Life, Jihoon thought, had a thousand meanings or maybe more.
Just like Alicia Keys singing her old tune.
Some people live for the fortune,
Some people live just for the fame,
Some people live for the power,
Some people live just to play the game.
Steam curled lazily from the coffee machine, blurring the air like an old photograph.
The rhythmic hiss of boiling water filled the quiet space.
Drops of condensation rolled down the metallic surface, landing with soft plinks against the tray.
Jihoon sat still, his hands wrapped loosely around a porcelain cup.
A faint coffee stain traced the rim — a quiet reminder of the decision he would have to make today.
Whether it turned out to be good or bad, honest or manipulative, this was one of those moments that would mark a turning point.
And deep down, he already sensed the answer hidden between Han Sanping's carefully chosen words.
Because after a long thought of Han's laid out the proposal, Jihoon knew that the offer wasn't about importing the film.
It was about importing him.
Because Han wasn't after Buried, he was after Jihoon Lee.
The logic was simple.
Buried, as a film, could technically pass through China's tight restrictions of screening policy.
It had no gore and explicit content.
But the next sequel in the Horror Cinematic Universe?
That would be impossible.
It would be classified as "restricted" under China's censorship guidelines the moment anyone noticed its horror threads.
That meant Buried was just a pretext.
Han Sanping wasn't chasing a movie deal — he was chasing the man who making it.
Jihoon leaned back, his brow slightly furrowed.
The logic fit, but the motive didn't.
Why would the Chairman of the China Film Group Corporation (CFGC) go through such trouble?
What did Han really stand to gain?
As if reading his thoughts, Han had given a faint smile earlier and said,
"By now, you should understand that my purpose isn't really about your film, right?"
Jihoon nodding silently, signaling him to continue.
Han's expression softened, and he spoke in a tone that was almost reflective.
"Lee," he began, "do you know… sometimes, I envy your country — Korea."
Jihoon raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Han continued, his gaze steady. "Do you know your film Secret was imported under my direct order?"
That caught Jihoon slightly off guard. He hadn't expected that kind of personal involvement.
"You are," Han said, leaning forward, "the youngest Palme d'Or winner in history. The second Asian to ever win an award at the Oscars. And you hold the highest box office record in Asia."
He paused, his voice carrying the weight of admiration. "Do you realize what that means?"
He let the words linger between them like incense smoke.
"If we're talking from an Asia region perspective," Han went on, "your success doesn't belong to Korea alone — it lifts the entire region."
"You've no idea how much confidence your films have brought to Asian filmmakers."
"Your success gave proof that quality from the East could challenge the West — not as an imitation, but as a voice of its own."
He smiled faintly, almost wistfully. "Don't think I'm exaggerating."
"Do you know how many investors and filmmakers across Asia were motivated after your films screened here?"
"Just look at the numbers — last year alone, China increased its theater screens by 1,500. And across Asia, the total number rose by over sixty percent compared to the year before."
"And that's all because of your impact."
Han chuckled dryly, shaking his head. "So yes, I'm jealous. Jealous that you're Korean, not Chinese. Jealous that Jim — that old fox from LA — was the one who found you first."
Jihoon stayed silent.
Han's words hung in the air.
Measured, deliberate, and far from empty.
There was sincerity in his tone, yes, but it was laced with something else..
An undertone that Jihoon couldn't ignore.
Beneath the polite phrasing and diplomatic warmth, Jihoon could hear the faint echo of strategy.
From the subtle cues, the phrasing, and the current global tension between America and China, Jihoon could easily grasp Han's true intention.
This wasn't about a film.
It was about power, influence, and reclaiming cultural ground.
Han wasn't just trying to import Jihoon's movie—he was trying to import him.
To bring Jihoon into China's creative ecosystem, to use his name, reputation, and artistry to strengthen their global media presence.
That was the real agenda behind Han's "invitation."
And the way he said he regretted not being the one who discovered Jihoon first only confirmed it.
If Han had been in Jim's position years ago, Jihoon thought, he probably would've done exactly the same thing.
Jim had flown halfway across the world to Seoul after seeing Jihoon's Secret and Your Name.
He'd taken a gamble on an novice Korean director and brought him to Hollywood.
Han could have done it too—had he recognized that spark in time.
But that was the cruel truth of life.
The difference between success and regret often came down to one simple thing: timing.
Timing, Jihoon thought, was everything.
