The meeting room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of papers. My hands, clasped loosely in front of me, felt clammy despite the cool air. The Director—a man whose reputation preceded him, stern and notoriously difficult—flipped through a stack of documents. My heart hammered, each beat a silent plea for a chance.
"I did like you the best out of all of them…" he finally said, his gaze briefly lifting from the pages. "...And it seems like you have a good understanding of the film."
A cautious wave of relief washed over me, immediately followed by the need for confirmation. "Self-Immolation," I repeated, testing the title on my tongue. "That's the title you came up with?"
"Yes."
He paused, a tiny, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. The suspense was unbearable. I held my breath, waiting.
"Well done. You got the role."
A soft sound escaped my lips—a small gasp, a quiet "HMM." It was real. After everything, the grueling auditions, the self-doubt, the endless preparation... I had the role.
He leaned back, his eyes scrutinizing me with an intensity that felt both approving and unnerving. "I like you more than I thought," he confessed.
My elation suddenly cooled. He was a powerful man, and I knew the rumors that followed him. I had to know where I stood. I was the one who had impressed him—I couldn't be naive.
"...What?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
His expression hardened, devoid of any warmth. The smile was gone. "You didn't think that you were the only actress I met with, did you?"
The blow landed, sharp and quick. All the actresses, all the hopes, all the compromises. It was a cold reminder of the industry I was in.
He moved then, pushing a small, neatly wrapped gift bag across the desk towards me. I stared at it, confused.
"Here."
"...What's this?"
"It's a gift," he said, his voice returning to a neutral, professional tone. He seemed to brush off his previous statement as if it were a meaningless anecdote. "I thought you'd look nice with your hair up."
I looked down at the bag, then back at his face—a complex mixture of professional judgment and something more unsettling. This industry was always transactional, always a test. The role was mine, but the game was clearly not over.
He watched me, his chin resting on his hand. "I'll apologize for what happened that day."
His apology hung in the air, a final, ambiguous note to the meeting. It was an acknowledgment, a concession, and perhaps another subtle layer of control. I knew the apology wasn't for the role, but for a past incident, a hurdle he expected me to forgive or overlook.
I met his gaze, my composure regained. I had the role. The rest, I decided, was noise.
The news spread like wildfire. A phone screen lit up with a headline: "Auteur Director Jin Cheon to film new movie Self-immolation with Bin Lee and Myeong Yu."
I stared at the image of myself next to the famous actor, Bin Lee. I had done it. I had survived the audition and secured the lead role opposite one of the industry's biggest stars.
The memory of the audition was still a raw, ugly scar.
The Audition
It had been an audition.
The room was dark, smoky, and far from the professional setting I'd expected. It wasn't just Director Jin Cheon there; there was another man, a hulking figure with a slicked-back hairstyle and an expensive, vulgar shirt—Bin Lee's manager, perhaps, or a producer.
The Director watched, silent, as the other man fixed his eyes on me.
"Take your shirt off and do a turn," the man demanded. The words hung in the stale air, thick with power and predatory intent.
I looked at Jin Cheon. He sat behind the table, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his expression unreadable. He made no move to stop the producer, or whoever this man was. He was simply observing my reaction to the situation that would arise…
My heart pounded, but a strange, cold resolve settled over me. This was the test. Not a test of talent, but of will. I moved, but not to comply. I leaned forward, my face inches from the leering man.
"Then I'll give it to you. Before I tell everyone there's a f*cking pervert in here."
It was a reckless move, a self-immolation of my own career, but I couldn't stop the words. I was prepared to lose everything right there.
The producer was stunned into silence. Jin Cheon finally spoke, stubbing out his cigarette. He was observing me—my defiance, my raw, unscripted reaction.
He was looking for an actor that would best suit this project—a role where I clearly had to embody an actress pushed to the very brink. Director Jin Cheon was well aware of what Bin Lee was like... he knew the situation was a calculated risk. And I, somehow, had passed the real test.
The Next Meeting
Months passed. Now, I stood opposite the Director on a sunlit rooftop terrace, preparing for a press event. The air here was filled with neither goodwill nor hostility. It was just a cold, professional vacuum.
I took a drag from my cigarette, my eyes narrowed against the harsh light, when he approached.
"Your hair."
"Oh…" I looked down, momentarily forgetting the previous, odd exchange.
"Why didn't you put it up?"
The question was laced with the same unsettling authority as when he'd gifted me the hair tie—the one with the white ribbon, still sitting in its box at home.
I knew he wasn't asking about my hairstyle. He was testing my obedience. He was testing my recognition of his authority, the one who had given me the gift, the one who had given me the role.
