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# Chapter 7: The Mirror’s Question
The final audition was three days away.
Min-joon sat across from Lee Su-jin in Conference Room C. That it wasn’t her office but a meeting room—that itself was a signal. This was where important decisions were made. A place requiring accountability. Min-joon’s fingers drummed against the table edge. A nervous habit. Su-jin was watching.
“Actor Min-joon.”
She always used his last name. Another signal. During casual conversation, she called him “Min-joon-ie,” but in business discussions, it was always “Actor Min-joon.”
“Yes, CEO.”
“The Netflix final audition is three days away. I wanted to hear how your preparations are going.”
Su-jin’s voice was low. Always low. The voice of someone who knows their own voice is the most powerful tool in the world. She’d been a lead actress in dramas once. Now she was an executive, but that actor’s instinct remained.
“I’m preparing hard.”
“’Hard’ is a word that doesn’t help much.”
Su-jin picked up her tablet. Min-joon’s audition tape appeared on screen. The first audition. The one that got him to the final candidate stage.
“I watched this. It’s good. Precise and clean. But it’s not enough.”
“What’s lacking?”
“Emotional depth.”
Su-jin paused the video. Min-joon’s face froze mid-expression—the moment before saying “Who are you?” The expression was technically correct. The face of someone discovering betrayal. But something that should’ve been behind it seemed missing.
“For the past four years, you’ve only lived as an extra and supporting actor. That experience is both your advantage and disadvantage. You understand a role accurately, but you don’t make it your own. Understanding and ownership are different things.”
Min-joon heard every word. And couldn’t deny it. It was the truth.
“In the final audition, you need to show that. Not as an actor, but as a human being’s emotion. Emotion projected from your own life. Without it, you’ll lose this role.”
“I understand.”
“And one more thing.”
Su-jin lowered the tablet. Her eyes looked directly at Min-joon.
“Sung-joon applied for the same drama. Did you know?”
Min-joon’s heart dropped. Like someone had seized his chest. Sung-joon. An actor from the same company. He’d joined a year after Min-joon but became famous much faster.
“No, I didn’t know.”
“The roles are different. Sung-joon applied for ‘Joon-ho,’ the main character’s older brother. And he’s already advanced to round two. You applied for ‘Joon,’ the betraying friend.”
Su-jin continued speaking. But Min-joon heard something else. That Sung-joon was at a higher stage. What did that mean? That Sung-joon was a better actor? Or just luckier?
“My final advice: don’t think about other actors. Think only about yourself. That’s the only thing an actor can do.”
Walking out of the conference room, Min-joon felt almost puppeteered. The hallway stretched long. The Destar Entertainment building was fifteen stories. Min-joon was on the ninth floor. Offices, meeting rooms, practice studios, and a locker room were all here.
When he reached the locker room entrance, Sung-joon was coming out.
He smiled the moment he saw Min-joon. A bright smile. But something was behind that smile.
“Oh? Min-joon! What are you doing here?”
“Just company business.”
“But why do you look so pale? Are you okay?”
Sung-joon’s tone was kind. But his kindness had an edge to it. Min-joon felt it. The competitive spirit hidden behind that kindness.
“I’m fine.”
“Good. I just got back from the Netflix drama audition. Made it to the finals, actually. I heard you applied too. How’s it going?”
Sung-joon didn’t wait for an answer. He just kept talking. His mouth kept moving, as if he couldn’t stop it. Neurotic chatter. That was Sung-joon’s response when he was nervous.
“I applied for ‘Joon-ho,’ the main character’s older brother, and the role is really good. More screen time than the lead, actually. It’s a character who controls the protagonist from behind the scenes. Wait, did you audition too? What role?”
“Friend.”
“Friend? Oh, the betraying friend? Right, yeah. That’s not a bad role either. Supporting, though.”
Every word from Sung-joon needled Min-joon. Everything was a comparison. His role had more screen time than the lead. Min-joon’s was supporting. He’d made it to round two, and Min-joon… didn’t know yet.
“And look, you know this drama has a huge budget, right? It’s a Netflix original Korean drama, and international actors are in it too. You understand how important it is to get cast in a project like that… no need to explain, right?”
“Right.”
Min-joon felt his fingers curl into fists. His nails dug into his palm. It hurt. But he didn’t have time to care.
“Anyway, fighting! It’d be nice if a lot of people from our company got cast. Competition is good, but teamwork matters too!”
Sung-joon patted Min-joon’s shoulder. The touch was warm. But Min-joon felt it as weight. Pressure.
The moment he entered the locker room, Uri stood up. She’d been sitting on a bench, but the second she saw Min-joon’s face, she was on her feet.
“Oppa! What’s wrong with your face?”
“Nothing, I’m fine.”
“Don’t lie. Something happened.”
Uri grabbed Min-joon’s hand. She immediately opened his clenched fist. Nail marks were embedded in his palm. Crescent-shaped marks. There was a little blood.
“What is this!”
“It’s just—”
“Wash your hands. Right now. Let’s go to first aid.”
