I still remember the air of apprehension that hung over us when the movie, Two Women, made its debut a few months after we finished filming. To be honest, it didn't receive that much attention in the beginning. It was an independent film, a small voice in a sea of blockbusters.
But then, something extraordinary happened. Word got around amongst moviegoers. They started talking about the performances-mine, Yena Ban's-and the raw direction by Hyeonjae Woo. It was an authentic, compelling story, and the audience responded to that sincerity. More people went to watch, and soon, the movie quickly broke even and then kept soaring.
It was a wild, exhilarating rush. Before we knew it, Two Women became a box office hit!
The praise wasn't just commercial; it was both critically acclaimed and universally praised by the audience. Our audience score was a phenomenal 9.22, and even the critics gave us a respectable 7.8 rating. There was an audience review I saw that stuck with me: "Watched it for Yena Ban, and ended up discovering I." That felt like the truest compliment.
Hyeonjae Woo, or Director Woo, who was at the forefront of the making of Two Women, stepped into the spotlight, basking in the movie's success. The pinnacle came when he won the Best New Director Award at D Film Festival. I watched him accept the trophy-that triumphant moment was a culmination of all his hard work.
"THANK YOU FOR THIS HONOR. I'LL CONTINUE TO WORK HARD ON MY FILMS," he said, clutching the gold statuette.
I was there, too, in a beautiful gown, a nervous excitement thrumming through me. I was up for a Best New Actress Award as well... But it didn't go my way. I didn't win.
It was too bad... Watching the trophy go to someone else, despite the film's massive success, was a slight sting. Still, sitting there, knowing what we had accomplished-a critically-acclaimed, box-office smash that connected with people-I knew this was only the beginning of my story. My name, Myeong Yu, was out there now. And that, in itself, was a huge victory.
The name Jin Cheon carried the weight of legend and scandal in equal measure. He wasn't just a director; he was an auteur from the start, a true artist who dictated the form and content of his work, always pushing boundaries.
His debut film, Arcadia, was wrapped up in major controversy, primarily because it was under fire for excessive sexuality. Yet, that year, even amidst all the controversy, he took the film industry by storm. The news screamed about the irony: Controversial film Arcadia nabs three awards, including Best New Director. His very presence at the awards show was a spectacle, with articles debating his audacious style: "Director Jin Cheon's Awards Show Attire Divides Audiences: 'Is this a joke to him?' vs 'Personal style'."
I actually remembered that night. I was one of the stunned viewers, watching on television from my small apartment, utterly mesmerized by the sheer nerve of the man. I even dressed up as my favorite character from Arcadia, Kalua, just to feel a small connection to his cinematic audacity.
It's been ten years since his debut film, but he was still a promising director with endless potential, largely because he continued to deliver hits that challenged the status quo. After his film Girl won the Grand Prix at C Film Festival , he solidified that title. Jin Cheon was a force-a dangerous, brilliant man whose work demanded attention, no matter the cost.
And this man, this controversial genius, now wanted to meet me.
The meeting was set for a traditional, quiet venue-a long, wooden hallway leading to a private room. The setting was a strange contrast to the explosive nature of his art.
I walked down the quiet corridor, the soft glow of the lanterns reflecting the turmoil in my mind. The manager's words echoed: "The director Jin Cheon would like to meet you." This was my moment. This was the chance to transcend the initial success of Two Women and become an actress capable of tackling truly challenging, boundary-breaking roles. It was a terrifying gamble. Working with Jin Cheon meant inviting the same kind of scrutiny and intense debate that had followed him for a decade. The very thing that made him a genius could make me a pariah.
But what was fame, if not a chance to do the impossible? I took a deep breath, smoothing the skirt of my dress. I was no longer the unknown Myeong Yu. I was an actress now, and I was about to step into the lair of one of the industry's most powerful, controversial figures.
I sat alone at the table in the private room, the scent of expensive incense mixing with the steam from my tea. I tried to maintain a composed expression, but my heart was racing. The most intriguing part about Jin Cheon wasn't his scandalous past or his Grand Prix win; it was that he was still young, yet he possessed the creative power of an industry veteran.
The sliding door opened quietly.
"Oh, you're already here," Director Cheon said, stepping inside.
He was exactly as unnerving and charismatic in person as his films suggested. I stood up quickly. "Thank you for reaching out, Director Cheon," I replied, trying to project confidence.
He slid into the seat across from me, his dark eyes intense. Without preamble, he cut to the chase, ignoring any small talk about the weather or the venue.
