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# Chapter 38: Between Acting and Dying
“’I want to die.’”
We had just finished speaking those final words. Every sound in the café seemed to recede into the distance at that moment. The hiss of the espresso machine, someone’s laughter, the background music—all of it faded away. In Minjun’s ears, only our voice remained.
“What did you just say?”
Minjun asked. His voice trembled. He needed to confirm what he was hearing.
We had stopped laughing. The manic expression vanished, replaced by something far more exhausting. The face of someone who had burned through every last ounce of energy. Our entire face seemed to have turned gray.
“I told Sujin, ‘I want to die.’ That I’m dying while doing this musical. That I’m living every night by dying. That the only way for me to survive is to not take this role.”
We covered our face with our hands. Our voice emerged from between the fingers, like an echo from the bottom of a well.
“And you know what Sujin said?”
We lowered our hands. Something shifted in our eyes. A mixture of rage and something shattered.
“’Then die. But only in this industry.’ That’s what she said. And then she hung up.”
Minjun couldn’t move. It was as if his body had turned to stone. He couldn’t tell if what we were saying was real or just another performance.
“Is that really true?”
“It’s true. I’m dead now. In this industry. Tomorrow, articles will come out calling me the actress who rejected the musical. Fans will curse me. My company will abandon me. And I’ll go back to the extra sets. Just like we used to. You know what those sets are like, don’t you?”
Our voice grew quieter and quieter. Like someone drowning in water.
Minjun looked at us. Not at us sitting in this café, but at us in some unknown place. Us on stage. Us consumed by extreme loneliness. Us in that moment when loneliness swallows everything.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because…”
We picked up the phone on the table. Turned on the screen. Opened the memo app again. We looked at that long text one more time.
“Because you’re standing at the same crossroads I am right now. That new role Sujin gave you. It’s the same trap. You might not know it, but I do. I know Sujin’s methods. She gives dreams to actors, and those dreams kill them. Then she resurrects the dead actors. Then kills them again. She repeats it over and over. Because it’s business.”
Minjun couldn’t speak. What we were saying put into words exactly what he was afraid of. Yesterday’s conversation with Sujin. That pulling force he’d felt in that conversation. And at the same time, a pushing force.
“But you can still choose. Before you lose everything like I did. You haven’t been defined yet. It’s only been a few days since the articles. People still don’t know exactly who you are. In that window, you can escape. From Sujin, from this industry, and from acting.”
We slid the phone toward Minjun. The memo app was visible on the screen. Text spanning several pages. He could read the first line.
“How to Quit Acting”
That was the title.
Minjun stared at that title. As if it were showing him his choices. A mirror. Part of him wanted to read it. Part of him wanted to escape. But at the same time, another part of him didn’t want to.
“Read it. And think about it. Do you really want to be an actor? Or do you just want to be seen by someone?”
We spoke. And we smiled. But this time it wasn’t a manic smile. A smile of extreme sadness. Like the smile of someone who has already lost everything.
“And if you do want to be an actor, you need to know. What this path really is. And what you’ll have to give up to survive on it.”
Time passed in the café. Minjun and we sat there, and our phone lay on the table. The screen still displayed “How to Quit Acting.”
Minjun’s fingers trembled. He wanted to touch that screen, but he couldn’t. As if it were Pandora’s box.
Then, Minjun’s phone rang.
A tone. Not a KakaoTalk notification, but a phone call. Someone was calling Minjun.
Minjun took out his phone. He looked at the screen. A name appeared.
“Junho”
Junho’s name was on the screen. But at the same time, another notification appeared. Messages. Several of them.
First message: “Minjun, did you see the news?”
Second message: “Our story came out. About rejecting the musical.”
Third message: “And you got that role, right? Sujin told me.”
Fourth message: “Where are you? Let’s meet. This seems serious.”
And the fifth message: “Don’t make that kind of decision alone. Talk to me first.”
