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Chapter 96: The Crack in the Mirror
After the shoot, Min-jun didn’t leave the set. As the other actors and staff packed up their gear, he stood by the window, the same window, the same spot. But now the lights were off, and the camera was gone. Yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.
The words of Park Mi-ra lingered in his mind. “Sacrifice.” The word clung to him like paint that wouldn’t wash off.
“Min-jun?” a voice called from behind.
Min-jun turned to see a young staff member, probably in her early twenties, holding a cloth to wipe the condensation from the window.
“Yes?”
“Do you mind if I clean the window now? There’s a lot of condensation,” she asked, her eyes fixed on his face with a polite gaze, as if pretending he wasn’t there.
“Ah, no, it’s fine,” Min-jun replied, stepping away from the window. His hand left a smudge on the glass, a fleeting proof of his presence, soon to be erased.
He walked out of the studio, into the lobby, then the hallway, and down the stairs. His body moved on autopilot, his mind trailing behind.
His phone rang, a bell sound, not vibration, as set by Joon-ho. Important calls always rang, according to Joon-ho. Min-jun stopped halfway down the stairs, neither up nor down.
He checked the screen. It was Joon-ho. A small icon next to his name indicated the option to reject the call. It would be easy, just one finger.
But he didn’t. Instead, he picked up.
“Yes?”
“Where are you?” Joon-ho asked, the sound of a car engine humming in the background.
“I’m at the studio, in the lobby,” Min-jun replied, a lie. He was already gone, but the distinction between truth and falsehood seemed irrelevant now. Everything felt like the same kind of pretense.
“I’ll be there in 15 minutes. Come out to the parking lot,” Joon-ho ordered, not suggested.
“Okay, got it,” Min-jun said. The call ended.
The parking lot was almost empty, the fluorescent lights flickering on one by one as the sun set. Min-jun spotted Joon-ho’s car, a black Genesis, the license plate number familiar from Joon-ho’s previous instructions, for emergencies.
Joon-ho was already outside, waiting by the open driver’s door. His face was dark, not in expression but due to the shadow cast by the lights.
“Get in,” Joon-ho said.
Min-jun entered the car, the interior smelling of leather and fabric softener, Joon-ho’s signature scent, always managed and controlled.
Joon-ho got in, closed the door, and started the engine but didn’t drive. They sat in the dark, the only light coming from outside, casting an ethereal glow on their faces.
“What did Park Mi-ra say?” Joon-ho asked.
“She said ‘sacrifice,’” Min-jun replied.
Joon-ho’s fingers drummed on the steering wheel, a rhythmless beat, a thinking man’s gesture.
“That woman knows what sacrifice is,” Joon-ho said finally, his voice low and menacing, a tone Min-jun had heard before, last week in the waiting room.
“What’s the problem?” Min-jun asked cautiously.
“The problem is she saw you, really saw you. And she’s a woman who sees the world only through her lens. So now that footage is more dangerous. It’s not just any scene; it’s a record of sacrifice.”
“How is it more dangerous?” Min-jun asked.
“Park Mi-ra is an artist, a true one. And artists can’t hide what they’ve discovered, especially when it’s beautiful. If that footage is already circulating among investors, it’s no longer just a drama scene; it’s a record of sacrifice. And records of sacrifice move people. It’s dangerous. It’ll make you more famous, but also more vulnerable.”
Joon-ho’s words ended, and Min-jun realized this was an expression of fear, but what Joon-ho feared wasn’t clear.
“Does this mean I should quit the role?” Min-jun asked.
“Quit? Now?” Joon-ho laughed, a dismissive sound. “What does your contract say? Is there a clause that lets you quit?”
Min-jun shook his head. “No, there isn’t.”
Joon-ho continued, “So, you have to keep going. And you have to do better. You have to express that ‘sacrifice’ Park Mi-ra wants, deeper and more genuinely each time. Because now, that’s your only asset.”
Min-jun’s hand instinctively went to his pocket, a habitual movement, checking for his phone, a connection to the outside world.
“Does Park Mi-ra’s phone number?” Joon-ho asked abruptly.
“No,” Min-jun replied.
“Find it tomorrow. And call her. Ask if there are other versions of today’s scenes.”
“What do you mean by other versions?” Min-jun asked.
“Other takes. Park Mi-ra always shoots multiple takes and chooses the best one. Ask her what makes one better than the others, what gets discarded.”
Min-jun felt a shiver. This wasn’t about improving his acting; it was about surveillance, gathering information on what Park Mi-ra had recorded and what she might reveal.
“Isn’t that a bit unusual to ask?” Min-jun ventured cautiously.
“What’s unusual about it? You’re an actor. It’s natural for you to be interested in your performance,” Joon-ho said, his tone implying it was the most normal thing to do.
But Min-jun knew it wasn’t. This was about control, about knowing what Park Mi-ra might expose.
“I understand,” Min-jun said, though he knew it wasn’t about understanding but about obeying.
“And one more thing,” Joon-ho added. “Don’t mention this to Soo-jin. Nothing.”
Min-jun looked at Joon-ho’s face, a mask under the fluorescent lights, a face that revealed nothing from the inside.
“Why?” Min-jun asked, though he knew he shouldn’t.
Joon-ho’s voice wavered slightly, a rare display of emotion. “She has other issues. You don’t need to worry about her.”
The car started moving, and Joon-ho dropped Min-jun off, reminding him of their meeting the next day at 7 am.
As Min-jun watched the car leave, he felt the weight of the night, the endless expanse of darkness and lights, a city that never slept, just like him.
The crack in the mirror was growing, and through it, something was seeping out, a slow, relentless leak. Min-jun didn’t know what it was, but it was coming, a tide he couldn’t stop, a change he couldn’t escape.
And in that moment, he knew he was trapped, in a role, in a life, in a never-ending cycle of performances and lies, with no escape, no awakening, and no return to who he once was.