"I enjoyed Two Women," he stated simply. "You look great on-screen."
I couldn't help but feel a nervous blush creep up my neck. "Oh... thank you."
He leaned forward, using his fingers to form a square, framing my face like a viewfinder.
"I just think you'd look even more beautiful on screen," he added, his voice smooth and unsettling. "It's a compliment."
I struggled to find the right response to such a loaded statement. Was this a test? A bizarre audition? "What kind of compliment is that?" I managed to laugh awkwardly.
He simply smiled, the look in his eyes suggesting he knew exactly how much power he held in that moment. "No, you're beautiful," he corrected.
A part of me recoiled. Was he merely complimenting my appearance, or commenting on my marketability? "Excuse me? Oh... am I disappointing in real life?" I blurted out, a hint of genuine insecurity surfacing.
💥 The Comparison
He waved off the question with a gesture, bringing the focus back to the work.
"I thought you fully deserved to win Best New Actress, but luck wasn't on your side," he continued, bringing up my loss at the D Film Festival. He was hitting me where I was most vulnerable, yet validating my talent at the same time.
He paused for dramatic effect. "Although, awards aren't everything."
Then, he delivered the knockout blow, a statement designed to shatter my remaining composure and force me to meet his gaze as a true collaborator, not just an ingenue.
"You were better than Yena, in my opinion."
Tilt.
Yena Ban. My co-star. The celebrated actress whom the whole industry loved. To dismiss her performance so casually, to elevate mine above hers with such conviction... it was the ultimate, intoxicating dose of praise. It told me one thing: Jin Cheon didn't play by the rules, and he saw a specific, uncompromising vision of art in me. He wasn't looking for a conventional actress; he was looking for a muse, a risk-taker.
I knew then that this meeting wasn't about a simple role. It was about defining my entire future.
The moment Jin Cheon compared me favorably to Yena, a strange current ran between us. The praise felt less like an encouragement and more like a tool he was wielding to gain control.
He switched the topic back to the recent past, his eyes narrow and dissecting. "I heard that the director of Two Women was dating Yena..."
My breath hitched. Director Woo and Yena's relationship had been the subject of quiet gossip during the filming, but it wasn't something either of them ever confirmed publicly.
"But it's strange," Jin Cheon continued, leaning back slightly, giving the impression that he was solving a puzzle only he could see. "From my perspective after watching the film, how come it seems like the person Director Woo loves is you?"
The question was stunning in its audacity. It directly questioned the integrity of the art we had created, suggesting the beautiful bond between the characters was born from a real-life obsession on the director's part. He then delivered the final, sharp edge of his interrogation:
"Are you the type of woman who seduces directors?"
The air crackled with tension. I felt anger flare-not just at the implication, but at his casual dismissal of my talent as something merely manipulative.
"I'm not that kind of person," I stated, my voice firm despite the tremor in my hands. I held his gaze, refusing to look away.
He gave a slight smile, a flicker of appreciation in his eyes. "Then that's a relief."
He then launched into a strange, arrogant clarification: "There are too many women who want to get with me. No actress has been able to seduce me so far, okay? And by the way, I like women." He shrugged, as if setting the record straight on his romantic preferences was crucial to the artistic integrity of our potential collaboration. "But when I'm working on a project, I want to focus solely on the film."
"I feel the same," I said, genuinely agreeing with that last point, relieved that he seemed to value professional boundaries-at least on his side. "I like to keep work separate from my personal life, too."
🎭 The Muse and the Frame
As I finished speaking, I must have let my guard down, my expression momentarily shifting to one of genuine frustration or deep concentration.
Jin Cheon's eyes widened, and a jarring, almost predatory smile stretched across his face.
"Ooh! That was a nice face you made just now," he murmured, his voice laced with the excitement of a hunter spotting quarry. He pulled out a black marker and a piece of paper. "Make this expression for me next time, alright?"
I blinked, confused. "You mean on set?"
"No," he said, looking at the sketch he was already drawing. "Just... whenever I ask."
My first impression of Director Jin Cheon was simply: NO. This man was not a safe collaborator. He was brilliant, yes, but intensely invasive, blurring the lines between the artist, the art, and the person. Yet, as I looked at the dark intensity in his eyes, I knew turning away from him meant turning away from a chance to fully realize myself as an actress, a chance to become more than a 'muse.' He saw something in me that others had only hinted at, even if his way of drawing it out was unsettling and morally questionable.
