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# Chapter 69: Silence in the Office
The office was exactly as Min-jun remembered it. Vast. Floor-to-ceiling windows. The Gangnam skyline sprawling like a painting in the darkness below. 11:57 p.m. He could read the time from the fluorescent lights atop the building. And from Lee Soo-jin’s wristwatch. She was always precise. If she said five minutes, it would be five minutes.
Min-jun lingered in the hallway for ten more seconds before opening the door. Trying to steady his breathing. But it only came faster. His heart drummed against his ribs from the inside. Tap. Tap. Tap. Like our fingers. The rhythm of despair.
He opened the door.
Lee Soo-jin sat behind her desk, eyes fixed on the screen. Reading something. She’d sensed him enter, he was certain, but didn’t turn her gaze. Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. Silence accumulated like dust in the air. Silence that seeped in with every breath.
“Sit.”
She spoke without looking away. Her fingers moved across the trackpad. Click. Click. The sound of selecting or deleting something.
Min-jun sat in one of the two chairs facing her desk. The chair was deliberately low—designed so that anyone seated would have to look up at Lee Soo-jin. The geometry of power. Architecture. Psychology.
Finally, she turned from the screen. Her eyes were black. Extremely black. As if light entering them never reflected, only absorbed. Fifty-two years old. That age wasn’t written on her face. Rather, her power kept it young. Power was a special cosmetic for women.
“Did something happen today?”
It wasn’t really a question. More a declaration. As if she already knew everything and merely wanted confirmation from his lips.
“Nothing special,” Min-jun replied.
The corner of Lee Soo-jin’s mouth lifted slightly. Not a smile. Something else wearing the shape of one. Like someone had turned the shell of laughter inside out.
“Did you receive the Netflix filming schedule?”
“The specific schedule hasn’t—”
“Did the Netflix producer contact you?”
Her questions accelerated, as if she were herding him somewhere. As if she already knew the destination.
“No.”
She stood slowly—deliberately showing the weight of her body. She walked to the window and looked down at Gangnam. Tens of thousands of people lived in those streets. Each with their own dreams. Each with their own despair.
“Do you know what I expect from you?”
She spoke through the glass. Her face reflected in it, layered over the city lights.
“I believe you expect me to act well in the Netflix drama.”
She laughed. A real laugh this time. From her throat. But it didn’t last. Five seconds. Then it stopped.
“You’re truly naive.”
Still facing the window.
“What I expect isn’t your acting. I already know your level. Netflix knows it too. Everyone does. You’re an ordinary actor. Extremely ordinary.”
Silence. Those words embedded themselves in Min-jun’s ears. Ordinary. He’d heard it for four years. In auditions. In rejection messages. In Jun-ho’s silence. But from Lee Soo-jin’s mouth, it sounded different. It was a choice. Not an evaluation, but a selection. As if she’d deliberately chosen an ordinary actor.
“Then why did you cast me?”
Min-jun’s voice trembled. For the first time.
She turned from the window. Her face was clear again now. Under the lights. And there was something in it—something Min-jun couldn’t read. Emotion existed there, but which kind remained unclear. Pity? Disgust? Intrigue? Something else?
“Aren’t you searching for something?”
A statement, not a question.
“For what?”
“Salvation. To matter to someone. To be seen. That’s what drives you. That’s what brought you here. And that’s…”
She walked forward, standing before his chair, looking down.
“…why I need you.”
Min-jun’s breath stopped.
“This Netflix drama isn’t just any drama. Have you read the script?”
“Not yet…”
“Good. Let me tell you. It’s the story of a victim becoming a perpetrator. Very quietly. Very naturally. And nobody notices. You’ll play that victim and perpetrator—with an ordinary face. An ordinary voice. Ordinary acting. So nobody suspects you. Nobody sees you.”
Min-jun stood involuntarily. Not by choice, but as his body rejected the words. As if his nervous system was signaling it couldn’t hear this sitting down.
“I can’t—”
“Can’t what?”