He leaned in, his gaze chilly as ever… piercing through me. He was judging my readiness to commit to his vision, down to the smallest detail.
"Tie your hair up the next time we meet," he commanded, not as a request, but as a direction.
I simply nodded, taking another slow puff of smoke, refusing to let my composure crack.
"I look forward to working with you."
It wasn't a promise of a pleasant collaboration; it felt more like a warning. The man who apologized for an awful incident was the same man who used that incident as an audition tool and now demanded control over my appearance.
The world saw a famous director and a rising star. I saw an ongoing, high-stakes game.
I had to admit, the Director's request had burrowed into my mind. I couldn't shake the image of the ribboned hair tie. It was a small detail, but it was his detail, and in his world, compliance meant understanding the role.
Today, before the preliminary script reading, I stood on the rooftop, my heart still racing from the Director's previous scrutiny. I quickly pulled my long hair into a high ponytail, securing it with a simple black band, not the white ribbon he'd gifted.
"Huh?" I adjusted it, catching my reflection. My mind was already racing, connecting this small gesture to the character. "Bido always wears her hair in a ponytail. He sure has a lot to say about someone else's hair…"
The Director approached. His gaze immediately locked onto my updo.
"Do you want me to tie it up for you?" he asked, stepping closer. The casual intimacy of the question sent a nervous flutter through me, and I took a step back.
"NO! I can do it..." I stammered, pulling the elastic tighter. I didn't want him that close, that hands-on. His control was already pervasive enough.
He watched me, a faint, satisfied half-smile returning. He moved on to the real topic.
"From now on until the end of filming, you're Bido Lee."
It was a total immersion demand. A method. A complete surrender to the character.
The Dynamic of Self-Immolation
The script reading began, and the roles, the characters, and the deep, toxic conflicts they embodied came to life.
"In Self-Immolation, there's Bido Lee, who's the character that I play…" I mused, looking down at my hands. The heavy, gaudy gold ring that the man who tormented me during the audition had worn flashed in my memory. He must have been playing Mr. Shin.
Then, I looked up at the older actor, the one whose picture had been next to Director Jin Cheon's in the news article: Bin Lee. He was a handsome man, sophisticated, and utterly aloof. He was playing the antagonist.
"...and Mr. Shin, who's played by Bin Lee," I finished, feeling a chill.
During a break, the conversation became far too real, crossing the line between the film's fiction and the industry's ugly truth. The producer—the man from the audition room, the one with the ring, whom I now knew was also part of the production—leaned toward the Director.
"...Jin, ever gonna get married?" he slurred, adjusting the expensive fabric of his jacket.
Director Jin Cheon's face remained neutral, but his response was sharp. "What are you bringing that up for?"
The producer waved a dismissive hand, then looked toward me and Bin Lee with a world-weary sigh. "Sigh... Don't ever get married…"
My attention, however, was fixed on the fidgeting producer's hand. The ring was still there. I realized that the personal, toxic commentary was part of the very atmosphere of the film.
A voice-over track played in my mind, a summary of the characters' core conflict: Bido loathes Mr. Shin… and Mr. Shin is indifferent to her.
I knew this was my task: to capture the quiet, searing resentment of Bido Lee.
When the producer finished his rant, he looked at me, expecting some kind of deferential nod.
I simply stated, coolly, my resolve cemented by the role and the constant pressure: "I'll make my own decisions, thanks."
I was Myeong, the actress, but I was also Bido Lee. I would be compliant when it served the art, defiant when it served my survival.
The script reading was tense. Bin Lee, playing Mr. Shin, was fidgeting constantly, his eyes darting away from the table. The conversation about marriage had clearly unsettled him.
Director Jin Cheon, ever the observer, noticed my distraction as I watched Bin Lee.
"Why don't you just focus?" Jin Cheon's voice was sharp, pulling me back to the present. He wasn't just directing me; he was challenging me to fully embody Bido Lee, the woman who loathed Mr. Shin, the woman who had no time for his personal dramas.
My inner voice narrated the core theme of the film, a grim prophecy hanging over us all: They both long for things they can never have… and it burns them up.
Bin Lee sighed, sinking into his chair. "I really envy you, Jin. I wanna be free too…" he mumbled, the word 'free' hanging heavy with the weight of his obvious confinement.
The tension was broken by a sudden, polite KNOCK at the door.
Before anyone could answer, the door flew OPEN.
"EXCUSE ME."
It was a woman. Stylishly dressed, but her face was etched with fury and desperation. Her eyes were fixed squarely on Bin Lee.
Bin Lee's composure shattered. He bolted upright, sweat beading on his forehead. "BABY?! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE…?!"
