이 포스팅은 쿠팡 파트너스 활동의 일환으로, 이에 따른 일정액의 수수료를 제공받습니다.
# Chapter 6: What Was Practiced Through the Night
When the final audition was five days away, Minjun was living in the basement practice room of Thestar Entertainment. The company hadn’t officially given permission, but he’d long known that no one checked the basement after eleven at night. It was a graveyard for rookie actors and, simultaneously, their fortress.
The basement lighting was fluorescent. Old, flickering fluorescent tubes. They made Minjun’s face pale, ghostlike. Standing before the mirror, he didn’t see himself. Instead, he saw ‘Jun’—the man who betrayed. The man who regretted. The man left alone.
“Who are you?”
He had no idea how many times he’d repeated that line. A hundred? A thousand? As time passed, the meaning drained away, leaving only sound. Meaningless sound. Like a parrot repeating words.
Minjun stepped back. The space before the mirror widened. The next scene in the script showed ‘Jun’ pacing the room—his betrayal exposed to his friend Hajun, now desperate and lost about what to do. Minjun walked. Two steps forward. Two steps back. One step to the side.
His fingers trembled. The fingers holding the script.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Those lines weren’t in the script. Minjun had added them himself. Actors do that sometimes—adding something beyond the given text. It’s called ‘subtext.’ What goes unsaid matters as much as what’s spoken.
“I’m sorry.”
Again. This time, in a smaller voice. As if speaking only to himself.
The clock read 1:47 AM.
Minjun stepped away from the mirror and sat on a bench—an old wooden one provided by the company. How many actors had cried on this bench? How many had abandoned their dreams here?
His phone rang. At 1:47 AM.
A name appeared on the screen. Theirs.
Minjun didn’t answer. Instead, he stared at the screen. Why were they calling at this hour? Had something gone wrong? Or were they simply checking on him?
The call ended. A moment later, a text came through.
Oppa, are you awake? Let’s meet at 10 AM tomorrow. The locker room. I want to help with something.
Minjun read the message. Then read it again. He kept rereading the sentence about wanting to help. Help. What did that mean? Would they watch his acting? Or was it something deeper?
He typed back.
Yes. Thank you.
A cold, formal response. Like an actor’s greeting.
Ten in the morning. The locker room was quiet.
They were already there. She sat on the floor, on a black yoga mat placed over the cold tile. Beside her was a laptop. On the screen: a video. Minjun’s self-tape from the audition day.
“Didn’t you sleep last night?”
They asked. Dark circles shadowed her eyes—deep ones that makeup couldn’t hide.
“I didn’t either.”
They laughed, a slightly unhinged sound.
“Why?”
“I watched your video. The one Netflix sent. From the audition day. Junho hyung asked me to give it to you.”
As Minjun heard this, he felt his breathing shallow. They’d watched his video. What did that mean? That they’d confirmed how amateur he was?
“You watched it?”
“Yeah. I’m crazy. Seriously. What did you do?”
They stood, moving quickly, like dancing. Musical actors express emotion through movement.
“When you said ‘Who are you?’ you weren’t Minjun anymore—you became that man. Exactly. Completely. Like you’d always been him.”
They stood before Minjun, eyes full of sincerity. Anxiety flickered there too, but beneath it lay genuine admiration.
“I watched that video six times. Six times. It felt different each time. The first time, I was anxious. The second, I was moved. The third… I was scared.”
“Scared?”
“Your eyes. They’re saying something, but not in words. Like your soul is speaking.”
Hearing this, Minjun turned away without meaning to. Such direct praise felt strange. Like he was a fraud. Like someone had misunderstood him.
“We’re going to help you.”
They opened the laptop. The full Netflix script appeared on screen—every episode from beginning to end.
“Do you know how important the ‘Jun’ role is?”
They asked.
“No.”
“Early on, he’s the protagonist’s friend. Midway through, he’s the betrayer. And toward the end… he becomes the protagonist’s ghost. Present yet absent, absent yet present. Do you understand how complex that character is? How deep?”
Minjun understood. But he didn’t say so.
“What do you think they’ll look for at the final audition?”
They asked again, scrolling to a specific scene.
“This one. Late in the story. Jun trying to see the protagonist again. What will you express here? Love? Apology? Despair? Or something mixing all of it?”
The locker room fell silent. Only the laptop’s cooling fan hummed.
“Wouldn’t that be… unknowable?”
