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Chapter 95: The Lie of the Senses
The set lights engulfed Min-jun, making him feel like he was trapped in a transparent aquarium. The outside world was clearly visible, yet it was at an unreachable distance. Park Mi-ra’s voice came through the speaker.
“Min, this is your character’s climax. The moment he realizes his wife has left him. What do you feel right now?”
Min-jun didn’t read his lines. He just stood there, like a man standing in front of a window. A man who had lost his wife. Or, more precisely, a man trying to understand what he had lost. His fingers touched the windowpane. It was cold. It was a physical response, not a deliberate choice as an actor. Just a simple, instinctive reaction.
“Good. Keep going with that feeling,” Park Mi-ra said. The camera zoomed in on Min-jun’s hand, capturing the subtle vibrations of his fingers as they touched the glass.
And that was the problem.
The director’s voice cut through the air. “Roll.”
The set came to a halt, the lights still on but lacking the energy that had driven the scene. Min-jun removed his hand from the window, leaving behind a faint smudge of condensation, a reminder of his presence. It would soon evaporate, just like his sense of self.
“Good job. Can you do one more take?” Park Mi-ra asked, still gazing at the monitor. She was looking at the Min-jun on the screen, not the one standing in front of her. The two were different. The one on the monitor was more authentic, more beautiful, and more false.
“Yes, director,” Min-jun replied, his voice steady but with a hint of desperation.
“This time, turn around while you’re doing it. As if you’re looking for someone,” Park Mi-ra instructed.
Min-jun returned to his position in front of the window. The same spot, the same lighting, the same camera angle. But the direction was different, and that subtle difference would evoke a distinct emotion.
He touched the windowpane again, this time searching for something beyond the glass. Something invisible, someone unseen. Maybe his wife, maybe himself, or maybe no one at all.
And then he turned around.
Slowly, as if swimming through the air. His eyes met the camera, but the camera didn’t see his eyes. It saw his face, and his face was lying to the camera.
“Cut,” Park Mi-ra said, pausing for a moment.
“What was that moment, when you turned around?” she asked, her voice filled with curiosity. It was a dangerous curiosity, the kind that a director has when they sense an actor’s vulnerability.
Min-jun didn’t respond.
Park Mi-ra pressed on. “What was that expression on your face when you turned around? Can you tell me exactly what it was?”
But her question wasn’t really a question. It was an order. An order to reveal the truth behind that expression.
Min-jun remained silent for a moment. He thought about the dressing room mirror, Joon-ho’s voice, and the words “a mixture of despair and self-deprecation.” And now that expression was recorded, permanently, in a form that couldn’t be erased.
“I don’t know,” Min-jun finally said.
“It’s sacrifice,” Park Mi-ra replied, looking directly at Min-jun, not the monitor. Her eyes sparkled with a desire, a desire to uncover the truth beneath the surface.
“Sacrifice?” Min-jun echoed.
“Yes, the feeling of giving up something when he loses his wife. Not just sadness, but the sense of abandoning a part of himself, while trying to leave it there. That’s sacrifice. And you portrayed it perfectly,” Park Mi-ra said, her voice dripping with an unsettling hunger.
Min-jun glanced at his hand, still near the window. That finger, that sense of touch, had lied. It had pretended to be a deliberate choice, an act of the actor. But it was a lie. That finger was genuine. And that was the problem.
“Good job, Min,” Park Mi-ra said.
“Thank you,” Min-jun replied, but his tone wasn’t one of gratitude. It was a tone of surrender.
The filming ended at 7 pm. Min-jun removed his makeup in the dressing room, in front of another mirror. Another reflection, another lie. He now despised mirrors. They didn’t lie; they showed the truth too accurately. The truth that he wasn’t an actor, but a failed attempt at becoming one.
His phone rang. It was Joon-ho.
“Hey,” Min-jun answered.
“How was the shoot?” Joon-ho asked, his voice bright, but it was the brightness of an actor, a rehearsed enthusiasm.
“It’s done. I’m in the dressing room now,” Min-jun replied.
“What did Park Mi-ra say?” Joon-ho asked.
“She said it was good,” Min-jun said.
The line went silent for a moment, as if Joon-ho was calculating something.
“It’s all a lie,” Joon-ho finally said.
“What is?” Min-jun asked.
