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# Chapter 77: The Weight on Fingertips
At the traffic light, Junho collapsed. His forehead rested against the steering wheel, and he couldn’t speak. Minjun couldn’t decipher what the silence meant. Anger? Despair? Or disappointment in him?
“Hyung…”
Minjun reached out again. This time, he didn’t stop himself. He placed his hand on Junho’s back. Through the fabric, he felt the spine—rigid yet trembling.
Junho lifted his head. The green light of the traffic signal illuminated his face. His eyes were looking somewhere else. Somewhere that wasn’t Minjun. Perhaps at himself.
“What did I do?”
Junho asked again. His voice was no longer angry. It was a genuine question. A question he asked himself. Not seeking someone’s answer, but one that tore a hole in his own soul.
“You didn’t do anything wrong, hyung.”
Minjun said.
“Don’t lie. You let go of my hand on set. My hand. What was that? What did you realize?”
Junho got out of the car suddenly. The light was still green, and cars behind them honked, but he didn’t care. Minjun followed him out.
They stood on a roadside near Gangnam Station. 4:22 PM. The Gangnam afternoon was always busy. The cries of taxis, the footsteps of people, the songs of birds above buildings. But all those sounds felt like background music to a film—insignificant.
“Do you know what I am?”
Junho asked.
“What are you, hyung?”
“I asked what, not who.”
Junho raised his hand. An ordinary hand. The skin was healthy. The nails were clean. But his fingers were trembling as if he couldn’t control them.
“Do you know what I am? I’m an actor. What does an actor do? An actor lies. They hide their own emotions, mimic others’ emotions, become someone they’re not. That’s what an actor is.”
Minjun said nothing.
“But you already knew that. For four years. You saw it. And you continued. Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s a lie.”
Junho took a step back. He stood at the boundary between the road and the sidewalk, as if existing in neither state.
“You know. You know exactly why you keep going. Why you do this. But you can’t say it. Because the moment those words come out, you can’t lie anymore. It becomes truth. And truth is the most dangerous thing an actor can do.”
Minjun looked at Junho’s face. A 34-year-old actor. Eight years of experience. An actor dreaming of leading roles. But now his face looked like someone else entirely. As if he were performing something.
“Hyung, on set when you let go—”
“Didn’t I tell you not to ask?”
Junho raised his hand. A signal to stop. Like a director’s gesture to an actor.
“I’ve been thinking about what I can do for you. What do you think I can do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Exactly. You can’t know. No one can. Not even I might know. What I can do, what I should do, what I shouldn’t do. Everything is gray. Not black, not white. Gray.”
Junho returned to the car. Minjun followed. They didn’t speak. The light turned blue, and the car moved. But not quickly this time. As if they didn’t know where they were going. Or didn’t want to go anywhere.
The car turned into a small café alley near Gangnam Station. Seoul’s cafés are everywhere. Like a religion. On every street corner, in every basement. This place was no different. Five cafés in one alley. All similar exteriors. White walls, large windows, menus in black lettering. Places that stood out to no one.
Junho entered one of them. The café furthest back. Its name: “Café Muin”—無人. Empty. Unmanned.
But inside, there were people. A woman in her thirties sat at the counter. The moment she saw Junho, her eyes widened. Recognition. But she said nothing. She simply raised her hand in greeting. Not an actor’s greeting, but a simple human one.
Junho sat at a corner table. A seat facing the window. Minjun sat across from him.
“Are you meeting someone here?”
Minjun asked.
“No. It’s just quiet.”
Junho answered.
The woman came and placed two coffees. Junho hadn’t even ordered. She already knew his habit. Two Americanos. No sugar. No milk.
Minjun picked up the cup. It was warm. Too warm. Like it would burn. But that was the right temperature. To regain sensation, small pain was necessary.
Junho didn’t drink his coffee. He just held the cup and looked at the black liquid inside. As if it were a mirror.
“Why do you act?”
Junho asked. Suddenly.
“You already asked that.”
“Ask again. This time, for real.”
