Seated comfortably in the leather seat of Air France's business class, Jihoon gazed out the oval window, watching as the French coastline slowly faded beneath the clouds.
The soft hum of the aircraft engine filled the cabin, steady and calm — a sharp contrast to the noise of Cannes that had filled his past few days.
He leaned back, fingers tracing the rim of his champagne glass as he sank into quiet thought.
The 61st Cannes Film Festival had ended just days ago, but its echoes lingered in his mind like the aftertaste of a strong espresso — bitter, complex, and strangely satisfying.
From this year's award distribution alone, Jihoon could tell something subtle yet significant was happening behind the curtains of world cinema.
It wasn't just about art anymore.
It was about power — influence — the eternal tug-of-war between East and West.
And this year, that war seem to be reached an unspoken truce.
The evidence was right there on stage: a tie in the Best Actor Award category.
Two winners, two worlds.
On one side, Che — a film that glorified revolutionary ideals and carried clear undertones of communist spirit.
On the other, Buried — Jihoon's own work. A film that, despite being misinterpreted by some as anti-American, still carried the DNA of Hollywood craftsmanship and American storytelling.
If one were to read between the lines, it was obvious. Cannes wasn't just honoring art; it was balancing diplomacy.
In the grand stage of cinema, the Palme d'Or had become a metaphor — a peace offering between two superpowers locked in cultural rivalry.
It was as if the festival itself was saying: Let's call it even for now.
To Jihoon, the meaning was clear.
This year's Cannes wasn't only about celebrating films — it was a reflection of global geopolitics disguised in gold and glamour.
And in that silent battle for narrative dominance, both nations had claimed their victories.
Still, beyond that political theater, reality remained unchanged for Jihoon.
Buried didn't take home the Palme d'Or.
The grand prize went, once again, to Laurent Cantet's The Class, exactly as it had in Jihoon's previous life.
Nothing had changed.
But Jihoon didn't mind.
He'd already foreseen the outcome long before the ceremony.
Ryan, on the other hand, wasn't taking it as lightly.
The young actor had been glowing when he received his Best Actor trophy, his name cheered by the crowd.
Yet now, on the flight home, Jihoon could sense the guilt radiating off him — that quiet discomfort of being the only one in the crew holding a golden leaf while the director who guided him to that moment sat empty-handed.
Jihoon had smiled through it all, reassuring him that this — this — was exactly what they came for.
Because truth be told, the mission had already been accomplished.
Winning Best Actor wasn't just about recognition for Ryan. It was proof — proof that Jihoon, as a filmmaker, could cultivate world-class talent.
In an industry driven by reputation, that single achievement elevated his name far more than any trophy could.
After all, in Hollywood, directors weren't just storytellers — they were creators of legacies.
And having nurtured a Cannes-winning actor was like adding a royal seal to his creative dynasty.
Some would've called it unnecessary. But Jihoon knew better.
A single accolade could shift a filmmaker's entire position within the power hierarchy of global cinema.
If he could raise one actor to international acclaim, he could raise a hundred more and it's just matter of time.
That was how empires in the film industry were built — not with money, but with influence, credibility, and proof of artistry.
The soft clink of glass brought Jihoon out of his thoughts.
Beside him, Jim Gianopulos — the ever-composed, ever-calm chairman of Fox — was swirling his champagne, his silver hair gleaming faintly under the warm cabin lights.
He gave Jihoon a sidelong glance, noticing his faraway expression.
"Lee," he said, nudging him lightly with his elbow. "Why the gloomy face? You look like you just buried someone instead of winning Cannes."
Jihoon blinked, then chuckled softly.
"Oh, nothing. Just retracing my career footsteps," he said, half-laughing at himself.
Jim smiled knowingly. "You artists and your drama." He took a sip of his drink.
"You know, the best decision I ever made was hopping on that plane years ago to drag you out of Seoul."
Jihoon turned his gaze toward him, the faintest grin tugging at his lips. "Hah, yeah. If you hadn't shown up, I probably would've stayed in Korea a few more years — lay down a stronger foundation before even thinking about Hollywood. I wanted to be ready, just in case I failed."
"Fail?" Jim laughed, almost spilling his drink. "You're the last person I'd call a failure. You remember the wager we made before Inception?"
Jihoon's eyes lit up with recognition. "Oh, that one. Yeah. You said if I could pull off a successful Hollywood debut — Oscar nomination, good box office, and all that — you'd buy me a damn yacht."
Jim smirked. "Hahah! Bullshit!"
Jihoon laughed. "To be fair, the film's still in the SFX editing phase. But yeah, technically, we already fulfilled the deal before it even began."
"Damn right," Jim said, raising his glass in mock salute. "You beat your own prophecy."
Jihoon chuckled and leaned back. "Well, a deal's a deal. Inception will be done soon, and I'm confident it'll meet — or even surpass — your expectations."
Jim rolled his eyes. "You don't need to prove anything anymore, Lee. The whole HCU series already proved your worth to everyone at Fox — and the entire industry. You've built a cinematic universe out of fear itself."
Jihoon grinned. "Hah, not bragging. Just stating the facts."
"Right," Jim said dryly, then shifted in his seat. "So… do you regret it? Not winning the Palme d'Or again this year?"
Jihoon paused, then shook his head slowly. "No. Not at all. Like we discussed before flying here — our main goal was to win Best Actor and strengthen the HCU's credibility globally. We did that. So, no regrets."
Jim studied him for a moment, amused. "Sometimes you're impossible to read, you know that?"
"One moment you're this calm philosopher, the next you're a perfectionist chasing validation, and then suddenly you're the carefree artist who couldn't care less. Are you sure you're not harboring a split personality?"
Jihoon chuckled. "Maybe I am. But hey, you handle the business side, and I'll handle the creative insanity. That's what makes us work, right?"
"Yeah, yeah," Jim said, waving him off. "You keep saying that, and I keep losing sleep over your projects."
They both laughed, and for a moment, the tension dissolved.
Outside, the plane pierced through a blanket of white clouds, sunlight flooding the cabin in soft gold.
After a long silence, Jim turned again, a curious glint in his eyes.
"So… what's next? Another HCU film? You've left Peli hanging since Saw finished its theatrical run. And that kid you introduced to JH — James Wan — he's been pacing the office waiting for your next move."
Jihoon rubbed his chin thoughtfully, staring out the window again. "I'm thinking Venice," he said quietly.
Jim's eyes widened, as if he had just heard something astonishing.