Minjun spoke slowly.
“Exactly. That’s the point. Jun doesn’t know if his actions are right or wrong. That’s what makes it real.”
They returned to the mirror—the basement mirror that looked like a stage boundary.
“Do this scene. Jun appearing before Hajun. After five years. Start from that moment.”
Minjun moved without preparation. That was unusual. Normally he needed a few seconds to become ‘Jun.’ But this time was different. Looking at them, he seemed to become that person automatically.
His pace slowed, as if walking through water. Something appeared on his face. Fear. Or something beyond it.
“You…”
One word. Not in the script. Not in the scene they’d created. But a man named Jun would have started this way. Incompletely. Halfway.
“Do you still… me…”
The sentence didn’t finish. Couldn’t finish. Because Jun didn’t know the answer.
They watched. And didn’t move. Just watched. The way one actor watches another. With eyes of recognition.
“Good. Stop.”
They raised their hand.
“What is it?”
“What’s what?”
“That look in your eyes. That movement. That incompleteness. That’s real. Never lose it. Not even at the final audition.”
Minjun looked at them and thought something strange: of all the people he’d met, this person was the first to truly understand his acting.
“We’re going to help you.”
They said it again.
“How?”
“We’ll meet every day until the audition and run these scenes. All of Netflix’s script. Especially the later parts. You’ll become ‘Jun,’ and I’ll become Hajun. So you experience the real thing—not alone, but facing someone.”
When they said this, Minjun felt his heart move. More precisely, he felt it beating normally for the first time.
“Thank you.”
That was all.
From the next day, the locker room became a small stage.
Every morning at ten, they arrived. They always brought coffee—warm, at a temperature Minjun could drink.
“Today’s this scene. Midway through. The moment you first betray Hajun.”
They unfolded the script, pointing to a specific section.
Minjun read it. This was the hardest scene. Because here, ‘Jun’ hadn’t yet regretted. He justifies his betrayal, believing he must abandon Hajun to survive. And he believes it’s right.
“What should you feel in this scene?”
They asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Exactly. That’s correct. Jun doesn’t know if his actions are right or wrong. That’s why it feels most real.”
They stood before the mirror. They became Hajun, and Minjun became Jun.
“Hajun, I need to tell you something.”
They spoke in Hajun’s voice. A woman’s voice meeting a man about to betray his friend.
Minjun stepped back. His face hardened, like someone aware they were about to do something wrong.
“What?”
One word came out. And in that word was everything. Lies. Fear. And decision.
When four days remained until the actual audition, Minjun stood before the basement mirror again. Alone.
But this time, the person in the mirror wasn’t unfamiliar. He was no longer ‘Minjun,’ and he wasn’t ‘Jun’ either. He was both and neither. The essence of being an actor—becoming someone else while remaining yourself.
The clock read 3 AM.
Minjun looked away from the mirror and opened KakaoTalk, sending them a message.
Thank you. Really.
Their reply came in three seconds.
We’re thankful too. Watching you, I’m learning again.
Minjun read it, set down his phone, and picked up the script. One final read. The last before the final audition.
“Who are you?”
Again. But this time was different from the first. This time, he had an answer to that question.
It wasn’t an answer in the script. But it existed in the actor’s depths. That was subtext. That was truth.
The locker room door opened. Junho.
“What are you doing at this hour?”
Junho asked. His voice mixed surprise with something else.
“Preparing for the audition.”
Minjun replied.
Junho looked at him for a long moment. Then slowly smiled. It wasn’t a congratulatory smile. It was the smile of someone remembering when they’d prepared like this.
“You’ll do great. Really. I’m grateful to have a junior like you.”
Junho said, and left the locker room.
Minjun looked at the mirror again. And realized something: he was no longer alone. That was the most important realization about acting.
Someone unseen was watching him. That was the essence of being an actor.
The morning of the final audition, Minjun lingered at his closet for the first time.
Which clothes to wear. It wasn’t a simple choice. It was an expression of who he wanted to be.
He chose a black shirt. Simple, clean, and slightly sorrowful. The color suited a man named Jun.
Messages appeared on his phone.
Oppa. Fighting. You’re Jun. Remember.
And Junho’s message too.
Come back. We’ll be waiting.
Minjun read them and breathed slowly.
He knew now. What he was going for. Not just to get a role, but to express himself. And that would change everything.
On the way to the subway station, Minjun looked at his fingers.
They were no longer trembling.