Uri grabbed his arm. Her grip was stronger than he expected. A musical actor’s stamina. Min-joon didn’t resist. He surrendered himself to her, as if his body and mind had separated.
The first aid room was on the tenth floor. A small space. Medical white lighting, the smell of medicine, a cold stainless steel table. Uri disinfected his hand. Her touch was careful, like handling an injured kitten.
“Tell me what happened. Just say it.”
“I ran into Sung-joon. At the locker room entrance.”
“And?”
“He said he made it to the Netflix audition finals. As the main character’s older brother. Already passed round two.”
Uri’s hands stopped. She was holding his finger, about to apply disinfectant to the crescent mark when she paused.
“And?”
“And he kept talking about how important his role is, how far he’s gotten. Like he was trying to show he’s superior.”
Uri applied disinfectant again. This time, harder.
“Ugh, guys like that. A little success and they tear others down. It’s because of his insecurity.”
“Insecurity?”
“Yeah. Sung-joon knows. He knows he got where he is because of his looks. And he knows looks alone don’t last. So he keeps putting others down. That’s the only way he feels superior.”
Uri wrapped a bandage around his finger. Precisely, carefully. Like she’d had medical training.
“When’s your Netflix audition?”
“Three days. Friday.”
“Okay. Then don’t think about Sung-joon. Think only about yourself. Competition makes you weak. You’re already enough. No, not enough—you’re excellent.”
Her words were professional. Like a acting coach. But there was sincerity behind them. Min-joon felt it.
“But seriously, why is Sung-joon like that? Projecting his insecurity onto others? I hate that most.”
Uri washed her hands. With cold water. Her expression was like cold water had splashed her face.
“And one more thing.”
Uri looked at Min-joon. Her eyes were serious.
“In the Netflix audition, you need to show your own emotion. Not technically perfect acting, but your emotion. You lost your father. You know that feeling. Betrayal, regret, and reconciliation that came too late. You have all of that. Let it out. That’s the only way to beat Sung-joon.”
Min-joon heard those words. And felt his throat tighten. Emotion was rising to the surface. But he held it back. In the locker room, in front of Uri, he couldn’t let his emotions break.
“I understand.”
When those words came out, Uri looked at his face again. Tears were already forming there. He wasn’t crying, but his eyes were full.
“Go. Go home. Rest. Spend these last three days for your soul. Not for acting, but for yourself.”
Min-joon left the locker room. Left the company building. Stepped out into Seoul’s night streets. Around Gangnam Station. Wet pavement reflecting neon signs. He was alone among countless people.
His phone rang. It was Joon-ho.
“Min-joon. How are the audition preparations going?”
“Good, hyung.”
“Are you nervous?”
“Yes.”
Joon-ho was silent. His silence was long. As if it were part of the conversation itself.
“I was nervous too. When I did a lead role, I was extremely nervous. But that nervousness is good. Being nervous means you think it’s important. Take that nervousness. Bring it to the audition room. And throw it there.”
“How?”
“Through acting. What’s the character’s nervousness? What’s ‘Joon’s’ nervousness, the friend who betrays? Mix that with your own nervousness. Then it’s no longer your nervousness—it becomes the character’s soul.”
The call ended. Min-joon entered the underground shopping center at Gangnam Station. He saw a GS25 convenience store. He went in and bought an Americano. A warm Americano. When he held it, the warmth was like holding someone’s hand.
He sat in a plastic chair outside the store. 9 PM. Still many people passing by. Office workers, students, couples on dates. Everyone was going somewhere. So was he. To the final audition three days away.
His phone screen showed Sung-joon’s Instagram story. It wasn’t automatic. Min-joon had clicked on it himself.
On screen, Sung-joon sat in a café. A latte. A wide window behind him. Gangnam’s night view. The caption read: “Cherishing each day for the Netflix audition. Thank you.”
It looked like his success was already confirmed. Like he already had the role.
Min-joon put his phone down. And looked at his finger. The bandage was wrapped there. Uri’s touch remained.
11 PM. Min-joon went home. Officetel, Room 203. Thirteen pyeong. 500,000 won monthly rent. That room was his everything. A bed, a desk, a closet. Nothing more.
There was a mirror. Next to the bed. A small mirror. Min-joon stood in front of it again.
“Who are you?”
The line came out. This time, different. Not technically precise like before. But it was more alive. There was a real, earnest question in that voice.
“Who are you?”
Again. This time, quieter. Like asking himself.
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
When he said those words, tears fell from Min-joon’s eyes. This time, it wasn’t forced. Real tears. Four years of everything accumulated flowed out. Rejection, failure, doubt about himself.
“Two days until the Netflix audition.”
He murmured. To himself in the mirror.
“You’re enough. No, you’re excellent.”
He repeated Uri’s words. But now they sounded like his own words. Words for himself. Words he was giving himself.
1 AM. Min-joon was still standing in front of the mirror. But now he wasn’t crying. Instead, he was accepting something. His weakness. The strength within that weakness.