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# Chapter 51: An Epiphany at 3 a.m.
When Minjun opened his eyes, the mold on the ceiling was still there.
3:14 a.m. His smartphone screen had woken him. Not a ringtone—a vibration. Once, twice, three times. Someone was calling. Minjun reached for his phone. The screen read “Junho.”
“Hello?”
“You up?”
Junho’s voice was clear. Despite the early hour, he hadn’t been sleeping.
“Yeah. Just now.”
Minjun lied. He’d been awake for over an hour—staring at the ceiling mold, replaying the bench conversation, remembering the feeling of her hand holding his.
“Did you reread the contract?”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
“Nine.”
Silence flowed between them, filled with Junho’s breathing—the breathing of someone enduring the same sleepless night.
“Find anything new?”
“There is. Bottom of page three. Small print.”
Minjun’s voice grew quieter as he scrolled through the PDF on his phone.
“‘Upon the contractor’s request to terminate due to personal circumstances, the company may require mental health evaluation and occupational aptitude assessment. Additional termination conditions may be imposed based on the results.’”
“Mental health? Aptitude assessment?”
Junho muttered.
“Yes. Hyung, what is this? Why would this be in a contract?”
“That’s blackmail. Straight-up blackmail.”
Junho’s tone shifted. Anger mixed with something deeper.
“Hyung?”
“If you get diagnosed as mentally unstable, Lee Su-jin can use that to add conditions. She could cut your payment. Or lock you in permanently.”
His words were cold, precise.
“What exactly did she say to you about suicide? How did she use that word?”
Silence stretched between them—almost ten seconds. In that silence, Minjun replayed his conversation with Su-jin.
“If you cannot leave this situation, then it’s the same as suicide.”
Those were her words. The moment her pen stopped on the table. The moment her eyes met his.
“Hyung, she used the word suicide with me.”
“How?”
“‘If you cannot leave, then it’s the same as suicide.’”
Junho didn’t hang up. But he didn’t speak either. Just breathing—the breathing of someone processing what he’d just heard.
“Hyung? You still there?”
“Yeah. I’m here. Thinking.”
“About what?”
“What exactly this woman is trying to do.”
Minjun had no answer. But one thing was certain: Su-jin was setting a trap. And it wasn’t just a contract clause—it was something much deeper.
“Hyung, they asked us about our friend. What happened to him.”
Minjun said suddenly.
“Yeah. And?”
“They didn’t tell me.”
“I know. I saw them keeping quiet.”
“So what do we do?”
“You have to trust them. And wait.”
“Hyung, I don’t want to wait. I want to know.”
For the first time, something active entered Minjun’s voice.
“Minjun.”
Junho’s tone shifted—from commanding to almost pleading.
“What?”
“We can’t solve this alone. We’re not lawyers or journalists. We’re just actors.”
“Then what do we do?”
“First—live. Keep living. Tell Su-jin you’re accepting the contract. But actually, find a way out.”
His voice was low but certain.
“Is there a way out?”
“There is. There has to be. No trap in this world is inescapable. We just haven’t found it yet.”
“Hyung, you can trust me. I won’t give up now.”
Minjun said it, and it was true. Or rather, he wanted it to be true. He was speaking a lie into existence, willing it to become reality—the way an actor becomes their character through performance.
“Good. Thank you.”
“You should sleep too. It’s late.”
“Yeah. One more thing.”
“What?”
“Send me a copy of the contract. I need to read it.”
“Okay.”
Junho hung up. Minjun set his phone down and looked at the ceiling again. 3:24 a.m. Nothing had changed. The mold was still there. Seoul outside was still quiet. No—it wasn’t quiet. He heard construction sounds in the distance, footsteps nearby. Early morning Seoul was never quiet. He’d just stopped listening.
He got up. Pulled on oversized sweatpants and a shirt. Went to the bathroom for cold water. Saw himself in the mirror—pale face, hollow eyes, as if someone else had borrowed his body.
His fingers traced the cold glass. He followed the outline of his own face as if seeing it for the first time. Eyes, nose, mouth. Like a stranger’s face. Like he was looking at someone else entirely.
An actor looks in the mirror. Sees their own face. But who’s there? Themselves? The role? Both? Neither?