Minjun didn’t answer the call. He put the phone down. He looked at us.
“The article about rejecting the musical came out.”
“Yeah. I expected it.”
“And Junho said I got the role. That Sujin told him. The new role Sujin gave me.”
Our expression changed. Surprise. Or anger.
“Sujin told Junho?”
“Yes.”
“Then Junho already knows. What that role is. And that it’s dangerous.”
Minjun couldn’t speak. He didn’t know exactly what role Sujin had given him. She hadn’t mentioned the details. She’d only said “a new opportunity,” “the next step.”
“What is it? What’s the role?”
Minjun asked us.
We didn’t answer. Instead, we picked up our phone. Opened Naver. We typed something into the news search bar.
Search: “our actress rejects musical”
Search results appeared. Several articles. All about us. And among those articles, there were others.
Article title: “The Star Entertainment CEO Sujin Offers Lead Role in Drama to Rookie Actor Minjun… Massive Controversy”
Minjun’s face went pale. A lead role. Was that the role he’d been offered?
“Lead role?”
Minjun murmured.
We showed the screen to Minjun. The article content appeared.
“The Star Entertainment CEO Sujin has offered a lead role in a drama to rookie actor Minjun, who has worked only as an extra for four years. This has become controversial in the entertainment industry. Some are praising it as an opportunity for discovering new talent, while others are pointing to it as ‘article manipulation’ by Sujin. Particularly, given that the lead role offer came out just days after Minjun’s article was published, some industry insiders are raising the possibility of ‘strategic marketing.’”
Minjun was reading the article. But the letters seemed blurry. As if his own eyes were rejecting that reality.
“The article’s already out. So everyone knows now. And everyone’s watching you. Through that article. Within that article. You can’t put off this choice anymore. You have to choose now. In this moment.”
We spoke. And our hand took Minjun’s hand. On the table. For the first time. Crossing that distance.
“Are you going to take this role? Or reject it? And if you take it, what will you become? An actor? Or the subject of an article? Or Sujin’s tool?”
Minjun felt our hand. It was warm. But at the same time, it was trembling. He could feel that we were afraid too.
“I don’t know what I should do.”
“I don’t know either. I’ve already made my choice. You still can. That’s the difference between us.”
We let go of his hand. And we stood up. To leave the café.
“Wait, wait!”
Minjun called out.
“What?”
“Rejecting that… I think you made the right choice. Better than dying while doing that musical.”
We stopped. At the entrance to the café. And we turned around. There was something broken in our eyes. But at the same time, something alive.
“But I’m dying anyway. Here or there. At least my soul. I hope that doesn’t happen to you. That’s why I told you all of this. Because you can still escape. Before it’s too late. Like it was for me.”
We spoke. And we left the café.
Minjun was left alone. The chair where we had sat was empty. Our coffee cup remained on the table. A cold americano. Dust floated on its surface.
And our phone was left behind too.
Minjun picked up that phone. The screen was still on. The memo app. “How to Quit Acting”
Minjun’s finger touched that title. The screen scrolled. Text appeared.
First paragraph: “Quitting acting is not easy. Because acting isn’t simply a job—it has become your life. You live through acting, you die through acting. And you come alive again through acting. In this repetition, you lose who you are. And that’s the most terrifying part.”
Minjun continued reading. Each paragraph contained our experience. Extreme loneliness on stage. The happiness of receiving applause. And the realization that happiness is a lie. And the desire to keep throwing yourself into that lie. How terrifying it is, how addictive, how destructive.
Minjun wept as he read. Small tears. Lost in the ambient noise of the café, unnoticed by anyone. But extreme sadness. Extreme terror.
In the midst of that weeping, Minjun’s phone rang again.
This time, it wasn’t Junho.
The name on the screen: “Sujin”
CEO Sujin was calling.
Minjun didn’t answer. He put the phone down. And he read Junho’s message again.
“Don’t make that kind of decision alone. Talk to me first.”