Minjun thought about it. Why he acted. How he’d endured four years as an extra, attempted suicide, survived, and continued until this moment.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s a lie.”
“It’s not. I really don’t know. At first, I did. There was something at first. I don’t know what it was, but it was there. But after four years, it disappeared. Or I lost it.”
Minjun’s voice trembled for the first time.
“And now?”
Junho asked.
“Now… I don’t know. When you let go of my hand on set, I didn’t know what you were trying to do. I didn’t know what you wanted. And in that moment, I thought I didn’t know what to do. You were holding my hand, but I didn’t know what you wanted. I wanted to ask what you wanted. But it felt like I shouldn’t ask. Like everything would shatter if I did.”
Junho drank his coffee for the first time. One sip. That was all.
“What do you think I want?”
Junho asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You’re saving me. That’s what I want. You won’t know it, but it’s true.”
Minjun looked at Junho’s face. There was a deep wound there. As if someone had stabbed his chest with a knife long ago, and it still hurt.
“How can I save you? I can’t do anything.”
“That’s right. You can’t do anything. That’s correct. Don’t do anything. Just be here. In front of me. Let me see your face, hear your voice, watch you breathe. That’s enough.”
Junho reached his hand across the table. Trying to hold Minjun’s hand again. But he stopped. His fingers wavered in the air. As if he didn’t know what he was doing.
“Hyung…”
Minjun raised his hand. It met Junho’s.
At that moment, the café door opened.
We came in.
The person wore a gray hoodie. Minjun recognized it immediately. That same clothes. The ones he’d seen at the convenience store at 12:38 AM. We saw Junho and Minjun. At the table. Holding hands.
Our expression changed. Surprise? A question? Or confirmation?
“So this is how it happens.”
We said. Our voice was low. As if speaking to ourselves.
Junho released Minjun’s hand. Quickly. As if it were hot coal.
“Uri.”
Junho stood up.
“What are you doing here?”
We sat at the table. Uninvited. As if certain we belonged here.
“Is this the first time you two meet like this?”
We asked.
“What kind of question is that?”
Junho said.
“Just curious. What’s the relationship between these two people? Exactly.”
We looked at Minjun. No—we observed him. Like a scientist trying to identify what kind of creature he was.
“Uri, what’s going on?”
Minjun asked.
“There is something. Very much so. And I think this conversation needs all four of us.”
We picked up our phone. Making a gesture to call someone. But no one answered. The dial tone just kept ringing.
“No answer.”
We muttered.
“Who are you calling?”
Junho asked.
“Sungjun. I need to find that bastard. Because…”
We stopped mid-sentence. We looked out the window. The Gangnam Station alley in the afternoon. People moved quickly. Everyone was going somewhere. Everyone was running toward something.
“Because?”
Minjun asked.
“Because he’s trying to kill you.”
We finally said it. In the most natural tone. As if discussing the weather.
Minjun held his breath. His fingers gripped the table. White knuckles protruded.
“What?”
Junho stood up.
“Exactly what you heard. Sungjun is trying to kill Minjun. Or more precisely, Sungjun is trying to make Minjun die. That’s a more accurate description.”
We picked up the phone again. This time, we opened the camera. Photos appeared. Several images. Sungjun. His face photographed from various angles. But it wasn’t the Sungjun he knew. It was Sungjun in anger. Destructive Sungjun.
“What is this?”
Minjun asked.
“Evidence. Very clear evidence. And now you’ve seen it. So now you have to make a mistake. You have to make a decision. Are you going to report Sungjun, or keep silent?”
Our eyes met Minjun’s. There was something desperate in them. As if staking everything on this.
Junho looked at us. Then at Minjun. Then back at us.
“There’s something missing, isn’t there?”
Junho said.
“What?”
We asked.
“You asked what kind of relationship we have. And you saw what we were doing. Holding hands. But then you immediately talked about Sungjun. There’s something in between, isn’t there? You already knew what we were doing, didn’t you? Or…”
Junho took a step closer.
“Or did you come to convince us? To report Sungjun? To use us?”
We stood up.
“It’s not that.”
We said.
“Then what is it?”