Genuine curiosity in her voice.
“I can’t play such a role.”
But even as he said it, Min-jun knew he was lying. He could. He already had. In the café. In front of Jun-ho. In front of us. He’d packaged himself. Hidden his feelings. Made himself ordinary. That was his ability. That was his curse.
“You can.”
She said it with certainty.
“I know because you already have been. For four years. You’ve hidden yourself. Made yourself ordinary. That’s why nobody’s seen you. That’s your strength. That’s why I want you.”
Min-jun gripped the desk. His hands shook badly.
“What happens if I don’t take the role?”
Almost a whisper.
Lee Soo-jin smiled quietly. A short laugh. One second containing everything. Threat. Pity. Interest. And something deeper. As if she already knew Min-jun’s future and had chosen not to tell him.
“Don’t you understand yet? You have no choice. The Netflix contract is already under your name. The script is already distributed. Filming starts next week. You’re already trapped here. Just like the last four years.”
Min-jun’s world shook. Like an earthquake. But not from outside. From within. From his center.
“Ms. Lee, I—”
“You’ll meet the Netflix producer tomorrow at 10 a.m. A café near Gangnam Station. You’ll receive the script and filming schedule then. You start shooting Monday next week. Understood?”
Not a question anymore.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She returned to her desk and turned the screen back on. As if Min-jun no longer existed.
“And Min-jun.”
She spoke without looking away from the screen.
“Yes?”
“Don’t discuss this script with anyone. Netflix has a confidentiality clause. Breach it and you’ll be sued. An amount you can’t afford. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“And don’t tell your friends. Especially not Jun-ho. That person only confuses you. You need to be alone. Completely alone.”
Her final words pierced Min-jun’s ears. Alone. The word sounded like an incantation. A curse. As if she were magically isolating him. No—it wasn’t magic. It was reality. It was already happening.
Min-jun left the office. He didn’t remember how. Only found himself in the hallway. And behind him, her office door closed silently. As if he’d never been there.
He waited for the elevator. Pressed the button. It glowed red. Maybe someone else had pressed it. Maybe he had. It didn’t matter. Time was passing. The elevator would come. Or it wouldn’t. But it didn’t matter.
His phone rang. Not a vibration. A ringtone. Someone was calling.
He looked at the screen.
Jun-ho
The name appeared.
Min-jun didn’t answer. He stood feeling only the vibration. The phone trembled like his own heart beating in his hand. The call ended. And immediately rang again. The same name. Jun-ho. The same trembling.
This time Min-jun tried to press the button. But his fingers wouldn’t move. As if his nervous system was rejecting his will. His hand lifted the phone but didn’t hit accept. Only stared at the screen.
Jun-ho
Seeing that name, Min-jun thought of a young man in a hospital bed. A ventilator. Medical tape. And those eyes. Eyes already gone.
The call ended.
And rang again immediately.
The elevator arrived. The doors opened. It was empty. Min-jun stepped inside. The doors closed. And he descended. Continuing down. B1. B2. B3. Where Dstar Entertainment’s practice studio was.
His phone kept ringing. He hadn’t switched it to silent. The ringtone echoed in the elevator.
Jun-ho. Jun-ho. Jun-ho.
The name repeated.
Min-jun pressed mute.
Silence returned. But it wasn’t peaceful. Heavier. Like the silence after rejecting something important.
The elevator chimed as it reached B3.
The doors opened slowly. Reluctant to reveal what lay beyond.
The practice studio was empty.
12:17 a.m. No one would be here now. Just mirrors and floors and sprinklers and smell. Humid smell. The smell of sweat. And something deeper. The smell of despair. As if the room had been absorbing someone’s despair for years.
Min-jun stood before the mirror.
His reflection appeared. An ordinary face. Light brown eyes. Black hair. That was him. That’s what Lee Soo-jin wanted. What had made him the choice among four competing actors for the Netflix drama. His ordinariness. His invisibility. His absence.