Minjun called Junho.
“Junho hyung?”
“Minjun, what are you doing? Come to me right now. My place.”
“Yes, hyung. I’m coming now.”
The call ended.
Minjun picked up the phone that we had left behind. And he placed it on the table. He thought he would wait for us to come back. Or that we would come looking for him.
But he didn’t know if that was real or not. Right now, Minjun couldn’t tell if he was in reality or on someone’s stage, performing.
He left the café. The streets of Seoul. May sunlight. A street where it felt like thousands of eyes were watching him.
Minjun got in a taxi. On his way to Junho’s place. On that ride, Minjun thought.
That text we had left behind. “How to Quit Acting.”
Whether that text was really showing him how to quit acting, or whether it was showing him how to fall deeper into acting’s trap.
And whether the choice he was about to make was really his own choice, or whether he was acting on a stage created by Sujin, Junho, and us.
Those questions repeated in the taxi. Like an echo.
The taxi passed through Gangnam’s streets. Gangnam Station, Sinnonhyeon Station, Gangnam-daero. All familiar streets. But today felt different. Like he was seeing them for the first time.
And another message came to Minjun’s phone.
Sender: “Unknown”
Message: “Minjun. It’s your mom. It’s been a long time. I saw the article. You’re doing well. Let’s meet. At our place. I’ll send the address separately. You can’t refuse. This isn’t a command. It’s a plea.”
Minjun’s fingers trembled. He read the message again. And again.
Mom. His mom’s voice for the first time in 10 years. No, not voice. A text. A message.
Minjun put the phone down. And he looked out the window. Seoul was passing by. Endlessly.
[Next Episode Preview]
Junho’s apartment. When Minjun arrived, Junho was already prepared. On the table, newspapers and magazines were spread out. All articles about Minjun. And Junho’s expression was intensely serious.
“Minjun, do you know what Sujin is after?”
Junho asked.
“No.”
“Then I’ll tell you. Sujin is trying to use you to shake up the power structure of our industry. And you’re at the center of it. You’ve become a tool. And tools are eventually…”
Junho stopped speaking.
“Tools are eventually thrown away.”
That statement hung in the air. Like a verdict.
# How to Quit Acting – Extended Edition
## Chapter 1: Summoned
The moment Minjun saw his brother’s name on the phone screen, his heart sank. Junho. That name alone made his chest tighten.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
His brother’s voice was unexpectedly calm. But beneath that calmness, something else was flowing. Should he call it a threat? Or desperation? Minjun couldn’t distinguish it precisely. His mental state had been that way lately. The boundary between what was real and what was acted, between what was genuine emotion and what was performance—it kept blurring.
“Hyung, I’m at a café in Gangnam, Seoul right now.”
Minjun found himself delivering information automatically. As if he were holding a press conference. With such precision, such detachment.
“Come to me right now. My place.”
It was a command. Not a question. A command. When had his relationship with his brother changed like this? Minjun wondered for a moment. Probably from the moment he was cast in the lead role of the drama. No, more accurately, from the moment he met Director Sujin.
“Yes, hyung. I’m heading there now.”
The words that came from Minjun’s mouth didn’t feel like they were his own. It was as if someone were speaking through his throat. Whether that was acting or a sign that he was already being controlled by something was impossible to know.
The call ended. The screen went black.
Minjun picked up his own phone from the café table. And he put it back down. His fingers were trembling. Why were they trembling? From fear? Or anticipation?
I thought we would wait for him to come back.
Minjun murmured to himself. Someone had said “we.” Who was “we”? Was it Sujin? Or Junho? Or his past self?
Or that we would come looking for him.
Despite how absurd that thought was, Minjun couldn’t shake the feeling that it might be true. All of this felt so strange and yet so familiar. As if he had experienced it several times before.
He left the café.
