The next morning, Jihoon woke up earlier than usual.
The Mediterranean sun slipped through the hotel curtains, scattering light across the room like shards of gold.
He rubbed his eyes, still half-dazed from the previous night's exhaustion.
Cannes wasn't just a film festival, it was more like a battlefield disguised as glamour.
After a quick breakfast—a croissant, black coffee, and a few spoonfuls of scrambled eggs he barely tasted—he joined Jim in the lobby.
Technically, it was Jim who had the packed schedule today.
Jihoon was merely tagging along.
The second day of Buried's screening was about to begin, and while Jihoon was the director, Jim was the one doing the heavy lifting behind the scenes.
Meetings, negotiations, distribution talks, deals over champagne—it was all Jim's arena.
As the producer spearheading Buried, Jim had to juggle conversations with film traders, studio representatives, and international distributors.
His goal was simple but brutal: to sell the film's distribution rights at the highest possible value.
To do that, he needed to gather insider information, understand who was buying what, and know how far each studio was willing to go.
Jihoon, on the other hand, was more like the festival's mascot—a trophy face of success.
Everyone smiled at him, toasted him, called him "visionary," but when it came down to real business, the room always belonged to foxes like Jim.
And Jihoon, wise enough to know his place, understood one golden rule of survival in the film world:
When facing cunning foxes, send a bigger fox to hunt them down.
And Jim Gianopulos—well, he was exactly that kind of fox.
Cannes in the morning had its own rhythm.
It wasn't the same dazzling spectacle as the red carpets and evening premieres.
Instead, it felt like a busy flea market for films.
Producers, agents, and distributors moved in swarms, clutching laptops and pitch folders, their faces tense and calculating.
It was like the early hours of a local market—except instead of vegetables and fish, people were bartering in ideas, dreams, and cinematic visions.
Everyone was chasing the next Parasite, the next Slumdog Millionaire, the next film that could sweep both the Oscars and the box office.
As Jihoon and Jim walked through the lobby, they were suddenly stopped by a familiar voice.
"Lee! You got me waiting, man!"
Jihoon turned and blinked in confusion.
Approaching him was Jiangwen, dressed casually but exuding that effortless charisma only seasoned filmmakers carried.
Behind him stood a small entourage of men, one of whom looked vaguely familiar—a man with a calm but commanding presence.
"Jiang?" Jihoon greeted, surprised. "No one told me you were waiting."
Jiang laughed heartily and slapped Jihoon's shoulder. "My bad. It was a sudden thing."
He turned to gesture at the older man beside him. "Oh, right—I should introduce you. This is Mr. Han Sanping, chairman of China Film Group Corporation."
He then looked toward the older man. "Mr. Han, this is Lee Jihoon from Korea—the one I told you about and also the founder of JH Corporation."
At that moment, Jihoon realized why the man's face felt so familiar.
He quickly straightened his posture and extended his hand respectfully.
"It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Han," Jihoon said sincerely. "I've heard so much about your work, especially your efforts in developing China's film industry."
Han Sanping smiled—a rare kind of smile that carried both wisdom and weight.
When Jihoon shook his hand, he could feel the quiet authority of someone who had built an empire from scratch.
Jihoon wasn't just being polite.
He genuinely admired Han Sanping.
In his past life—before fate had thrown him back into 2006—Han was regarded as a legend.
Some called him the "Titan of Chinese Cinema," others a "necessary bandit."
To Hollywood executives, he was known by a different nickname altogether—the Gatekeeper of China.
Under his leadership, the China Film Group had transformed from a hollow bureaucratic entity into a cinematic powerhouse.
When he first took the helm, China's film industry was practically barren.
At the time, the entire country—spanning 9.6 million square kilometers and housing 1.3 billion people—had only 1,500 movie screens.
One screen per 850,000 people.
It was absurd.
But through his relentless push and risky policies, Han changed everything.
By the time he stepped down, China boasted over 50,000 screens—an expansion so rapid that it left even Hollywood in awe.
Of course, the road hadn't been clean.
Han had made enemies, both domestic and international.
His policies to protect the local film market were… aggressive, to say the least.
He famously introduced the "Foreign Film Quota System," limiting the number of Hollywood releases each year and setting specific months for their screenings in China.
On paper, it sounded like economic policy.
In practice, it was a bloodbath.
Imagine—if March, April, and June were the only months that foreign films could be released in China, that meant ten Hollywood blockbusters competing for the same audience in the same month.
Mission: Impossible, Avengers, Lord of the Rings, Avatar—all fighting each other for a limited box office pie.
It was a cage fight with no survivors.
From a Western perspective, it was tyranny.
But from an Eastern one, it was strategy.
The policy forced the domestic film industry to grow by protecting local filmmakers from being drowned by the Hollywood tide.
So yes—Han bent rules, crossed lines, and used state leverage to carve a place for China in global cinema.
But the results were undeniable.
He became a titan.
And a target.
Eventually, jealous rivals and foreign lobbyists began to smear his name—accusations of corruption, abuse of power, and mismanagement flew in from all directions.
Whether true or not, the noise became too loud for the government to ignore.
He was quietly forced into retirement, left to watch others to take the credit for the empire he had built.
Jihoon knew all this. And he respected the hell out of him for it.
Back in the present, Jihoon introduced the man beside him. "Mr. Han, this is my producer, Jim Gianopulos."
Before Jihoon could finish, the two men burst into laughter and hugged each other like old war buddies.
"You fat bastard!" Han roared. "It's been ages! Still playing the Hollywood game, I see!"
Jim laughed, equally boisterous. "And you're still bald as ever, you old fox!"
Jihoon blinked in surprise. "You two know each other?"
"Of course," Jim said. "We go way back—before he even became chairman of CFGC."
No wonder, Jihoon thought. It made perfect sense.
Jim, being a top executive at Fox, would naturally have crossed paths with someone like Han during the early years of international film collaboration.
As the laughter died down, Han gestured toward the hotel cafe. "Why don't we find somewhere to talk properly? I won't take much of your time."
Jim checked his watch, grimacing slightly. "Han, I'd love to, but I'm already booked solid today. Got three meetings lined up before noon."
"How about dinner tonight? We can catch up properly."
Han nodded, smiling knowingly. "Of course, of course. I came unannounced anyway. Dinner it is, then."
Then he turned his gaze toward Jihoon. "Mr. Lee, if you're not too busy, may I borrow a few minutes of your time now?"
Jihoon blinked, caught off guard. He had assumed Han was here to talk business with Jim, not him.
Jim grinned, clapping Jihoon on the shoulder. "Go ahead, kid. I'll handle the meetings. You'd just get bored in those anyway."
"Yeah, yeah," Jihoon muttered. "Just don't sell my kidneys while I'm gone."
Jim laughed. "No promises."
And just like that, Jim disappeared into the crowd, leaving Jihoon alone with one of Asia's most powerful men in cinema.