After his strange and unsettling interrogation, Director Cheon finally offered a piece of sushi and launched into the reason for our meeting.
"Mm... as you may be aware," he said, gesturing toward the food and then casually picking up his chopsticks, "I reached out because I wanted to work with you on my next project."
"Did you reach out to me after watching Two Women?" I asked, needing to confirm the source of his interest.
He looked up, a hint of disdain in his expression, as if offended by the simplicity of the question.
"Well... to be honest, it's because there aren't any actors who can take on this role," he admitted, his candor more insulting than reassuring. "And I didn't like any of the actors who auditioned."
His arrogance was astounding. He saw my potential, yet reduced his reaching out to a desperate last resort. I realized my initial impression was correct: he was a narcissist who had never experienced failure, a director so used to getting what he wanted that he felt no need to soften his approach. He wanted a muse, not a collaborator.
He then twisted the knife, reminding me of the precariousness of my newfound fame. He spoke of my past as an unknown actress for a long time, where even the indie roles you've acted in have dried up. He concluded with a chilling accuracy: "I know you're desperate, Myeong."
He wasn't wrong. I finally felt like I could stand tall after being noticed as Eunmil's muse in Two Women, but the reality of the industry was harsh. Stardom is fleeting. The momentum I had was fragile, and Jin Cheon knew that I desperately needed a major follow-up to solidify my career. This wasn't a choice; it was a lifeline, regardless of the controversy it might bring.
💥 The Male Lead: Bin Lee
Then came the final, crucial detail: the male lead.
"As always, the male lead will be Bin Lee," Director Cheon announced. "You'll get to meet him soon."
Bin Lee. The name carried an immense weight of its own. He was the industry's golden boy, the superstar who was box office gold, and he had starred in Director Cheon's critically-acclaimed, controversial film Girl . If I starred opposite Bin Lee in a Jin Cheon film, my career would explode, transforming me overnight from an indie discovery to a true sensation.
My mind raced. Working with Jin Cheon meant dancing on the edge of ethical boundaries and dealing with a tyrannical ego, but working with Bin Lee meant undeniable, global fame. I looked down at the sushi, suddenly seeing the reflection of my own tense face. I had questions-about the script, about the contract, about the actual role he wanted me for.
I raised my eyes to meet his. "Do you have any questions for me?" he prompted.
Yes, I wanted to scream. How far do I have to go to match your 'art'?
But what came out was a cautious, professional query about his initial interest. The game had already started.
After my cautious question, Jin Cheon set down his chopsticks and his demeanor shifted from arrogant artist to shrewd businessman.
"My next film is titled 'Confession'," he announced, letting the title hang in the air. He then slid a large script across the table toward me. The cover was simple, white, and completely unadorned. There was a space at the top where he wanted my name written.
I picked it up, my hands trembling slightly. This was the key to securing my future, but it came with a legendary price tag attached: the collaboration of the notorious auteur, Jin Cheon, and the superstar, Bin Lee.
I opened the script and started reading. The content was intense, but it was the dialogue that really struck me. It felt brutally honest and true, capturing the raw, ugly parts of human nature that most films sanitize. It was clearly a project intended to win a major award at a prestigious film festival.
I looked back at Jin Cheon, already half-hypnotized by the sheer artistic merit of the writing. "The script is... excellent," I conceded.
He smiled, a victor's confidence radiating from him. "I know. I created an original character, and I'm confident that this role will win you an Oscar."
An Oscar. The highest peak an actor could dream of. He wasn't promising domestic success; he was promising global, eternal glory.
🛑 The Ultimatum
However, the deal came with a terrifying condition.
Jin Cheon leaned forward, his gaze intense. "I've already finished 90% of the casting. But there's a problem with the contract."
My stomach dropped. I knew it couldn't be simple.
"In order to complete the film's unique setting, I need to film the male lead, Bin Lee, and the female lead, you, together on a remote island," he explained.
A remote island. That meant isolation. It meant an intense, month-long environment where the boundary between my life and the character's would surely vanish under Jin Cheon's demanding direction.
He then delivered the real ultimatum, the one that proved his true level of control and narcissism. "We need you to sign a 'No Complaints' clause."
A No Complaints clause. This meant I would agree in advance not to complain about anything-the conditions, the shooting schedule, the emotional or physical demands-essentially giving him complete creative and directorial autonomy, free of legal recourse or public outcry.
