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# Chapter 247: The Truth Behind the Screen
MinJun faced himself in the mirror of the film set’s waiting room. The person staring back was a stranger. With each touch of the makeup artist’s brush, mechanical motions stimulated his skin. Like paint on canvas, his face began to take on new colors. He closed his eyes, then opened them. The person with eyes closed felt different from the person with eyes open. It was as if two different actors were appearing in the mirror in turns. One was Minun, and the other was someone else entirely. He couldn’t say who that someone was. As the makeup artist’s hands worked across his face, Minun became hyperaware of his heartbeat. It was racing, and his fingers trembled as if beyond his control.
“Please don’t move,” the makeup artist said. Her voice was expressionless. She’d touched the faces of hundreds of actors before. Minun was just one of them. He remained still, instead looking down at his own hands. His fingers continued to shake. They’d been shaking since last night. At the café, at home, and now. As if his hands were rebelling against his own decisions. When the makeup artist applied concealer beneath his eyes, Minun caught her scent—a perfume that pricked his nostrils.
“Your complexion looks pale,” the makeup artist said again. “Did you not sleep well last night?” She studied his face more closely as she asked. Minun didn’t answer. How could he? Should he say he hadn’t slept for three nights straight? Or that he’d had nightmares when he did sleep? Or that when he closed his eyes, he saw the contract’s text? That legal terminology was etched into his brain? Minun kept his thoughts hidden, his awareness fixed on his racing heartbeat as her hands continued their work.
“All the actors are like that,” the makeup artist said in something resembling a laugh. But it wasn’t a laugh. It was confirmation. You’re broken like us, aren’t you? You’re part of this world, aren’t you? That kind of confirmation. Her words touched something in Minun’s chest. He still didn’t know if he was part of this world or not. The makeup artist finished his face. Foundation, concealer, eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara, lipstick. With each step, his face became more someone else’s. As if his original face was being erased. Or hidden. And some other face was being layered on top.
“You need to sign, Minun. Today. Then it’s all over.” The words echoed again, as if someone was whispering directly into his ear. Today. There was a deadline. No more delays. And Minun already knew: Junho would never repeat this threat. Instead, he would apply pressure through silence. And Minun knew that silence was the most terrifying pressure of all.
After the makeup artist finished, Minun looked in the mirror. The person reflected back wasn’t him. Or rather, he was and wasn’t simultaneously. It was like seeing himself from a parallel universe. In that world, what choice would he have made? Would he have signed the contract there? Or refused?
“Go to Studio 3,” the makeup artist said. She was already washing her brushes for the next actor. Minun stood. His legs trembled slightly, like a patient rising after a long bedridden spell. He left the waiting room. The corridor stretched endlessly, like a subway tunnel. Doors lined both sides, each marked with a studio number. 1, 2, 3. Minun stopped in front of 3. Before opening the door, he looked at his hands one more time. Still trembling. But now he understood: these weren’t his hands anymore. They were the character’s hands. And an actor must control the character’s hands. That’s what makes it a performance.
He opened the door. Studio 3 was bright—flooded with lights, as if daylight had been manufactured artificially. The set recreated an apartment living room. A sofa, a coffee table, a window. All fake. All for performance. And Minun had to act on that set like the other actors. He had to create emotions. Emotions he didn’t actually feel.
Director Park Mira noticed him. She was a woman in her early forties, always dressed in black—as if hiding her emotions, or proving she had none.
“Actor Min. You’re here?” Her voice was neutral, devoid of feeling. Minun responded. “Yes, Director.” Park Mira was already looking elsewhere. Minun was beneath her notice. He sat on the sofa on set. It was harder than expected—as if it had no cushioning, just a frame. Or the cushions had deteriorated over years of use. He crossed his legs, hands resting on his knees. Still trembling.
Other actors entered. All strangers. Minun had never worked with them before. They looked at him, but their eyes held nothing. As if looking through a transparent person. Or someone not yet important. Minun was used to it. Four years of this.
“This scene is where the husband reveals his anxiety to his wife for the first time,” Director Park explained. “What emotion do you think the actor should feel here?”
Minun thought. What emotion? Anxiety? That was easy. He felt anxiety now. But it wasn’t the character’s anxiety—it was his own. The character’s anxiety might stem from his wife’s reaction, or doubts about his own abilities, or fear of the future. But Minun’s anxiety encompassed everything. Every single thing.
“I think there should be fear mixed in,” Minun said carefully. “Fear of revealing himself.”