Standing before the mirror, Min-jun lifted his face. Observed it as if it belonged to someone else.
“Is this… me?”
He murmured.
The mirror didn’t answer.
His phone rang again. A different call this time. He looked at the screen.
Mom
He answered. Standing before the mirror.
“Hello?”
“Min-jun, what are you doing? Why don’t you answer?”
His mother’s voice. Worry in it. But he couldn’t tell if she worried for him or for how his existence affected her life.
“I’m fine, Mom.”
“You always say you’re fine. Are you really? Truly?”
Min-jun looked at himself in the mirror. That ordinary face. That invisible actor. That trapped person.
“Yes, Mom. I’m really fine.”
He lied.
And in the mirror, his face smiled. A perfect smile. Perfectly false. Like he was acting.
END SCENE
# The Ringtone
It rang again.
The sound seemed to pierce directly into his chest. Min-jun felt his finger trembling as he pressed the elevator button. His phone vibrated continuously in his pocket. Jun-ho. Jun-ho. Jun-ho. He could almost hear the name repeating. No—it was actually blaring from the speaker. He realized only now he hadn’t switched it to mute.
“Why am I avoiding this?”
His own voice sounded strange in the empty lobby. Dstar Entertainment’s lobby felt eerie at night. There was 24-hour security, but after midnight, almost no one was around. Min-jun felt abandoned. Left alone by the entire world.
The elevator arrived.
A modern stainless steel door opened slowly. Inside was empty. Mirror-decorated walls reflected his image from multiple angles. He didn’t see one version of himself but many. Which one was real? Which was false?
He entered.
The cold metal floor felt through his shoes. He stood at the button panel and pressed B3. As his finger touched it, he noticed countless fingerprints embedded in the plastic. How many people over how many years had pressed this button? How many, like him, had pressed it with anxiety?
The door closed.
The elevator began moving. Descending slowly. Continuing down. First floor. B1. B2. B3. Where Dstar Entertainment’s practice studio was. That dark, humid space where dreams and despair mingled.
The elevator light flickered. Like sending a signal. Like warning. Turn back. You can still turn back.
His phone kept ringing.
He’d made a conscious decision not to switch it to silent. It wasn’t unconscious. It was an expression of his will not to answer. But even that will was weak. A weak will creating a ringtone. The sound echoed in the metal walls, amplified. Like it was amplifying his guilt.
Jun-ho. Jun-ho. Jun-ho.
The name repeated.
Every time he heard it, something in Min-jun’s chest plummeted. Jun-ho had entered Dstar at the same time as him. Bright personality. Really good at dancing. Could sing well too. Had so much more than Min-jun. So why had he been chosen? Why had he gotten the Netflix drama role?
That must be for a different reason.
The thought retreated to the side of his mind. He didn’t want to think about it now.
His phone screen brightened. Jun-ho’s face displayed. Profile picture. Bright smile. That was the Jun-ho he knew. How long ago was that smile taken? Did it still exist?
Min-jun pressed mute.
His finger bore down hard on the button. Like his hand was betraying him rather than obeying. The screen went dark. The call ended. But it didn’t feel ended. Only postponed. A call he’d have to answer eventually. A voice he’d have to face.
Silence returned.
But it wasn’t peaceful. Heavier. More crushing. Like the silence after rejecting something important. After letting go of someone’s hand. After ignoring someone’s voice.
The elevator chimed—B3 arrival.
A low tone. Barely music. But the clearest signal. You’ve arrived. No turning back. No escape.
The door opened.
Slowly. As if reluctant to reveal what lay beyond.
The practice studio was empty.
12:17 a.m. No one would be here. Other trainees had all gone home by now. Or gone somewhere else. Only mirrors and floors and sprinklers and smell. Humid smell. The smell of a sealed space. The smell of sweat. The smell of sweat from countless people’s dreams. And something deeper. The smell of despair. As if the room had been absorbing someone’s despair for years.