The Director and I watched, paralyzed. This was not a scene from the script; this was real life, leaking a toxic torrent into our controlled environment.
Bin Lee tried to laugh it off, a panicked, nervous sound. "You must be so busy! I hope there wasn't too much traffic?! You could have waited to see me at home, not when I'm working, haha!"
But the woman, whom he had called "Baby," wasn't laughing. Her eyes were burning with pure, concentrated rage. The kind of rage that comes from being locked away, from being lied to, from longing for something you can never have—the very theme of the movie.
A terrible, loud thought hit me: Is she his wife? Is this the 'marriage' that the producer warned us about?
The woman stepped closer, her expression turning monstrous.
"...EVER COME HOME!!!" she screamed, delivering a fierce KICK to Bin Lee's side.
Bin Lee crumpled, the expensive patterned shirt doing nothing to cushion the blow. The professional environment was shattered, replaced by a violent, domestic hell.
Jin Cheon, ever the Director, sat unmoved, observing the visceral, unscripted drama. He was seeing the human self-immolation play out right in front of him—the desperate act of someone setting fire to their life just to escape.
A calm, middle-aged woman, perhaps Bin Lee's actual manager, rushed in. "...BIN, CAN YOU COME OUTSIDE FOR A SEC?" She tried to intervene, but the fire had already started.
I looked down at my hand resting on the table, noticing the small, simple ring I wore—a piece of cheap costume jewelry for the Bido Lee look.
Bin Lee finally staggered to his feet, staring at his enraged wife who was ready to tear him apart. He flinched, then glanced back at me, the actress he was supposed to share the screen with.
Did you miss me that much—? he seemed to ask with a miserable glance.
My inner reply was cold and absolute, the voice of Bido Lee:
"NO, BECAUSE… …YOU DON'T…"
You don't exist to me. You are only Mr. Shin. And in this film, like in this moment, you are being consumed by your own fire.
I had been chosen because I understood the film. And now, I was watching the raw, ugly source material play out in the conference room. I was ready to film.
"Have you ever heard of Seoyeon?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper against the hum of the quiet hallway. The man beside me, Mr. Kim, looked at me with his usual detached gaze.
"By Seoyeon, you mean... the world-famous artist?" His tone was flat, but I could sense a flicker of interest. Everyone knew the name Seoyeon.
I nodded, feeling a strange mix of judgment and pity for the person we were discussing. "Her real name is Yeonhui Seo. She's the daughter of the chairman of the Yeonhui Cultural Foundation. He's also the director of the Yeonhui Art Museum." I paused, letting the weight of that lineage sink in. A pedigree almost no one could rival.
Mr. Kim's eyes widened slightly. "So that woman just now... is Yeonhui Seo?"
"Yes," I confirmed, a bitter taste in my mouth. "She's too good for Bin, huh? Although, even aside from that, this marriage is way beyond what Bin deserves."
He shifted uncomfortably, pulling his arms in close. "Marriage isn't for me..." he muttered, shivering slightly.
I looked at him, recalling his past professional choices. "You've worked with Bin on all of your films, right?"
"Why?" he countered, his expression darkening as he met my gaze.
"Why him? Because you find it fun," I said, a knowing smirk playing on my lips. He was always drawn to things that challenged him, things that were a spectacle. The marriage of Bin and Yeonhui Seo was certainly that.
He didn't deny it. "It's fun. It was so exciting just now, too."
The conversation had turned from Bin's undeserved marriage to his current predicament—being trapped in a room with a wife who clearly dominated him.
I thought of Bin, imagining the scene unfolding behind the closed doors. That pathetic plea for forgiveness, his face contorted in sheer despair. He'll probably never be able to get divorced on his own volition. It was the same with his marriage, too. Just like that other time, when he was on his knees before his wife, a picture of absolute terror.
"I'm imagining what's going on inside that meeting room..." I mused, staring at the opaque glass walls. "...what the mood will be like in the car on the ride home..."
Bin was going to suffer, and a part of me—a dark, truthful part—was entertained by the idea of the drama his elite, arranged marriage brought into our mundane lives. It was simply one more spectacle.
"...and how they'll make up. The story writes itself," Mr. Kim murmured, his eyes glittering with a predatory amusement that always unnerved me. He found drama everywhere, especially in the misery of others.
"And there's always been fun incidents with actresses," he added, flashing that casual, knowing smile.
I hugged my own arms tighter, still shaking slightly, and countered quickly, "...It wasn't very fun to me."
He shrugged off my discomfort. "If you want to survive in this industry, you gotta go with the flow. Just enjoy it."