Director Park nodded. “Good. Hold onto that fear. And find courage within it. The conflict between wanting to reveal yourself and not wanting to. That’s the core of this scene.”
Find courage.
The words hooked into Minun’s mind like a fishing line. He had to find courage. The courage to reveal himself. But where could he find it? In his chest? In his mind? Or did he just have to fake it?
The script reading continued. Minun read his lines. The microphone recorded everything. His voice, his tone, his emotion. Or the absence of emotion. He couldn’t tell which he was doing.
The reading ended. The microphone went off. In that moment, Minun became himself again. Or he didn’t. He existed in some liminal space—neither character nor Minun.
“Good,” Director Park said. “Maintain that emotion tomorrow during filming. But deeper. This was surface-level. Tomorrow, expose your soul.”
Expose your soul.
Minun nodded. But he couldn’t find his soul. Had he sold it in the contract? Or had he never had one to begin with?
Back in the waiting room, the makeup artist removed his makeup. He faced the mirror again. This time, the original Minun appeared. Or he couldn’t tell anymore what the original Minun was. The face in the mirror was a stranger. With or without makeup.
His phone rang. Junho.
“How was the set shoot?” His voice was calm. As if nothing had happened.
“It went fine,” Minun answered. He couldn’t tell whose voice was speaking.
“Good. You did well. But there’s one more thing. That contract… did you sign it?” Junho asked. His voice remained calm. But beneath that calm lay pressure sharp as a blade.
Minun didn’t answer.
“Minun. I’m asking. Did you sign?” Junho’s voice dropped lower. Threatening. Or pleading. Minun couldn’t tell which.
“I haven’t… yet,” Minun said quietly.
Silence flowed through the phone line. It was the heaviest silence Minun had ever felt. Like bearing water pressure at the ocean’s depths. Like falling toward the earth’s core.
“Minun,” Junho finally spoke. “What are you waiting for? Do you think you have a choice here?”
“Yes…”
“No. This isn’t a choice. It’s mandatory. You need to understand that. It’s the only way to protect us both. You know who I am. You know what I’m capable of. That’s why you need to sign.”
It was a threat. An explicit threat. But Minun couldn’t refuse. Junho was his only support. His only friend. His only person. And if that person couldn’t protect him, then he’d be completely alone.
“I understand,” Minun said.
“Good. Come to the office tomorrow morning. Bring the original contract. And sign it. Then it’s done.”
The call ended.
Minun stared at his phone. The screen was black. Like his future. Black and empty. Or full of something he couldn’t see. Like an abyss.
He looked in the mirror again. This time, the mirror offered no response. It simply reflected his face. No questions asked, no answers given, no help offered. Just a mirror being itself.
Outside, darkness had already fallen. Past 7 PM. Seoul’s night sky was always bright—too many artificial lights. Stars were barely visible. As if they couldn’t survive in this city. Or had already died.
Minun headed toward the subway. Gangnam Station. The platform was crowded with evening commuters. Everyone moving toward their goals. Or fleeing from them. Minun was alone among them. Like a ghost. Everyone passed through him, but no one saw him.
He boarded the train heading to his semi-basement officetel. That was his home. Though calling it that felt embarrassing. But it was his only refuge. And tomorrow morning, he’d have to leave that refuge and go to the office. With the contract. And he’d have to sell his soul.
Or maybe he already had.
Minun watched the night cityscape through the window. Seoul at night. It was beautiful. Millions of lights illuminating the sky. But what lay beneath that beauty? How many people beneath those lights were signing their own contracts? How many were selling their souls? How many were facing their own mirrors?
The train kept moving. Next station. The one after. Always moving. As if it couldn’t stop. Or shouldn’t. And Minun moved with it. Against his will. Like a part of some massive machine.
When he arrived at the semi-basement officetel, it was past 10 PM. He lay in bed, staring at the mold stains on the ceiling. The same ones he’d seen yesterday. The same ones he’d see today. Would he see them tomorrow? Or would he see a different ceiling? A cleaner one? Or a darker one?
His fingers trembled. Still. It seemed like it would never stop. As if his body knew more than his mind. As if his body was already refusing.
But tomorrow morning, he would get up. And go to the office. And sign the contract. Because there was no other choice. Because Junho said so. Because it was the only way.
And in that moment, Minun realized he’d already fallen into a trap. A deep one. And there was no way out.
The mold stains on the ceiling remained. Like a map. Or a maze. Or just decay. Minun stared at them without sleeping. All night, he stared. As if they were showing him his future. Or repeating his past.
And morning came.