"If you agree to this, the meeting is over. You will have the role." He offered a pen, the gesture both a reward and a handcuff.
My mind screamed: No, no, no. My first impression of him was "NO" for a reason. But another voice, the one fueled by years of struggle, the desire for an Oscar, and the hunger for a permanent legacy, whispered: Yes.
I had been an unknown actress for a long time. This was my chance to shed that past forever. The spotlight was dazzling, but the shadow it cast was deep and dangerous.
I took the pen.
I walked out of the meeting with Director Jin Cheon, the script for Confession clutched tightly in my hand. It was beautiful, daring, and potentially career-defining. But the 'No Complaints' clause felt like a weight, a shackle placed on my ambition.
My manager, Minjun, met me in the car outside. He was leaning against the door, an anxious look on his face that instantly sharpened when he saw my expression.
"How did it go? Did you get the role?" he asked, practically vibrating with hope.
"I got it," I confirmed, sliding into the backseat. "The role is mine, opposite Bin Lee."
Minjun let out a whoop, pumping his fist. "Yes! Myeong, this is it! Confession is going to make you a superstar. I told you Jin Cheon was worth the risk!"
I let him celebrate for a moment, enjoying the fleeting taste of triumph before dropping the bomb.
"There's a catch," I said, handing him the contract with the pen mark next to the signature line. "He wants us to sign a 'No Complaints' clause."
Minjun snatched the contract and his eyes scanned the page, his triumphant smile slowly collapsing into disbelief.
"A 'No Complaints' clause?" he sputtered. "Are you serious? It says here we can't complain about the work environment, the shooting schedule, or even the content of the film, and we waive any liability if we sustain physical or emotional damage from the role?"
He looked at me, his face pale with alarm. "Myeong, this is too dangerous! Do you know what kind of rumors surround Jin Cheon's sets? This isn't just about hard work; this is about giving him permission to walk all over you legally!"
"I know, Minjun," I whispered, closing my eyes. "But he promised this role could win me an Oscar."
⚖️ The Debate
Minjun threw the contract onto the passenger seat. "An Oscar doesn't matter if it costs you your mental health! No, we are not doing this! We will try to negotiate this clause out, or we'll walk away."
"We can't walk away!" I argued, leaning forward, suddenly desperate. "He said he's already cast 90% of the film! He only reached out because there aren't any actors who can take on this role and he's desperate for the right person. He's not going to negotiate."
Minjun sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Why didn't you call me? Why did you agree to it?"
"I signed the script, but I told him my agency needed to review the contract," I lied, omitting the part where Jin Cheon told me to sign it right there. "He gave us 24 hours to sign and return it."
Minjun slumped back, defeated. He knew that an opportunity this big was often non-negotiable, especially with a director like Jin Cheon. He looked at me, seeing not just his client, but the naive girl who had been chasing this dream for so long.
"Myeong," he said softly, "look at me. Are you willing to go to a remote island for a month, completely isolated, with this contract hanging over your head? Are you willing to give up your right to complain about anything just for a chance at a golden statue?"
I didn't answer right away. I pictured the white script in my hand, the challenging dialogue, and the electric presence of Bin Lee. I pictured the red carpet in Hollywood.
"Yes," I finally said, my voice barely audible but firm. "I'm desperate, Minjun. And I want that Oscar more than I want safety."
Despite Minjun's reservations, we signed the contract. The risk was enormous, but the lure of that Oscar, the promise of true, lasting fame, was too powerful to resist. The moment the production company confirmed my casting opposite Bin Lee in Jin Cheon's new film, the media went ballistic.
I suddenly appeared everywhere. My face was plastered across headlines, and my name was spoken in hushed, excited tones on every entertainment show. It felt like my image was transforming from the quiet, critically-acclaimed actress in Two Women to a major player-a daring muse stepping into the world of cinematic genius.
🔥 Breaking News: The Confession Cast
The headlines screamed the magnitude of the collaboration:
JIN CHEON AND BIN LEE REUNITES!
MYEONG YU, THE SURPRISE FEMALE LEAD IN CONFESSION
RISING STAR MYEONG YU, CONFIRMED FOR JIN CHEON'S NEW FILM.
The public reaction was immediate and passionate. Online comments were a dizzying mix of adoration, excitement, and skepticism:
💬 Bin Lee and Myeong Yu? Now this is a collaboration I didn't expect.
💬 Myeong Yu in a Jin Cheon movie? That's next level. She's finally hit the jackpot.