“Everything Park Mi-ra told you. The comments about your performance, the praise. It’s all just to keep you hooked, to make you dive deeper. Like being slowly pulled into the water,” Joon-ho said, his voice lowered.
“What’s real, then?” Min-jun asked.
“The fact that the video is good, and the better it is, the deeper you’ll fall. Good acting is a good trap,” Joon-ho said.
Min-jun looked at his reflection in the mirror, the remnants of his makeup still visible. A face that was artificial, a face that was a lie. And he realized that he had to know the truth.
“What should I do?” Min-jun asked.
“You can’t do anything now. You’ve already finished filming, and Park Mi-ra has seen you. And if she’s seen you, others will see you too,” Joon-ho said.
Min-jun felt a shiver run down his spine. He was trapped, and he didn’t know how to escape.
Later that night, Min-jun met Joon-ho at a café near Gangnam Station. Joon-ho was already there, sitting with a woman Min-jun had never seen before. There was something familiar about her face, as if he had heard her name before, or seen her picture somewhere.
“Sit down,” Joon-ho said.
Min-jun sat across from the woman, who smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile. It was a mixture of sadness and acknowledgment.
“Finally, we meet,” she said.
“Who are you?” Min-jun asked.
“I used to be an actress, just like you,” she replied.
“And now?” Min-jun asked.
“Now, I’m out of the system. And you’re getting in,” she said, glancing at Joon-ho.
“I’ll tell you the truth, the things Park Mi-ra won’t tell you. The things Joon-ho couldn’t tell you,” she said, her voice cold, yet with a hint of compassion.
“What is it?” Min-jun asked.
“Park Mi-ra is in a relationship with the investor. At first, it was just a normal investment, but over time, the investor wanted more. Not just the director’s work, but the actors’ videos, their daily lives, their privacy,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion.
Min-jun felt a chill run down his spine. He was in trouble, and he didn’t know how to get out of it.
The woman handed him a piece of paper with a single line of text: “The investor’s name is Park Jung-hoon, CEO of Lumière Entertainment. And he’s watching your video right now.”
Min-jun’s hand trembled.
It wasn’t an act; it was real. The fear was real. The knowledge that his life was about to change forever was real.
As the woman left the café, Min-jun felt a sense of desperation. He was trapped, and he didn’t know how to escape. The city outside seemed to stretch on forever, a endless stage where everyone was an actor, and someone was always watching.
Min-jun’s phone rang again. It was Joon-ho.
“What did she tell you?” Joon-ho asked.
“The investor’s name,” Min-jun replied.
The line went silent, and then Joon-ho spoke up.
“Now you know. And from now on, you’ll have to be different. You’re no longer just an ordinary actor. You’re Park Jung-hoon’s actor.”
Min-jun felt a shiver run down his spine. He was in trouble, and he didn’t know how to get out of it.
As he walked out of the café, Min-jun realized that he had lost his freedom. He was no longer in control of his life. Someone else was pulling the strings, and he was just a puppet on a stage.
The city lights seemed to blur together as he walked, a kaleidoscope of colors and sounds that seemed to mock him. He was just a small part of a larger game, a game he didn’t understand.
And then, Min-jun laughed.
It was a small laugh, but it was real. It was the laugh of a man who had lost control, a man who was trapped in a never-ending cycle of fear and desperation.
He looked up at the city lights, and for a moment, he felt a sense of freedom. He was no longer just an actor; he was a human being, trapped in a world that was beyond his control.
But that feeling was short-lived.
As he stood there, Min-jun realized that he was just a small part of a much larger machine. A machine that was designed to consume him, to use him for its own purposes.
And in that moment, Min-jun knew that he was doomed.
The city lights seemed to fade away, replaced by a sense of darkness that seemed to envelop him. He was trapped, and he didn’t know how to escape.
The only thing he could do was to keep moving forward, to keep acting, to keep pretending that everything was okay.
But deep down, Min-jun knew that it wasn’t okay. He was living a lie, a lie that was designed to keep him trapped, to keep him under control.
And as he walked away from the café, Min-jun realized that he was just a pawn in a much larger game. A game that was designed to destroy him, to consume him, to use him for its own purposes.
The city lights seemed to mock him, a reminder that he was just a small part of a much larger machine. A machine that was designed to chew him up and spit him out.
And in that moment, Min-jun knew that he was doomed.
The end.