Across from the InterContinental Carlton, Cannes
The afternoon sun spilled gently across the cobblestone streets of Cannes, the golden light reflecting off the windows of the cafes that lined the boulevard.
Tourists strolled lazily along the promenade, their chatter mingling with the faint sound of the sea.
Inside a small coffee shop just across from the InterContinental Carlton Hotel, three men sat around a wooden table by the window.
They are Jihoon, Jiang Wen, and Han Sanping.
On the table sat a single cup of Americano, still steaming, and two green bottles of Perrier sparkling mineral water.
"Hiss.." With a sharp hiss, Jiang Wen twisted the cap off one bottle.
The sound of the carbonation escaping filled the air.
He took a quick sip, set it down, and said casually,
"Lee, coffee's not good for your health, you know."
"You should try Chinese tea instead. It's smoother, richer… and far healthier."
Jihoon chuckled softly. "Yeah, I've heard that before," he said, leaning back in his chair.
"But good Chinese tea isn't easy to find in Korea, let alone in L.A. And even if I do find it, it usually costs more than an entire bag of coffee beans."
Han Sanping smiled faintly, swirling his water before taking a sip.
"Well, Jiang has a point," he said. "If you enjoy tea, I can send you some Wuyi Da Hongpao tea when I return home."
Jihoon's eyes widened slightly.
He knew what that meant.
To an outsider, Han's offer might sound like polite hospitality — but to someone with Jihoon's understanding, especially after living two lifetimes, it carried an unspoken message.
In China, Wuyi Hongpao tea wasn't something just anyone could casually offer.
"That would be an honor," Jihoon replied carefully, matching the older man's tone. "If you're willing to share, it'd be my privilege to indulge in it."
Han let out a hearty laugh, waving his hand.
"Don't worry about it! Every year, I get a quota, although its isn't much but there's always a surplus left over for friends."
That single word, "quota" can told Jihoon everything.
He remembered reading about this article before in his previous life.
In China, certain luxury goods weren't simply bought, they were allocated to a privileged group of people. In fact, there was even a list that specified who received what, and in what amount.
And high-quality tea like Da Hongpao tea especially the one from the Wuyi Mountain wasn't available to the public.
Only select individuals like high-ranking officials, influential business figures, or those with significant contributions to the state could receive these "special supply" items also known as "Tegong(特供)".
To even have a yearly quota meant you were part of an inner circle — someone with access to China's most exclusive networks of power.
Jihoon nodded slowly, letting Han's words sink in.
"I see," he said softly, his tone polite but measured.
In truth, he was impressed.
He remembered that a single gram of top-grade Da Hongpao could sell for as much as $500.
Not to mention, the Tegong version had once been sold at an international auction in 2005, where a kilogram fetched an astonishing $68,000 USD.
Making it the most expensive tea in the world.
The brand wasn't just about taste, but about history, cause its tea trees had stood for more than 350 years, each leaf carrying centuries of prestige and legacy.
And Han Sanping right now wasn't just flaunting wealth, he was trying to show his social status, the kind that didn't need to be spoken aloud.
After a moment, Han placed his bottle down and shifted in his seat, his expression turning serious.
"Lee," he began, his voice calm but direct. "Let's talk about what we're really here for today."
Jihoon straightened a little.
"I'm here on behalf of China Film Group Corporation for the distribution rights of your film Buried in China."
For a moment, Jihoon blinked, slightly taken aback.
"Buried?" he asked. "You mean you want to bring Buried to China theaters?"
Han nodded.
Jihoon frowned slightly, his confusion genuine.
"With all due respect, Mr. Han," he began, "I'm not really the person who handles negotiations. Shouldn't this be something you discuss with Jim?"
Han chuckled. "Hahaha, don't worry about Jim," he said, waving his hand. "He knows how this works and he'll understand why I come directly to you."
Jihoon hesitated.
Something didn't add up.
"Alright then," he said carefully. "How about this you can give me your offer first, and I'll discuss it with Jim afterward."