That smell entering Min-jun’s nose was old. Familiar. He’d spent five years here. Five years standing before this mirror every day, breathing in this smell. Learning to dance. Learning to sing. Learning to deceive himself.
“I’m here.”
He muttered to himself. His voice sounded strange in the empty room. Like someone else’s voice.
Min-jun stood before the mirror.
The entire wall was mirror. Infinite reflections of himself repeated within it. The front of him. The side of him. The back of him. Which one was the real him? The one the mirror showed? Or the real one behind the mirror?
He observed his reflected face.
Ordinary. Light brown eyes. Black hair. A face with no distinguishing features. That was him. That’s what Producer Lee Soo-jin wanted. What had made him the choice among four actors competing for the Netflix drama. His ordinariness. His invisibility. His absence.
In that moment, he felt a difference between the him in the mirror and the real him. Mirrors can lie. Good lighting makes anyone beautiful. Mirrors can make the nonexistent exist.
Standing before the mirror, he lifted his face.
Raised his chin. Observed it as if it belonged to someone else. Shifted angles. Examined from different views. The left profile. Full face. Right profile. Which angle looked best on camera? Which expression did networks prefer?
“Is this… really me?”
He murmured. His voice trembled. Not once, but repeatedly, he asked himself. Is this really me? The mirror didn’t answer. Mirrors never do. They only reflect.
His hand touched the mirror.
Cold glass. Smooth yet sharp. The mirror reflects you but also blocks you. Makes you untouchable.
“What should I tell Jun-ho…”
The thought leaked from his lips. Uncontrollable. He tried to close his mouth, but too late. It already hung in the air. Echoed through the entire studio. Bounced off the ceiling and back.
“What should I tell Jun-ho…”
His own voice seemed to accuse him.
His phone rang again.
His finger left the mirror. He pulled out his phone. Looked at the screen.
Mom
His mother calling.
12:20 a.m. Why would she call at this hour? Was it about his father? Because he hadn’t called back? Or had his mother’s maternal instinct sensed something was wrong?
This time Min-jun answered.
Standing before the mirror. With his reflection watching. With his reflection judging.
“Hello?”
He forced strength into his voice. A calm voice. An empty voice. An acted voice.
“Min-jun, what are you doing? Why don’t you answer?”
His mother’s voice. Worry in it. But what kind of worry wasn’t clear. Concern for whether her son was okay? Or concern about whether her son was causing her problems? His mother’s voice always carried this duality. Love mixed with burden.
“I’m fine, Mom.”
Min-jun spoke. It was his reflection speaking.
“You always say you’re fine. Are you really? Truly?”
His mother asked. Her voice carried a weariness. She probably knew. That her son lied. That he always said he was fine.
“Yes, Mom. I’m really fine.”
Min-jun looked at his reflection.
That ordinary face. That invisible actor. That trapped person. That liar.
Over the phone, his mother sighed. Years of exhaustion were in that sigh. The exhaustion of not understanding her son. The exhaustion of not being able to talk to him. The exhaustion of knowing her son was drifting away and being powerless to stop it.
“Okay. Sleep well. Fighting tomorrow.”
His mother said.
“Thank you.”
Min-jun replied. The gratitude was false. He wasn’t grateful. He wanted his mother to understand him better. He wanted her to point out his lies. He wanted her to forcibly stop him.
But he said nothing.
He hung up.
He stood before the mirror again. In it, his face smiled. A perfect smile. Perfectly false. Like he was acting. No—he was acting. Right now.
His phone rang again.
Jun-ho. Again.
What should Min-jun do this time? Ignore him again? Ignore him forever? How long would Jun-ho call? When would Jun-ho give up?
What if he doesn’t give up.
The thought arose. If Jun-ho didn’t give up, Min-jun would have to keep doing this. Standing before the mirror, watching his false smile, ignoring calls.
His reflection seemed to tell him to press mute.
Right. That would be easier. To keep ignoring. Keep acting. Keep lying.
Min-jun pressed mute.
Again.
And again.
In the mirror, the perfect smile remained.
END