Chapter 24:
The morning sun filtered through the set windows as Minho arrived earlier than usual. A few staff members were already bustling about, prepping lights and adjusting equipment. His footsteps echoed quietly on the studio floor, and for the first time in days, he felt—centered.
He had declined the side quest.
That alone brought a strange sense of peace, like choosing not to dig at a wound that hadn't healed yet.
Still, a new message pulsed faintly at the corner of his vision:
[Main Quest Progress: 23.5% → 24.0%]
[Bonus: Consistent Performance + Director's Favor]
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He could live with steady progress.
"Early bird," a voice said behind him.
Minho turned to find Hana balancing a cup of coffee in one hand and her tablet in the other.
"Couldn't sleep," he replied casually.
She raised an eyebrow. "That makes two of us. New script changes dropped last night." She handed him a printed packet. "You're in the rewritten scene."
He skimmed it quickly. The new lines were more intense—more emotionally demanding than originally planned.
"You okay with this?" Hana asked, watching him.
He nodded slowly. "Yeah. I think so."
Today's scene called for Minho to argue with a grieving mother whose son had been denied surgery due to class differences. His character—previously aloof—was now showing cracks, as guilt and compassion crept in.
The actress playing the mother, Shin Yoo-ri, was another veteran. She eyed Minho curiously before the scene.
"You've got good instincts, but let's see if you can keep up in a shouting match," she teased.
Minho grinned. "I'll try not to get steamrolled."
The director called for action.
Yoo-ri exploded into her lines immediately—grief pouring from her in waves, hands trembling, voice cracking.
Minho, as his character, flinched, visibly shaken by her words.
"Do you even know what it feels like to bury your own child?!"
The tension built rapidly, and for a moment, Minho hesitated—his chest tightening.
But then… he inhaled slowly and stepped forward, cutting through her pain with a low, aching voice:
"I've buried something too. Maybe not a child. But something I loved. Something I couldn't save."
Even Yoo-ri paused for a fraction of a second, her expression shifting subtly.
The scene wrapped, and the silence that followed was telling.
Director Lee clapped once. "Cut. That's it. Beautiful."
Yeji, watching from the monitor tent, leaned toward one of the assistant directors.
"He's scary good," she whispered.
"He wasn't like this at the beginning," the AD replied. "I mean, he was good, but not this good."
Yeji nodded. "It's like he remembers things no one else does."
Producer Kim Sangho sipped his coffee, eyes narrowed on his screen. "He's building momentum."
Jiyeon stood beside him, arms crossed. "Social media's taking notice. Clips from yesterday's scene are already circulating."
"Good," Sangho said flatly. "But I want you to dig a little deeper into his past."
Jiyeon looked unsure. "We already did a background check."
"Do another one," he replied. "There's something he's not telling us. No actor that new should carry that much grief in his eyes."
Later That Evening
Minho stood alone at the edge of the rooftop set, the city sprawled out in every direction. The air was cold, crisp, and oddly calming.
Hana joined him a few minutes later, her arms crossed against the chill.
"You were incredible today," she said. "Again."
"Thanks." He didn't look at her.
After a beat, she asked, "Do you ever think about quitting?"
Minho blinked. "Why?"
"I don't know," she shrugged. "Sometimes it seems like this job asks for too much of us. Like it doesn't care how we're doing. Only that we perform."
Minho considered that for a moment. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I've thought about it."
She turned toward him. "What stopped you?"
He looked at her then, eyes unreadable. "I already quit once. It didn't help."
She didn't push further. They stood in silence, sharing the stillness.
Meanwhile, across town—
A phone buzzed in a quiet apartment.
Jung Seok-woo leaned back on his couch, answering the call with a slow, deliberate movement.
"Yeah?"
"It's Sangho," came the producer's voice. "That kid… Minho. Keep an eye on him. Something about his past doesn't sit right with me."
Seok-woo chuckled. "You think he's dangerous?"
"I think he's someone to watch. Closely."
The call ended.
Seok-woo set the phone down and turned to the paused TV, where Minho's face stared back from a scene replay.
He smirked. "You're more than you let on, kid. Let's see what you're hiding."