The May sunlight painted Seoul’s Gangnam district in gold. The midday sun was warm but also harsh. Minjun squinted. Not because of the sunlight, but because it felt like thousands of eyes were watching him.
The area around Gangnam Station was always crowded. Young women carrying shopping bags, businessmen walking quickly, tourists taking pictures. An ordinary Seoul afternoon. But to Minjun, all of it looked like a stage. Each person playing their role on that stage.
Am I one of them? Or am I outside the stage?
He got in a taxi.
The driver was a middle-aged man. He wore a gold necklace around his neck, and the radio was playing news. When Minjun told him Junho’s address, the driver simply nodded. Maybe that driver, too, was experiencing each of his hundreds of daily passengers, absorbing each person’s story with his body. If so, what would Minjun be to that driver? Just one passenger?
The taxi was quiet. The radio’s voice, the engine sound, the noise of the street—he heard them all, but they sounded distant to him. Like sounds coming from underwater.
That text we left behind. “How to Quit Acting.”
Minjun thought about that text again. Who had written it? Had he written it? Or was it someone else’s thoughts implanted in him?
The text was clear. Too clear, which made it suspicious. As if someone had intentionally written it to pull him in a specific direction.
Whether that text was really showing him how to quit acting, or whether it was showing him how to fall deeper into acting’s trap.
His nails dug into his palms. He clenched his fists.
And a deeper question pierced his mind.
Are these thoughts I’m having right now really mine? Or are they thoughts someone planted in my brain?
“You are acting right now. All the thoughts you’re having are already in the script.”
Someone’s voice echoed in his ears. But there was no one there. Only the taxi driver. And he was focused on the radio.
The taxi passed Gangnam-daero. Sinnonhyeon Station, Gangnam Station, Kyobo Bookstore. All familiar streets. Minjun had passed through these streets hundreds of times. Drama shoots, schedules, meetings. Gangnam was now his second home.
But today was different.
Today, Gangnam looked like a foreign city. Like a street he was seeing for the first time. Everything about the street felt like a set, a production. Those buildings could be fake, those people could be extras, that sunlight could be lighting.
“About how far are we?”
Minjun asked.
“We’re in Samseong-dong, Gangnam-gu. We should be there soon.”
The driver’s voice was emotionless. As if he were both part of the street and outside it at the same time.
That’s when it happened.
His phone rang. No, it vibrated. A message had come in. Minjun turned on the screen.
Sender: “Unknown”
When he read the message content, Minjun’s blood froze.
“Minjun. It’s your mom. It’s been a long time.”
Mom.
That word pierced through Minjun’s heart completely.
Ten years. Exactly ten years. It had been ten years since he’d seen his mom. No, not just seen her—no calls, no contact. She had completely disappeared. As if she’d never existed from the start.
Minjun felt his fingers trembling. He read the screen again. As if afraid the text would disappear.
“I saw the article. You’re doing well.”
His mom had seen his drama? How? From where? Since when?
“Let’s meet. At our place. I’ll send the address separately. You can’t refuse. This isn’t a command. It’s a plea.”
A plea, not a command. Yet the words themselves sounded like a command.
Minjun’s hand shook. The phone felt like a hot coal in his palm.
The taxi driver glanced at Minjun through the rearview mirror. He seemed to sense something was wrong.
“Are you alright?”
“Yes… yes, I’m fine.”
Minjun lied. Knowing he was lying.
He put the phone down. He looked out the window.
Seoul was passing by. Endlessly. Like a loop. Like he was driving through the same streets repeatedly.
In that moment, Minjun realized something.
What if his own life was repeating like this too? Constantly repeating the same script.
## Chapter 2: Junho’s House
The taxi stopped in front of Junho’s house.
An upscale residential area in Gangnam-gu. It was a renovated traditional Korean house with a high fence. Junho liked to express his success through architecture. Minjun knew this well.
“Is this the right place?”
The driver asked.
“Yes, this is it.”
