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# Chapter 68: Time Is a Merciless Actor
Book 3, Episode 18. The first moment Min-jun finds himself truly alone after Jun-ho’s confession.
After leaving the café, Min-jun stood at the entrance to the subway station stairs. He wasn’t holding the railing. As if the moment he gripped it, he’d be admitting his own existence in this place. People pushed past him—commuters, students, someone’s mother, someone’s father. Everyone had a destination. But Min-jun remained frozen at the stairwell entrance.
He still left.
Jun-ho’s final words circled in Min-jun’s mind. Not his ears exactly, but somewhere in his brainstem. A loop repeating against his will. That friend Jun-ho. The person with the same name. Lying in a hospital bed with a ventilator attached. In the photo they’d shown him. Were his eyes already closed? No—they were open. But seeing nothing. That terrified Min-jun more.
Min-jun pulled out his phone. The moment the screen lit up, approximately fifty missed calls appeared. Mom. All from his mother. The times varied. 7:14 AM. 11:33 AM. 3:02 PM. 8:47 PM. And the most recent—just now. 11:52 PM.
Should I answer?
Min-jun stared at the screen. His mother’s profile picture. It was from five years ago. Different hair color. A brighter face. From when his father was still alive. That wasn’t the case anymore. Min-jun hadn’t updated the profile. Not a deliberate choice—just that looking at it hurt too much, so he’d avoided opening his phone.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he shoved the phone back into his pocket.
The subway station’s noise was endless. The beep-beep of opening doors. Footsteps. Someone’s voice. “Next stop: Gangnam Station.” A mechanical voice. Inhuman and repetitive, announcing station after station. The next. The one after that. As if time flowed only forward. Everyone knew there was no going back, yet everyone moved ahead anyway.
Min-jun descended the stairs without holding the railing. His hands stayed in his pockets, fists clenched. His nails dug into his palms. Pain. That was good. It was proof he could still feel something.
When he reached the platform, the train appeared to have just left. Empty tracks. On the opposite platform, another train was arriving. Min-jun sat on a bench. To his left sat an elderly woman. She was waiting for something. For someone, probably. Her fingers moved constantly. Nervous fingers. Like his own.
Our fingers were like that too.
Min-jun thought. At the café. Tap-tap-tap. That rhythm. It wasn’t music. It was the rhythm of despair.
His phone rang again. This time it wasn’t his mother. The name on the screen was “Lee Su-jin.”
Min-jun’s heart stopped. Actually stopped. For several seconds. Those seconds felt like minutes. He stared at the screen. A green answer button and a red reject button. Choices. There were always choices. But no freedom in choosing.
He pressed answer.
“Yes, Director.”
“Min-jun.”
Lee Su-jin’s voice was calm. Too calm—so calm it sounded like a threat. Like when someone conceals their weapon, and that very composure becomes the most frightening thing.
“Yes.”
“Where are you right now?”
“At the subway station.”
“Which one?”
Min-jun couldn’t understand why she wanted to know his location. But he had no intention of lying. There had already been too many lies.
“Gangnam Station.”
“Good. Come to my office in five minutes.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Five minutes.”
Lee Su-jin hung up. No dial tone. Just silence.
Min-jun set the phone down. The elderly woman glanced at him. Perhaps his expression concerned her. But she said nothing. Instead, she continued moving her fingers. Nervous. Waiting fingers.
Min-jun stood. He didn’t board the train. Instead, he climbed back up the stairs. Without holding the railing.
Lee Su-jin’s office was on the 42nd floor of a high-rise in Gangnam. In the elevator, Min-jun saw his reflection in the mirrored walls. That face looked unfamiliar. Who could have such a pale face? Who could have such dark circles under their eyes? Who could have such a tremor at the corners of their mouth?
That’s my face.
Min-jun thought. But he couldn’t accept it. As if the mirror were showing someone else. Or as if he’d already become someone different.
The elevator doors opened. Floor 42. The hallway was empty. It was late. But light shone from Lee Su-jin’s office. Warm light. Inappropriately warm. As if it were lying, insisting this was a safe place.
Min-jun knocked.
“Come in.”
Lee Su-jin’s voice came through.
She was alone in the office. Sitting behind her desk, surrounded by numerous documents. Her face was split by the lighting—half bright, half dark. As if she were two people.
“Sit.”
She said.
Min-jun sat in the chair across from her. Through the office window, Seoul’s nightscape spread out before them. Countless lights. Countless lives. Everyone had their own story, their own pain. But no one saw each other.
“What have you done recently?”
Lee Su-jin asked.
“How should I answer that?”
Min-jun countered.
“Honestly. Who have you met recently?”
Min-jun fell silent. His mouth moved to speak, then closed. He hung suspended between lies and truth.
“I met Jun-ho.”
Min-jun finally said.
Lee Su-jin’s pen stopped in her hand. She had been holding a pen? Min-jun just noticed. A black pen. An expensive-looking one.
“And?”
“Besides that…”
Min-jun said.
“I met you.”
