Cannes, 6:00 p.m., May 25
Grand Theatre Lumiere, on the 61st Cannes Film Festival Closing Ceremony
The red carpet shimmered like a river of stars.
Photographers shouted names, lights flashed, and the air smelled of perfume, wine, and adrenaline.
But amid the chaos, one man's absence felt like a missing heartbeat.
Quentin Tarantino scanned the crowd again.
"Where is he…" he muttered, peering through the ocean of tuxedos and gowns.
No sign of Jihoon.
Harvey Weinstein, walking beside him, noticed his searching gaze and chuckled darkly. "Don't bother looking," he said, his voice dripping with arrogance. "That kid won't be attending tonight's ceremony."
Quentin froze mid-step. "What the hell does that mean?" His voice turned sharp.
Harvey just smirked, guiding Quentin toward their seats in the front row of the guest section.
"Relax, Quentin. I didn't influence the jury's decision. I just made sure he couldn't participate in the final selection."
Quentin's brows furrowed. "What—" His expression shifted from confusion to alarm. "You mean… Buried withdrew?"
Harvey didn't answer directly, but the smug look on his face said everything.
Withdrawal from Cannes was practically unheard of.
Since the festival's founding in 1946, only a handful of films had ever pulled out mid-competition — six or seven at most.
One of the most famous cases was The Duellists (1977) by Ridley Scott.
A technical withdrawal, the records said — "not ready," because Scott had needed more time for the final mix and color grading.
But even that film eventually premiered the following year, out of competition, and went on to win Best Debut Film.
In Jihoon's case, however, it clearly wasn't technical. It was political — or worse, personal.
Quentin's stomach sank. Two nights ago, he, Jiang Wen, and Jihoon had shared drinks, laughing over French wine.
Jihoon was full of excitement about the festival's closing night. He would never have withdrawn his own film — not without telling them.
This didn't add up.
Cannes had strict rules about withdrawal.
Every film selected for competition signed a contract guaranteeing the festival exclusive rights to the world premiere.
A unilateral withdrawal wasn't just frowned upon — it was a breach of contract.
It could destroy a director's eligibility to ever compete again.
Unless, of course, something bigger had intervened — something that even Cannes couldn't refuse.
Political censorship.
A chilling thought formed in Quentin's mind.
Jihoon's Buried wasn't a Korean film. It was an American one.
And it had stirred uncomfortable murmurs for its criticism of governmental systems and the ethics of war.
He turned toward Harvey, his voice low and disbelieving. "You… report it to the U.S. authorities?"
For a split second, Harvey looked caught off guard — then smiled slyly. "Well, I had to remind our dear officials about a little something called the Sedition and Seditious Conspiracy Act."
He leaned back, adjusting his tie smugly. "Of course, I wouldn't force them to do anything. I just… gave them a nudge."
Quentin's blood ran cold. "You bribed them?"
"Call it what you want," Harvey said, shrugging.
"I just ensured certain people knew that Buried was—how shall I say—politically unwise. That kid should've known better than to poke the bear. Now he's probably packing his bags for Seoul as we speak."
The words stung.
Quentin clenched his fists, his voice trembling with disgust. "How could you? There's no conflict between you two—he's just a filmmaker! You're sabotaging him because he's better than you."
Harvey gave a cold laugh. "Better? Please. He's a kid playing in a world meant for men. Hollywood isn't for yellow-skinned dreamers, Quentin. He needed to be reminded of that."
And just like that, Quentin saw through everything — the fear, the insecurity behind Harvey's smirk. Jihoon wasn't just competition.
He was a threat.
Harvey had built his empire on power and intimidation.
Jihoon was building his on talent and sincerity — something Harvey couldn't manipulate or buy.
Quentin turned away, shaking his head in silent fury.
But before he could speak again, Harvey's laughter abruptly stopped.
His eyes widened in disbelief, mouth hanging open.
"Y-you—" he stuttered, pointing behind Quentin. "How the hell are you here?"
Quentin turned.
There, standing just a few feet behind him, was Jihoon — perfectly calm in his black suit, his tie slightly loose, a mischievous smile playing on his lips.
He clapped Quentin's shoulder. "Quentin, what do you think about what I said last time? Come to JH Pictures. I'll fund your next movie myself. Why keep working for this fat bastard?"
Quentin blinked, half in disbelief, half in awe. "Jihoon… you're actually here? But—didn't you—weren't you withdrawn?"
Jihoon tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. "Withdrawn? What are you talking about? The festival staff called me this afternoon. Said Buried was nominated and I had to attend."
It was true.
Cannes only called directors before the ceremony if their films were winning something.
Jihoon had been confused when the call came — especially because his producer Jim had asked him to delay his arrival, saying there was a "timing issue."
But he trusted Jim's instinct and waited.
Now it made sense.
Harvey's face turned an unhealthy shade of red. "Impossible! I reported you! You shouldn't even be allowed to set foot in here!" he barked, jabbing a finger at Jihoon like a man possessed.
Jihoon raised an eyebrow, his tone light but edged. "Report me? For what — making a movie?"
Harvey's breath hitched. Quentin didn't hesitate — he laid it all out.
He told Jihoon about Harvey's secret calls, the bribe, the false accusations under U.S. law.
He couldn't stay silent, not after seeing Harvey stoop this low.
Jihoon listened quietly, his smile fading into something sharper. "So that's what this was about," he said softly. "You really went that far, huh?"
Harvey puffed out his chest, still clinging to the illusion of control. "So what? You might've slipped past tonight, but Hollywood won't forget. You think walking this carpet makes you untouchable?"
Jihoon chuckled. "Hollywood? Harvey, I'm not sure if you've noticed, but the world doesn't revolve around you anymore." His eyes locked on Harvey's. "The audience decides what's untouchable. And right now, they're watching."
The tension between them was electric.
Guests nearby started whispering.
Cameras turned.
Quentin could practically feel the weight of the moment — like something was about to explode.
Before Harvey could reply, the lights dimmed. The orchestra began to play the familiar opening theme of the ceremony. A hush fell over the theater.
Jihoon straightened his jacket, turned to Quentin, and whispered, "Guess it's time to find out whether Buried really lives up to its name."
Quentin couldn't help but grin. "You crazy bastard. You've got nerves of steel."
Harvey, still trembling with fury, slumped back into his seat. "This isn't over," he hissed. "You'll pay for this."
But Jihoon didn't even look at him.
He walked down the aisle calmly, the crowd parting slightly as he passed, as if sensing something extraordinary about him — the calm before a cinematic storm.