The mop dragged across the marble floor with a soft squeak. Fluorescent lights buzzed above like tired insects, and the echo of distant laughter from the acting students filtered through the long hallway.
Ahn Jae-yun, dressed in a grey janitor uniform two sizes too large, crouched beside a bucket, wringing out dirty water with practiced ease. It was nearly midnight. Everyone had gone home—except for him.
The posters lining the walls were faded and peeling—scenes from student films, festival awards, and black-and-white headshots of graduates who had moved on to drama schools or minor TV gigs.
Jae-yun paused in front of one particular poster. A still from "The Last Silence." The actor's face in the frame was twisted in grief, mouth open in a scream—but his eyes were utterly still.
Jae-yun stared at it for a long time. Then, slowly, his lips parted. His body stiffened, just slightly. A soundless scream. Perfectly mirrored.
He looked away and moved on, but the expression lingered in his eyes like an echo.
---
In the supply closet, he unlocked a small metal box hidden behind stacked bleach bottles. Inside were dozens of old DVDs and a dusty portable player. Films from the 60s, Korean noir, silent French cinema, war dramas. No one had used DVDs in years. But Jae-yun wasn't anyone.
He placed a scratched disc into the player, sat on a crate, and stared into the screen, completely still.
On the screen: a soldier clutching his dying brother in a trench, rain pouring, bullets flying.
On the crate: Jae-yun mirrored every movement, every breath, every tremble. His hand mimicked holding a body. His eyes flooded—not with real tears, but with tears that came from somewhere much deeper than pain.
Somewhere beneath identity.
---
Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from down the hallway. Jae-yun blinked and rushed to check.
In the rehearsal room, the student crew from the acting department was still filming. An actor stormed off set, shouting, "I can't do this! Your scene makes no sense!"
The director, a stressed third-year named Yeon, kicked over a prop stool. "We're supposed to submit this tomorrow! What am I supposed to do now?!"
Then his eyes landed on Jae-yun, who stood awkwardly near the door with his mop.
"Hey… you. Janitor guy. You're about his height. You ever acted before?"
Jae-yun hesitated. "…No."
"Perfect," Yeon said, dragging him forward. "You don't need to. Just follow the lines. We'll shoot from the side. One take."
Jae-yun stood stiffly in front of the camera. The room buzzed with lights, heat, and rolling lenses.
"Okay, you're playing the brother. He's dying. You have to watch him go and say goodbye. Got it?"
"…Got it," Jae-yun whispered.
---
"Sound, rolling."
"Camera, rolling."
"Scene 3, take 12—action!"
And then… something changed.
Jae-yun's posture shifted. His eyes locked on the imaginary body in his arms. His hand trembled, lips parted as if to speak—but no words came.
He looked at the dying brother that wasn't there like he had known him forever. Like he had lost him before.
The room went completely silent. Even the director forgot to say "cut."
When Jae-yun finally spoke, it was a whisper, hoarse and real:
"Don't go. Not yet… please."
The camera operator teared up. The boom mic guy lowered the mic by instinct. Yeon dropped the clipboard.
The janitor had become the scene.
---
"CUT!" someone shouted.
But no one moved. No one breathed.
For one moment, the forgotten janitor was not just seen.
He was unforgettable.