I hated that advice. That passive acceptance of the ugly things that happened behind the scenes. I looked at him with an honest plea. "Staying grounded... what does that mean?"
"That's something only you can figure out," he replied, the sage-like tone failing to mask the coldness in his eyes. "As long as you stay grounded, it doesn't matter what happens." He saw only his own path, a trajectory of calculated chaos, and assumed I should follow suit.
I was about to press him further when the glass door to the meeting room slid open.
"Oh, that was fast," Mr. Kim commented.
Bin stumbled out, looking absolutely dreadful, his expensive shirt rumpled and a shadow of panic in his eyes. Trailing behind him was his wife, Yeonhui Seo, followed by a sharply dressed woman whom I recognized as his manager, Director Cheon.
Bin's manager stepped forward, addressing Mr. Kim with a deep bow. "I'm sorry, Director Cheon… but is it alright if we head home?"
Mr. Kim gave a practiced, polite smile. "Oh, of course. We were about to wrap up anyway."
Yeonhui Seo paused, her back straight and her presence commanding. She looked at Mr. Kim, offering a cool, minimalist thanks. "Thank you. Oh, and... Miss Myeong Yu."
My heart jumped. She used my name. I felt every eye in the hallway on me—Mr. Kim, Director Cheon, and especially Bin.
Yeonhui Seo turned her glacial gaze to me, her voice cutting through the silence like a stiletto. "I heard you're Eunmil's muse."
Before I could even process the loaded name—Eunmil was a very famous, very controversial director—she delivered the final blow.
"Have you slept with my husband yet?"
The air felt thin. My mouth went dry, and I could only manage a stunned silence. No, I haven't, I wanted to scream, but the words caught in my throat.
From behind her, a voice exploded in a desperate, high-pitched shriek. It was Bin. He shoved past his manager, his face contorted in a comical mask of terror and forced sincerity.
"BABY!! DON'T WORRY!" he wailed, flinging his hands up as if to fend off her suspicion. The sight of the director of films and museums behaving like a hysterical child was sickening. "She's not my type at all! I'm not even gonna bother with her...!"
Yeonhui Seo didn't flinch. She just turned her head and, in a low, dangerous tone, delivered the single word that silenced him instantly.
"Shut up."
I watched them leave—the terrifying wife, the sobbing director, and the professional manager—a hurricane of power and humiliation retreating down the hall. I stood there, feeling exposed and utterly degraded by the assumption, by Bin's cheap public denial, and by Mr. Kim's silent, assessing stare.
Yeonhui Seo's question—"Have you slept with my husband yet?"—echoed in the polished hallway even after she turned her back and walked away, dragging her pathetic husband along like a spoiled puppet.
I was left standing there, numb and exposed, the silence now deafening. I looked at Mr. Kim, searching for some form of solidarity or reassurance, but he just watched the retreating figures with that familiar, analytical expression.
Then, the second woman, Bin's manager and Yeonhui Seo's companion—Director Cheon—stopped directly in front of me. She wore a severe expression, her glasses perched low on her nose, giving her a look of piercing intelligence.
"I've met him and his partner before... because of work," I stammered, scrambling to offer some context, some explanation for why I was even in their orbit. I wanted her to know I was professional, not a mistress.
She studied me, her eyes moving over my face and my clothes. "But I've never seen you before." Her tone was neither aggressive nor kind; it was simply a statement of fact, weighted with suspicion.
"What's your deal?" I asked, frustration finally breaking through my stunned silence. Why are you scrutinizing me? Why the hostile questions?
Director Cheon didn't answer my question. Instead, she took her own path, following the cold logic of the rumors Yeonhui Seo had introduced.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Then did you sleep with Eunmil?"
The unexpected question hit me like a physical blow. Bin's messy marriage was one thing, but dragging up Director Eunmil's name—a man synonymous with scandalous art and even more scandalous private life—was something else entirely. It was a complete derailment.
"...WHAT?!" I cried out, my voice cracking. Tears welled in my eyes from the shock and the sheer unfairness of the interrogation. Am I really being judged by this woman based on whispers and associations?
It wasn't just an accusation; it was an attempt to categorize me, to place me neatly into a box of 'actress muse' or 'affair partner.' It was a dismissal of my real work, my struggles, and my existence outside of their celebrity gossip.
I stood there, trembling, feeling the sting of the implication, utterly degraded by the assumption that any professional relationship I held with a powerful man must be sexual.
Director Cheon watched my reaction impassively, taking note of the tear tracks forming on my cheeks. She had thrown a bomb and was now observing the fallout. The silence stretched, thick with judgment and unspoken threat.