He whispered it to his reflection. His voice echoed back doubled, as if he and his stand-in were having a conversation.
Back to the sleeping bag. Phone in hand. 3:28 a.m. He opened KakaoTalk. Their message thread. The last message came after the bench conversation.
“Minjun. You okay?”
That was all. No response from him. What could he say?
Now he typed.
“You awake?”
The response came almost instantly.
“Yeah. Couldn’t sleep. What’s wrong?”
Minjun hesitated. What could he say? That Su-jin was trapping him? They already knew. Junho knew. What else was there?
He typed, then deleted: “What happened to your friend?”
Then typed again: “Tell me when you’re ready. No rush.”
The response took longer this time. Nearly two minutes. During those two minutes, Minjun stared at the ceiling.
“Thank you. Really.”
Their message came through.
Minjun didn’t reply. He turned off his phone and lay back down.
And in that moment, he realized something.
Four years.
Four years at this company. As an extra. Supporting roles. Nameless characters. And now? Still in the same place. Just a more complicated contract.
He’d told Junho he wanted to be an actor. Told them. Told himself.
But did he really?
I only exist when I’m acting. That’s why I became an actor. That’s why I stayed. That’s why I didn’t die.
He’d thought that. Until now. But was it true?
Or was that just another performance?
He got up again. Dressed. Pulled on an oversized hoodie over his shirt. Grabbed his keys. And left.
3:45 a.m. Seoul was still awake.
He went to the company building.
The Star Entertainment was fifteen minutes’ walk from Gangnam Station. Late as it was, the building had lights on. Some of them. Floors 13, 14, and B2. B2 always had lights—the practice studio was down there.
Minjun went down. He took the stairs, not the elevator. He hated elevator sounds. It felt like announcing his existence officially. But stairs were his alone. A secret descent.
The B2 practice studio was empty. Large mirror, ballet barre, an old stereo. He stood in front of the mirror.
Again. A mirror.
He looked at his reflection differently this time. Not as an actor. Just as a man. A person.
Who was that man?
Twenty-seven years old. 174 centimeters. Light brown eyes. Ordinary face. Four years as an actor. Zero lead roles. Countless supporting roles. Countless failures. One suicide attempt.
Was that him?
He spoke to his reflection.
“What do you want to be?”
The mirror didn’t answer.
“An actor? Or someone needed by others?”
Still nothing.
“Do you want to be seen? Or do you want to see?”
The mirror answered with silence. But something was happening in that silence. The face was changing. Eyes growing dimmer. Mouth turning down. Like becoming someone else.
No. Not someone else.
His real face. The one he’d been hiding all along.
And it was crying.
He stepped back from the mirror. His back found the wall. The cold tile seeped through his shirt. That coldness felt good. It was proof he was still alive.
4:03 a.m.
His phone rang. Junho.
“Hyung?”
“Where are you?”
Junho’s voice was tight with fear.
“At the company.”
“The company? Now? At dawn?”
“Yes.”
“What are you doing?”
“Thinking.”
Silence. Then rapid breathing—the breathing of someone running.
“I’m coming. Wait for me. Don’t move. I mean it.”
“Hyung, you don’t have to—”
“Don’t argue. Thirty minutes. I’ll be there.”
Junho hung up.
Minjun lowered his phone and looked at the mirror again. This time he didn’t meet his own eyes. Just observed. Clinically. Objectively.
Tears still traced his cheeks. He didn’t wipe them. They were evidence. Proof that he could still feel. That he was still alive.
He stood there waiting for his brother.
Continuing his conversation with the mirror.
Like rehearsing a scene.
But this time, it wasn’t a performance.
This time it was real.
4:33 a.m.
The elevator door opened. Footsteps—fast, frantic.
Junho appeared.
“Hyung!”
He ran straight to Minjun and pulled him into an embrace. His smaller frame shook as he held his brother.
“You okay? Talk to me. Are you really okay?”
Minjun stroked his brother’s hair. This was what a hyung should do.
“Yeah. I’m okay.”
Still a lie. But maybe not. Because in this moment, held by his brother, Minjun was definitely necessary to someone.
And that was where it started.