s passionate performance is expected to give viewers fresh shock. Industry experts are evaluating him as the ‘next Korean Wave actor.’ His unique interpretation and emotionally deep expressions perfectly brought the character to life… His future actions are noteworthy.”
Min-jun wasn’t reading the article. He was simply staring at the letters. Words had lost their meaning. Just letters now.