Minjun handed over money. His fingers were still trembling, but his face was calm. Whether that was acting or reality, he could no longer distinguish.
He went through the gate.
There was a garden. Small but meticulously designed. Moss covered the stones, and trees were trimmed like bonsai. Everything was perfect. Which made it look all the more artificial.
“Minjun!”
Junho came out.
His brother was wearing a black shirt. His forearms were thick with muscle, and dark stubble covered his face. A man Minjun had once wanted to resemble. Now, a man Minjun feared.
“Hyung.”
Minjun bowed his head.
“You’re late. It’s been an hour and a half since I called.”
“I’m sorry, hyung.”
Junho scanned Minjun up and down. As if someone were appraising his property.
“Come inside.”
The living room was large and bright. Paintings hung on the walls, and newspapers and magazines were arranged on the table. All articles about Minjun.
“Rookie Actor Minjun Confirmed for Lead Role in Drama ‘Runaway’”
“Minjun’s Acting Skills, Rising Evaluation in Industry”
“Minjun, Star of Rising Viewership Amid Casting Controversy”
Junho seemed to have read these articles carefully. Some had his notes. Circles, underlines, question marks.
“Sit.”
Minjun sat on the sofa. It was an expensive Italian leather sofa. His body sank into it.
Junho didn’t sit on the opposite sofa. He stood beside Minjun. Like an interrogator.
“Do you know who Director Sujin is?”
“Yes, she’s a director. She directs dramas.”
“Is that all?”
Junho’s voice lowered.
“Sujin isn’t just a director. She’s the most dangerous person in this industry. Because she’s obsessed with power.”
Junho picked up a newspaper.
“Right now, exactly as this newspaper says, you’ve become the most talked-about person in this industry. Your picture made the front page of the sports section, the broadcasting station raised your appearance fee, and advertising companies are lining up to give you endorsement deals. Do you understand?”
“Yes, hyung.”
“And where do you think all of this started? Who do you think pulled you up to this point?”
Minjun didn’t answer. There was no answer.
“Sujin. She chose you, she promoted you, and she created all of this. And the reason is?”
Junho jabbed at the newspaper with his finger.
“Power. Sujin wants to shake up the power structure of the major production companies and broadcasting stations in this industry. And she’s using you to do it. You’re a tool, Minjun. A disposable tool.”
That statement hung in the air.
Minjun’s heart began beating faster. Junho’s words could be right. No, he’d already been thinking the same thing. Which made it even more terrifying.
“Hyung… are you sure?”
“I’m not sure. This is fact.”
Junho picked up another newspaper.
“Look at this. An article from three months ago. ‘Director Sujin Shows Interest in New Casting.’ And look here. Around the same time, you won an acting award at a small film festival. After that, you caught Sujin’s eye. Exactly three months before this drama casting came out.”
Junho lined up the newspapers in a row.
“Everything is intentional, Minjun. You’re just a target with the right timing. It could have been anyone else. The important thing is that whoever it is becomes a symbol that can shake up the power structure of this industry.”
“Then… what do you want?”
Minjun asked. His voice trembled.
Junho looked down at Minjun. There was something deep in his eyes. Sympathy? Or contempt?
“I’m trying to save you. You’re not too late yet. Before Sujin completely controls you. You can still escape.”
“How?”
“Quit the drama. Right now. And cut ties with Sujin. Then you’ll survive.”
When Minjun heard those words, he felt something strange. Junho’s words seemed logically correct, but at the same time, something felt missing. Like a scene had been deleted from a movie.
“Hyung… but why? Why do you care about me so much?”
The moment he asked that question, Minjun felt that his voice—for the first time—was truly his own.
Junho’s expression changed. As if someone had torn off his mask.
“Why do you think? You’re my brother.”
That answer was too obvious. Like it was already a written line.
“Hyung… I want to trust you. I really do. But…”
Minjun stood up.
“But what? Say it.”
“Hyung, you’re also…”