Han Sanping, as chairman of the China Film Group Corporation, wasn't a man who chased profit for himself.
His track record spoke of ambition far larger than money—it was about legacy.
He wanted to be remembered as the man who elevated China's film industry, who made it stand shoulder to shoulder with Hollywood, not crouch beneath it.
To achieve that, he needed a figure—a symbol.
Someone who could merge artistry with commercial success, who could make the impossible believable again.
And that someone, in Han's eyes, was Jihoon.
That was why Han had come here today—not to discuss a single film, but to make a proposition that could change the direction of both their lives.
He wasn't here to buy Buried, Jihoon's latest horror masterpiece.
He was here to buy faith—in the idea that Jihoon could do for China what he'd already done for Korea and Hollywood.
Yet, even as Han spoke about Asian unity and cultural pride, Jihoon could sense another motive glinting beneath the surface.
It wasn't greed—at least not the financial kind. It was ambition.
Political ambition.
Han wasn't just a producer or an industry head.
He was a man with a foot on the ladder of power, climbing toward the upper echelons of influence.
Every success under his watch—every international co-production, every award, every foreign partnership—was another rank up for his political carrer.
If Jihoon accepted the invitation, it would be more than just a business deal.
It would become a golden trophy on Han's record, undeniable proof that he could merge art, commerce, and politics into a single, flawless narrative.
It wasn't hard to imagine how it would unfold.
With Jihoon on board, CFGC would instantly rise to the center of Asian cinema.
International attention would shift eastward, and suddenly, Beijing would become the new hub of global filmmaking.
Han's reputation would soar.
The government would hail him as the visionary who brought Chinese cinema to the world stage.
But for Jihoon, it wouldn't be that simple.
If he aligned himself too closely with China, he would inevitably become a target of criticism from the West.
The same media that once praised his bold vision might start questioning his loyalty, framing his move as political rather than creative.
And Han knew that.
In fact, that was part of the gamble.
If things went well, he would secure his legacy—and perhaps even a higher seat within the Ministry of Culture. But if things went wrong, Jihoon would take the heat first, not him.
That, Jihoon realized, was how the game worked.
No matter how polished, refined, or humble someone appeared on the surface, everyone was chasing something—power, influence, validation, or survival.
It was just that some people were better at hiding it than others.
For Han Sanping, it was power—not just over film, but over narrative, image, and legacy.
For Jihoon... he wasn't so sure anymore.
He leaned back slightly, staring at the cup of coffee cooling beside him. The surface had stopped steaming, but faint ripples still moved across it—like echoes of thoughts he couldn't quiet down.
If it's were the year of 2006, decisions had been easier.
He made films because he had to—because stories burned inside him, demanding to be told.
Back then, everything was pure.
Simple.
But now, things were different.
The higher he climbed, the more political every move became.
Every partnership came with an agenda. Every handshake had a price.
Maybe that was what Han represented—not temptation, but inevitability.
Because when you stood at crossroad, the road is no longer your choose to make, but which side you'd choose.
Just like the six door of life— each representing a human's truest pursuit.
And now, sitting in that dim cafe with the smell of roasted beans hanging heavy in the air, he thought about those doors.
The Door of Greed — for those who crave wealth beyond need. The ones who measure their worth by numbers and zeros.
The Door of Power — the one Han Sanping had opened, walking confidently toward control and influence.
The Door of Fame — a stage lit by applause and attention, a trap disguised as adoration.
The Door of Knowledge — for the curious, the thinkers, those who seek to understand the how and why.
The Door of Desire — the one driven by pleasure, by the fleeting warmth of physicality and emotion.
And lastly, The Door of Immortality — a door that only a few ever dare to approach.
It was unsettling, but it was the truth of the world he'd come to understand.
Power, greed, and survival — they were all part of the same script, written by those who refused to fade.
Han Sanping might not be chasing eternity, but he was chasing a legacy that could outlast his name.
He wanted to be remembered as the man who redefined Chinese cinema, who opened the door that others couldn't.
And now, that door stood before Jihoon.
Was he ready to walk through it?
He took another sip of coffee, letting the bitter taste settle on his tongue.
The cafe lights flickered softly against the glass windows.
Outside, the city buzzed in rhythm — unaware of the quiet storm brewing in this corner booth.
Han Sanping had stopped talking.
He simply watched Jihoon — patient, waiting.