💬 Whoa, Myeong Yu is working with the director who won the Grand Prix for 'Girl'!
💬 Bin Lee is the male lead? I'll watch it for him alone!
The press conference for the announcement was a blinding wall of flashes. Jin Cheon stood at the podium, cool and utterly confident, while Bin Lee flashed his practiced, movie-star smile. I tried to match their composure, feeling the weight of thousands of eyes on me.
The buzz wasn't just positive, however. My decision was viewed as a massive, career-altering gamble-a dive into deep water with a notorious director. My picture, taken from the press conference, showed me looking composed, but the pressure was immense.
I knew the stakes. I was nervous to take on the role of the female lead, especially with a director whose methods were famously extreme, but I had a clear goal: "I will make this film a global box office hit and win an Oscar."
I was now tied to the most highly-anticipated and controversial project of the year. The film was already generating immense hype simply because of the names attached.
Jin Cheon. Bin Lee. And now, I.
My manager, Minjun, was visibly stressed. He was constantly on the phone, trying to manage the narrative and prepare for the storm that would inevitably come once we were isolated on that remote island.
"Myeong, you need to read the script again," he urged, his voice tight. "We need to prepare for anything."
I knew he was right. My success depended on my performance, and my survival depended on my resolve. There was no going back now.
The buzz wasn't just positive, however. My decision was viewed as a massive, career-altering gamble-a dive into deep water with a notorious director. My picture, taken from the press conference, showed me looking composed, but the pressure was immense.
I knew the stakes. I was nervous to take on the role of the female lead, especially with a director whose methods were famously extreme, but I had a clear goal: "I will make this film a global box office hit and win an Oscar."
I was now tied to the most highly-anticipated and controversial project of the year. The film was already generating immense hype simply because of the names attached.
Jin Cheon. Bin Lee. And now, I.
My manager, Minjun, was visibly stressed. He was constantly on the phone, trying to manage the narrative and prepare for the storm that would inevitably come once we were isolated on that remote island.
"Myeong, you need to read the script again," he urged, his voice tight. "We need to prepare for anything."
I knew he was right. My success depended on my performance, and my survival depended on my resolve. There was no going back now.
I felt my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a dull thudding that seemed impossibly loud in the small, stifling space. His eyes, dark and impossibly heavy, bore into mine, stripping away my practiced composure. I knew my own expression was a mess-a mix of surprise, panic, and a weary recognition of the trap I'd walked into.
I took a deep, shaky breath, letting it out slowly, trying to summon the professional veneer I usually wore like armor. This situation required a clean break, a decisive end before the threads of obligation could fully ensnare me.
"...EXCUSE ME, BUT I HAVE TO GO."
The words felt small and flimsy, like a paper shield against his overwhelming presence. I didn't wait for a response, my hands already fumbling for the handle of the door, a sudden, desperate urge to flee overriding all sense of decorum.
A sound, a low, almost dismissive exhalation, stopped me.
"HUH?"
It wasn't a question that sought an answer; it was a challenge, a single syllable weighted with disbelief and arrogance. I hesitated, my fingers gripping the cool metal of the handle. I risked a glance back, catching only the intense, focused depth of his gaze-a gaze that suggested my departure was not a request he was willing to entertain.
I opened my mouth to repeat myself, to offer a more formal excuse about a prior engagement or a sudden emergency, but he cut me off. His tone was now flat, the dangerous calm of a predator who knows its prey can't escape.
"THEN JUST SAY YOU'LL DO IT." His eyes narrowed slightly, a look of profound impatience settling on his face. "NO NEED TO MAKE IT ALL COMPLICATED."
His words implied a simplicity to the matter that I absolutely refused to accept. To "do it" meant to accept his terms, to submit to a contract I hadn't agreed to, one that would irrevocably alter my life and career. He spoke as if my freedom-my autonomy-was a needless complication, an obstruction to his will.
I took a step away from the door, turning fully to face him. The tension in the air was so thick it was almost painful to breathe.
"LEAVING ALREADY?"
The rhetorical question hung in the air, a final, barbed hook. It wasn't a warning; it was a statement. You are mine until I dismiss you. The casual ease with which he tried to exert this control made a sharp retort rise in my throat, but I bit it back. I knew that losing my temper would only solidify his perception of me as emotional and easily manipulated.
I stood there, silently, between the closed door and his unrelenting gaze, realizing that the real negotiation wasn't about the contract, but about who held the power in this room.