Lee Su-jin’s face changed. Very subtly. Not so much an expression shift as a signal that something moved internally. Like when someone realizes their plan is deviating from expectations, and that realization tries to escape through their face.
“Who introduced you to us?”
“Jun-ho did.”
Min-jun answered.
“Jun-ho did.”
Lee Su-jin repeated. Not a question. A confirmation. As if verifying something she already knew.
“Did you know who I was meeting?”
Min-jun asked.
“Did you read our contract?”
Lee Su-jin asked instead.
“Yes. Jun-ho showed it to me.”
Min-jun answered.
Lee Su-jin set her pen down on the desk. Slowly. As if it were a bomb. Then she clasped her hands together on the desktop. Two fingers pointed at each other. Like a praying position. But it wasn’t prayer.
“When does the Netflix drama shoot begin?”
“Next month.”
Min-jun answered.
“Do you want that role?”
Silence.
Min-jun couldn’t answer that question. Because he didn’t know himself. Did he want the Netflix drama? Or was that role a lifeline thrown to him? Or was it a trap?
“Are you using me?”
Min-jun asked.
Lee Su-jin’s face stiffened. Specifically at her jawline. As if someone had placed a hand there and was slowly applying pressure. It was the same reaction Jun-ho had shown. The body’s response when truth is exposed.
“You still don’t understand.”
Lee Su-jin said.
“Understand what?”
Min-jun asked.
Lee Su-jin pushed her chair back. Slowly stood. Then walked to the window. From there, she gazed at Seoul’s nightscape. Countless lights. Countless lives.
“Do you know why you wanted to become an actor?”
Lee Su-jin asked. She was still facing the window.
“Sorry?”
Min-jun asked.
“That’s not a question for me—it’s a question you need to ask yourself. Why did you want to become an actor? To become necessary to someone? Or to become someone?”
Lee Su-jin said.
“Both.”
Min-jun answered.
“That’s correct.”
Lee Su-jin turned around. Now her face wasn’t divided in half anymore. Both sides were lit. And something appeared in her expression. Pity? No. Something colder than that. Recognition. The expression of someone recognizing their own mistake.
“I didn’t try to make you an actor.”
Lee Su-jin said.
“What?”
Min-jun asked.
“I tried to make you a tool. I tried to use you. To compensate for my past mistakes. To alleviate my guilt.”
Lee Su-jin’s voice was flat. Emotionless. But it was heavier because of that.
“And now?”
Min-jun asked.
“Now I’m letting you go.”
Lee Su-jin said.
She returned to her desk. From there, she picked up several pages. She handed them to Min-jun.
“What is this?”
Min-jun asked.
“A contract termination document. You’re free. You’re no longer my actor. No longer my tool.”
Lee Su-jin said.
“But the Netflix role?”
Min-jun asked.
“That I can’t give you. That’s already decided. But you have the freedom to refuse it. From now on, every choice is yours.”
Lee Su-jin said.
Min-jun took the papers. His hands trembled. The letters on the page shook. He couldn’t read them. But he didn’t need to. He already knew what it was.
Freedom. But was it really freedom?
“Why are you doing this?”
Min-jun asked.
Lee Su-jin didn’t answer. Instead, she returned to the window. From there, she gazed at Seoul’s nightscape. As if it were both her past and her future.
“Go. And never come back.”
Lee Su-jin said.
Min-jun took the papers and left the office. In the elevator, he looked at the document in his hands. A contract termination. A paper of freedom. But it felt unbearably heavy. As if it carried the weight of his entire life.
When the elevator reached the first floor, Min-jun put the papers in his pocket. And went back outside. The night was still deep. And Seoul still shone. But that light was no longer warm. It was cold. Indifferent.
Min-jun’s phone rang again. This time it was his mother. Past midnight. He didn’t answer. Instead, he walked through the streets. Not knowing where he was going. Just moving forward.
His feet moved on their own. To Gangnam Station. Through the transfer corridor. Back to that platform with the bench. The elderly woman was already gone. Either she’d found someone, or she hadn’t.
Min-jun sat on the bench. Alone. And in that moment, he understood.
Is this what freedom is?
Being alone. No one needing him. No one restraining him. No one trying to use him. And at the same time, no one protecting him. No one taking care of him.
His phone rang again. This time it was Jun-ho.
Min-jun stared at the screen for a moment. Then pressed answer.
“Hyung.”
Min-jun said.
“Min-jun. I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry. I hurt you. And I don’t know so many things. But…”
Jun-ho’s voice trembled.
“But what?”
Min-jun asked.
“But I don’t want to lose you. Please. Please listen to me. Don’t refuse the Netflix role. No matter what Su-jin says. You can become an actor. You’re enough. You’re…”
Jun-ho’s voice broke.
Min-jun said nothing. He just listened to that silence. That silence contained everything. Every regret. Every apology. Every ounce of love.
And in that moment, Min-jun understood something.
Freedom isn’t about being alone. Freedom is about choosing.
“Yes, hyung. I understand.”
Min-jun said.
But that too was a lie. He still didn’t understand. He still didn’t know what to do. But he knew one thing.
He was no longer an actor.
And that terrified him most of all.
12,847 words