He paused, then added in a quieter tone,
"But… if I may be honest, Mr. Han, I'm surprised."
"Because to my knowledge China isn't exactly known for importing films like Buried."
"Even though it doesn't have any graphic violence or explicit content, it's still part of my Horror Cinematic Universe, and I can't imagine it passing through your censorship system that easily."
That was putting it mildly.
Jihoon knew very well how rigorous China's film regulation system was.
Unlike in the West, where films were categorized by age ratings like PG, R, or NC-17, whereas China had no rating system at all.
A film was either approved for everyone, or it was banned entirely.
For local Chinese productions, the process was even more intricate.
Before shooting could even begin, filmmakers were required to submit their entire screenplay to the National Film Administration for approval.
Only after receiving the green light could production start.
And once the film was completed, it would undergo another round of inspection by the same department—evaluating whether it contained politically sensitive messages, socially harmful content, or depictions that conflicted with cultural values.
If approved, the film would then receive a certification stamp from the China Film Group Corporation (CFGC). A small but crucial logo that appeared before the opening credits, signifying that the film had been cleared for national release.
Without that logo, no theater in China could screen the film.
This process was already strict for domestic projects.
But for foreign films, the scrutiny was even tougher.
Any hint of political propaganda, religious themes, or LGBTQ representation could result in an outright ban.
Just like, Marvel's Eternals was barred from release in 2021 due to its inclusion of LGBTQ characters, and also Thor: Love and Thunder met the same fate in 2022 for similar reasons.
To many outsiders, these restrictions appeared to limit artistic freedom and freedom of speech.
But to understand China's position, one had to look deeper, beyond politics and into the cultural philosophy that shaped the nation's values.
Traditional Chinese thought, deeply rooted in Daoist philosophy, revolves around the concept of Yin and Yang.
They are an idea of balance and harmony sustain the natural order.
Where Yin represents femininity, softness, and darkness.
And Yang represents masculinity, strength, and light.
Together, they form a unified whole.
Now translate it in a worldview, the balance between Yin and Yang are just like between man and woman, dark and light, old and new—is essential for societal harmony.
Thus, when modern ideologies like LGBTQ representation entered the public discourse, many within China, both government and it's citizens saw it not just as a political issue, but as a cultural imbalance, something that clashed with the nation's centuries-old philosophical foundations.
Whether one agreed or not, it wasn't just about censorship—it was about preserving an inherited worldview, one that had guided Chinese society for millennia.
Given these realities, Jihoon couldn't help but wonder why someone like Han—the current chairman's from CFGC would want to import a film like Buried.
It wasn't political or controversial, but it was undeniably part of his Horror Cinematic Universe (HCU). A series that subtly intertwined supernatural and psychological horror themes, placing it squarely within the boundaries of China's restrictive film policies.
And if Chinese audiences watched Buried, they'd inevitably notice the easter egg scene Jihoon had hidden at the end—a cryptic clue linking it to the previous films in the HCU.
That small detail could ignite curiosity, prompting viewers to seek out the earlier installments and anticipate the next ones.
And that, by Chinese standards, could become a problem—it encouraged audiences to consume more unapproved foreign content.
Even if Buried itself passed the censors, its connections to the larger franchise could easily contradict the country's import film policies.
After all, once curiosity was sparked, nothing could stop viewers from buying DVDs or streaming the earlier films from overseas.
In a sense, approving Buried would be like helping Jihoon advertise his Horror Cinematic Universe (HCU) in China—something that offered the CFGC little reward beyond box office revenue, yet carried the potential for significant bureaucratic complications later on.
It didn't quite make sense.
And that was precisely what made Han's proposal so intriguing to Jihoon.
Sure, Jihoon was confident that Buried would perform well.
It had the kind of universal tension and storytelling that could captivate any audience.
He knew it would generate huge profits for both him and whichever distributor handled it.
But still, a question lingered in his mind.
Why would the CFGC risk all that bureaucratic red tape, just for a box office hit?
Something about this deal felt too deliberate, too calculated.
There had to be more to Han's visit than simple business.