“I wanted to see if you two could really understand this situation. What is that? What you two were doing, holding hands. Whether it was love, dependency, or just fear. I wanted to know.”
Our voice trembled.
“And?”
Minjun asked.
“And I don’t know. I don’t know if you know.”
We looked out the window again. 4:47 PM. The sun was gradually tilting. Evening was coming. This city’s evenings always come quickly.
“What’s Sungjun’s plan?”
Junho asked. As if nothing else mattered anymore.
We held out the phone. A video appeared. Sungjun. On a phone call with someone. No sound, but his lip movements were readable.
“He’s going to give you drugs. Something to cloud your mind. Then he’s going to take you somewhere high. A building rooftop. Or a bridge. And push you. Making it look like an accident.”
We said. As if we’d practiced this speech many times.
“Why?”
Minjun asked. His voice sounded like a prayer.
“Because you took his place. Netflix. That drama. The role Sungjun wanted. And you shined in that role. Sungjun can’t bear it. So you have to die. That’s the only solution. In his mind.”
We looked at Minjun one last time.
“And now you know. Now you have to choose. Are you going to run, or are you going to face it?”
The café lights flickered. Once. Like a traffic light.
Minjun looked at his hand. The hand Junho had held. It was still warm. But now its weight felt different. As if the entire world was resting on those fingers.
4:52 PM. In a Gangnam café, a young man was facing his own death.
And he still didn’t know how to respond.
# The Touch of Death
The air in the café suddenly felt suffocating.
When Junho stepped closer, Minjun couldn’t see his face properly. The sunlight streaming through the window made only Junho’s outline clear, his face buried in backlight. As if he were a shadow rather than a real person. Minjun’s heart began to beat irregularly. A small hammer knocking against his ribs from inside his chest.
“You asked what kind of relationship we have.”
Junho’s voice was low. The quiet voice before a fight begins. The most dangerous kind of silence hid between those words.
“And you saw what we were doing. Holding hands.”
Each time Junho spoke, Minjun’s fingers stiffened. They had just been holding hands. Warm hands. Fragile hands. Hands unwilling to let go. Now those hands felt like evidence. Dangerous proof of their relationship.
“But then you immediately talked about Sungjun. There’s something in between, isn’t there? You already knew what we were doing?”
Minjun looked down at his hand. His fingers were trembling. As if he’d woken on a cold winter morning. But the café’s thermometer read 22 degrees. The trembling wasn’t from cold.
We—that being—stood up.
When Minjun saw us clearly for the first time, it was a shock. We sat near the window. Sunlight wrapped our head like a halo. Our face was mysterious. Like an angel. Or rather, like a devil. Isn’t it said that devils usually appear with an angel’s face?
“Or did you come to convince us? To report Sungjun? To use us?”
Anger began to mix into Junho’s voice. His voice thinned. His tone sharpened. For the first time in six months, Minjun felt fear toward Junho.
“It’s not that.”
Our voice was calm. Surprisingly calm. As if we’d anticipated this entire situation. As if this were part of a plan.
“Then what?”
Minjun asked. His voice was trembling. Because Junho had stepped even closer. Junho now stood between us and Minjun. Like Minjun’s protector. Or like Minjun’s chains.
“I wanted to see if you two could really understand this situation. What is that? You two holding hands. Whether it’s love, dependency, or just fear. I wanted to know that.”
Our voice trembled for the first time. Minjun couldn’t understand what that trembling meant. Guilt? Empathy? Or another kind of lie?
“And?”
Minjun asked. His voice was almost a whisper now.
“And I don’t know. I don’t know if you even know.”
We looked out the window again. Minjun followed our gaze.
The afternoon sunlight was tilting westward. The sky above Gangnam Station was slowly changing from blue to orange. With each shift in the sky’s color, the world felt different. Same sky. Same city. Same café. But everything looked foreign. As if he’d crossed into another dimension.
“This city’s evenings always come quickly.”
We muttered.
Minjun looked at the wall clock in the café. 4:47 PM. The hour and minute hands pointed in different directions. Like them. Like everything was splitting apart.
