Jihoon sat in silence, lost in his thought.
There were moments in life when the universe presented you with many doors and each one led to a completely different world.
He wasn't sure which to open yet.
But while he was still caught in that web of contemplation, somewhere across the city, inside one of the top floors of the Hotel Barriere Le Majestic Cannes, a loud bang echoed through a luxury suite.
The source of the noise?
Harvey Weinstein's fist slamming against a table.
On that table lay a glossy copy of Screen International.
It wasn't just any magazine.
Screen International was one of the oldest and most respected trade publications in the global film industry.
A kind of sacred text for producers, distributors, and critics who treated cinema not just as art but as business.
Founded in 1959 in the UK, the magazine had started as a humble publication reporting on British cinema.
But as the years rolled on, it expanded, first across Europe, then to America, and eventually to every corner of the film world.
By the 2000s, it had become the go-to authority for box office analysis, film reviews, and industry gossip.
And since 2006, it had gained even more influence by launching what became known as the Screen International Jury Grid—a daily ranking system at major film festivals like Cannes, Berlin, and Venice.
The concept was simple yet powerful.
Each day, a panel of top international critics rated the competition films on a scale of one to four stars.
The scores were averaged and printed in the next morning's issue, creating a buzz that could either make or break a film's reputation overnight.
Officially, the Grid had no impact on the juries' decisions.
But everyone in the business knew better.
The higher your Grid score, the more likely your film would be talked about, reviewed, and remembered—and perhaps even influence the festival jury subconsciously.
Some said it was pure coincidence.
Others believed Screen International had quietly become a "shadow jury," shaping perceptions long before the actual winners were announced.
Whatever the truth, its credibility was ironclad.
And that was exactly why Harvey was losing his temper.
Because right now, he was staring at the latest Grid results for Cannes.
His film, Death Proof, directed by Quentin Tarantino and produced under his company, had scored a miserable 1.9 stars.
Right below it, Che at 2.4 stars, Gomorrah at 2.8, and The Class (Entre les murs) at 3.1.
And above them all—standing at a clean, confident 3.2 stars—was Buried.
Jihoon's film.
The same Jihoon whom Harvey had dismissed as an overconfident 'kid with a lucky streak.'
The same Jihoon he'd publicly mocked at a cocktail reception two nights ago, saying that 'Korean directors that kisses Steven Spielberg ass.'
And now? The "kid" had outscored him.
Harvey stared at the number again, his face turning red.
It wasn't that Buried was some populist crowd-pleaser—it was actually the opposite.
The festival's program guide even carried a warning: "Viewers suffering from claustrophobia or emotional instability are advised not to watch this film."
Some attendees described it as a "psychological cage," an experience so intense that it left them breathless, almost traumatized.
One French critic wrote, "Watching this film felt like being trapped in your own mind—an unbearable yet unforgettable experience."
And yet, despite—or perhaps because of—that, Buried still managed to earn one of the highest average scores at Cannes that year.
In the unspoken hierarchy of the festival, anything above 3.0 on the Screen International Grid was a triumph. It meant the critics saw something exceptional, something worth remembering.
This year, only two films had crossed that mark: Buried and The Class.
No wonder Harvey snapped.
The table rattled as his fist came down again, rattling the bottle of Evian beside him. His assistant, standing in the corner, flinched but said nothing.
"Three point two stars?" Harvey muttered through clenched teeth. "That little brat beat me? Him?"
His eyes narrowed as he flipped through the magazine again, scanning the reviews.
[A claustrophobic masterpiece.]
[A triumph of tension and restraint.]
[Jihoon Lee's direction defies genre boundaries.]
Each line felt like a personal insult.
For Harvey Weinstein—one of the most powerful producers in Hollywood, a man who'd built an empire on Oscars and intimidation—the idea that a foreign nobody had just bested him in Europe was unbearable.
He had always viewed the film world in binary terms: friend or enemy. There was no in-between.
And Jihoon, after that embarrassing argument at Spielberg's premiere at the previous night, had officially crossed over into the enemy camp.
"Unbelievable…" Harvey muttered, tossing the magazine aside. It landed with a slap on the carpet, open to the page where Jihoon's name was printed in bold.
"Quentin!" he barked suddenly.
Across the suite, Tarantino—dressed in his usual wrinkled black shirt and leather shoes—looked up from his phone. "Yeah?"
"Did you go to the Buried premiere?"
Quentin blinked, caught off guard. "Uh… yeah, I did. They invited me, so I went."
Harvey's eyes widened. "I told you not to go! Jesus, do you even remember which side you're on?"
Quentin frowned slightly. "What side? It's just a movie, Harvey."
"Just a movie?" Harvey's voice rose to a roar. "You think Cannes is about movies? It's about influence, about optics! You show up at his screening, and everyone starts talking like you're endorsing him!"
Quentin stayed silent.
He'd known Harvey long enough to realize that reasoning was useless once the man started yelling.
But deep down, Quentin wasn't angry—he was disappointed.
He owed his career to Harvey, yes.
The man had backed Reservoir Dogs, fought for Pulp Fiction, and made him a star.
But over the years, the relationship had soured.
The more powerful Harvey became, the more suffocating his grip grew.
Contracts were long, profit shares unfair, and every decision came with manipulation disguised as mentorship.
Quentin had signed a deal years ago that, in hindsight, was closer to servitude than partnership.
He'd trusted Harvey as a friend, never suspecting that "friendship" in Hollywood was just another word for leverage.
Now, every time Harvey shouted, that old mistake weighed heavier.
"Listen," Quentin finally said, his tone calm but firm. "I went because I respect the guy's work. That's all."
"Respect?!" Harvey sneered. "That kid's film makes yours look like a student project. You think that's respect? That's betrayal."
Quentin sighed. "You're overreacting. Buried was good—hell, it might even win the Palme d'Or."
The words hit Harvey like a slap. His jaw dropped.
"The Palme d'Or?" he repeated, laughing bitterly. "If that kid wins the Palme d'Or, I'll eat this damn program book right here!"
He snatched the booklet off the table and waved it in the air. The cover was thick, printed on high-quality coated paper, the kind that almost felt like plastic between your fingers.
Quentin raised an eyebrow. "That's some heavy fiber. You sure about that?"
Harvey glared. "Don't test me."
The assistant in the corner tried not to laugh.
Harvey slumped back onto the sofa, breathing hard.
The anger in his chest refused to fade.
He looked again at the names on the page—Jihoon Lee, 3.2 stars, highest-rated film at Cannes.
It wasn't just about numbers anymore. It was about pride.
He'd spent decades shaping Hollywood's global image, building reputations, tearing them down. He made stars.
And now this… this Korean upstart, who came out of nowhere, had stolen the spotlight right in front of him.
Harvey rubbed his temples. "That kid's dangerous," he muttered. "Too smart, too fast. He's not playing by the rules, and the most importantly he isn't ours to be.."
Quentin looked at him quietly.
"Maybe that's why he's winning," he said to himself.
For a moment, silence filled the suite.
Outside, the sounds of Cannes carried faintly through the balcony doors—waves crashing, camera shutters clicking, champagne corks popping.
Inside, two men sat on opposite sides of Hollywood's invisible war.
One, a fallen titan, furious at losing control.
The other, a weary filmmaker caught between loyalty and conscience.
And somewhere across the city, Jihoon—the so-called "kid"—was completely unaware that his success had just started a storm in Harvey's suite.
He was still sitting quietly, still thinking about choices, still wondering which door to open next.
Because whether it was art or politics, Cannes or Hollywood, every door came with a price.
And in this industry, even the smallest decision could echo louder than applause.