The people in the café still went about their business. The sound of keyboards. Coffee cups being set down. Small laughter. All these mundane sounds now felt like alien voices to Minjun. They seemed to live in a different world. One where there was no death, no betrayal, no lies.
“What’s Sungjun’s plan?”
Junho asked. As if nothing else mattered anymore. His voice became practical. Cold and dry, stripped of emotion.
We held out the phone. The screen brightened. White light pierced Minjun’s eyes. He blinked. Once. Twice. Three times.
And on the screen was Sungjun.
Minjun knew Sungjun. Same film department student. Same age. Same dreams. They’d met at a school festival. Sungjun was an energetic actor on stage. But when Minjun was cast as the lead in a Netflix drama, Sungjun’s energy disappeared. Minjun later learned it was the role Sungjun had wanted.
Sungjun on the screen was on a phone call with someone. No audio, but his lip movements were readable. The movement of his lips. The position of his tongue. A face filled with anger. It looked like a moment of decision.
“He’s going to give you drugs. Something to cloud your mind.”
We said. As if we’d practiced this sentence many times. As if we’d repeated this phrase hundreds of times.
“And then he’s going to take you somewhere high. A building rooftop. Or a bridge. And push you. Making it look like an accident.”
Minjun’s ears began to ring. Tinnitus. Like the sound in your ears during airplane takeoff. His death being planned was abstract. But our words made it concrete. Drugs. Rooftop. Bridge. Pushing. Accident. All were possible words.
“Why?”
Minjun asked. His voice sounded like a prayer. A prayer to God. To the God trying to kill him.
“Because you took his place. Netflix. That drama. The role Sungjun wanted. And you shined in that role.”
Our voice continued. Like a machine. Like a programmed voice guidance.
“Sungjun can’t bear it. So you have to die. That’s the only solution. In his mind.”
Minjun raised his hand. The trembling worsened. It felt like his hand no longer belonged to him. Someone else’s hand. A dead man’s hand.
“And now you know. Now you have to choose. Are you going to run, or are you going to face it?”
We looked at Minjun one last time. Minjun couldn’t tell if there was compassion in those eyes, or amusement.
The café lights flickered. Once. Like a traffic light. Like the world was sending a signal.
Minjun looked at his hand. The hand Junho had held. It was still warm. But now its weight felt different. As if the entire world was resting on those fingers. Or rather, as if the weight of the entire world lay on that hand.
Minjun looked at Junho’s face. Junho was still looking at us. There was something in Junho’s eyes. A question mark. Or a period. Or an exclamation point. Minjun couldn’t tell.
“Junho.”
Minjun whispered.
Junho turned. His eyes found Minjun.
“We are… really what?”
Minjun asked.
Junho didn’t answer. Instead, he squeezed Minjun’s hand tighter.
4:52 PM.
In a Gangnam café, a young man was facing his own death. Another young man was questioning the definition of his love. And a third being appeared to know everything while pretending to know nothing.
Multiple voices echoed in Minjun’s mind simultaneously.
Sungjun’s voice: “You stole my dream.”
Junho’s voice: “I won’t let you go.”
Our voice: “I don’t know if you even know.”
And his own voice: “I have to run. No, I have to face it. No, I…”
Minjun looked at his hand. Junho’s hand. His hand. Intertwined fingers.
He still didn’t know how to respond.
The café lights flickered again.
This time, they didn’t go out.
Minjun looked at Junho’s face again. Junho’s face was tinted with the evening sunlight from outside the window. Junho’s eyes were directed at him. In those eyes was a question. Or an answer.
“I love you.”
Junho suddenly said.
That was the most dangerous thing to say in this situation. Because it could be true or false. And now Minjun couldn’t distinguish between them.
“Really?”
Minjun asked.
Junho didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled Minjun into his chest.
The café continued its daily routine. But for Minjun, this moment felt like the end of the world.
And time flowed on without stopping.
5:03 PM.
In a Gangnam café, a young man held his own death.
And he still didn’t know.
Whether it was love, dependency, or simply fear.