[Since 2005, Ryan Reynolds Brings Home Another Cannes's Golden Leaf.]
[Ryan Reynolds to Fellow Nominees: "Sorry, This Award Was Six Feet Under-whelming for You."]
[Dug, Buried, Won: The Ryan Reynolds Cannes Story.]
[Ryan Reynolds Was So Deeply 'Buried' in His Role, Cannes Had No Choice but to Reward Him.]
[Lee Jihoon's Prodigy: Ryan Reynolds.]
[Lee Jihoon Can Cultivate a Best Actor, But Not a Best Director Trophy for Himself.]
...
The headlines screamed across every film outlet and entertainment section that morning, each one echoing the same truth: Ryan Reynolds had accomplish something unbelievable.
Seated comfortably in his office at JH Los Angeles headquarters, Jihoon leaned back on his leather chair, his legs casually crossed atop the desk.
A half-empty cup of espresso sat beside a pile of production documents, untouched since he started reading the morning paper.
He scanned the bold titles with a wry smile tugging at his lips.
It wasn't the first time the media made cheeky headlines about him, nor would it be the last.
Some papers praised him for "creating" a world-class actor; others jabbed him for not securing a Best Director trophy himself.
To Jihoon, it was just noise—a loud, glittering background hum to the life of a filmmaker who'd long accepted that recognition and controversy often shared the same stage.
Still, he couldn't deny that the irony amused him.
[Ryan Reynolds's prodigy.]
[Lee Jihoon, the man who could raise stars but not himself.]
He chuckled under his breath and folded the paper neatly before setting it aside.
The Cannes Film Festival had wrapped just days ago.
His film Buried had secured Ryan the prestigious Best Actor award, a remarkable feat considering the competition.
The Palme d'Or, however, had gone to Laurent Cantet's The Class—the exact same outcome Jihoon remembered from his previous life.
Nothing had changed there.
But Jihoon wasn't disappointed.
Not even slightly.
The purpose of Buried was never to win the top honor—it was to prove something much subtler: that he, as a filmmaker, could cultivate performances strong enough to carry a film entirely on the shoulders of a single actor.
That mattered more than any golden leaf trophy.
Now, days later, the echoes of that moment faded, replaced by a quieter routine back home in Los Angeles.
It was early April, the calm before another storm—the Venice Film Festival was still months away, and the film production were still under preparation.
That left Jihoon time to manage internal affairs at JH Studios, catch up on paperwork, and—perhaps most importantly—think.
On his desk lay two name cards, placed side by side like a pair of chess pieces waiting for a move.
One belonged to Yannick Bollore, the heir to the Vivendi media empire, whom Jihoon had met briefly during Spielberg's premiere at Cannes.
The other card, however, bore a name that weighed much heavier on his mind: Han Sanping, Chairman of the China Film Group Corporation (CFGC)—the state-backed gatekeeper of China's entire film industry.
It wasn't Yannick's card that kept him awake at night. It was Han's.
Han's proposal, delivered over a discreet dinner during the festival, had been nothing short of audacious.
A collaboration—exclusive, high-profile, and potentially game-changing.
China had been opening its doors wider in recent years, yet its film market remained one of the most heavily protected in the world.
The Chinese Film Administration allowed only 34 foreign films per year to enter the market under a revenue-sharing arrangement.
That meant only thirty-four movies—out of the hundreds produced globally—could officially be imported each year and share in the box office profits.
Even then, the foreign studio only received around 25% of the gross revenue.
The rest went to the state-controlled distributors—namely, CFGC.
The alternative route was what insiders called the flat-fee method: a Chinese company would buy the distribution rights outright for a fixed sum, regardless of how well the movie performed at the box office.
Essentially, it was a one-time buyout deal, with no future profit sharing.
Most studios hated that system—it stripped them of long-term earnings.
But it also meant CFGC controlled both the gate and the key.
Han Sanping was offering Jihoon something that bypassed the gate entirely.
Through a special arrangement, Han hinted that Jihoon could acquire a majority stake in a long-established Chinese film company, effectively allowing JH Studios to produce and distribute films within China's domestic system—no longer as an outsider limited by quotas, but as an insider with access to local channels.
It was an unprecedented opportunity.
Of course, there were chains attached. Every film produced in China required approval from the National Film Administration (NFA) before public screening. Their rules were strict, their oversight absolute.
Jihoon remembered Han's calm tone over dinner as he outlined the list:
No content that harmed the dignity, honor, or interests of the Chinese state.
No criticism of the Communist Party or its policies.
No material that disrupted social stability or promoted terrorism.
No depictions that violated "core socialist values."
No content that disrespected religion, or displayed excessive violence, sexuality, or horror.
In other words, Jihoon would gain the privilege of producing films in China—but only within a carefully drawn cage.
That, he thought, was the irony of power.
Freedom in exchange for access.
Control in exchange for opportunity.
He leaned back, tapping the edge of Han's business card against his desk, deep in thought.
Everyone in the global film circuit could see that China's movie market was bound to dominate the world stage sooner or later.
The potential profits were enormous—hundreds of millions in box office revenue, and an audience base of over a billion people.
Yet very few foreign studios had managed to enter and stay there without losing control of their work.
Hollywood giants—Warner Bros., Universal, Paramount—had all tried in different forms, but they found the rules too complex, the bureaucracy too unpredictable.
Jihoon, however, wasn't one to be easily discouraged.
What made Han's proposal enticing wasn't just the access—it was the legitimacy that came with CFGC's blessing.
With official backing, Jihoon could establish a long-term foothold in Asia's fastest-growing market while maintaining creative partnerships in the West.
It was, essentially, his golden ticket to global independence.
Still, he hesitated.
Because power, he knew, always came with a price.
Jihoon rubbed the vein on his temple, feeling the familiar throb of overthinking.
His original plan—outlined months ago with Jaehyun—was to expand into China next year, once the groundwork was laid and JH's new visual effects division stabilized.
But the world was changing faster than he could anticipate.
The Fox executives were already shifting their focus toward profit-first strategies, and Jihoon could sense the tightening grip of corporate control.
Creativity was being suffocated by boardroom politics.
In that sense, China could become his safety net—a backup stronghold where JH could thrive without depending entirely on Western studios.
But the risk… the risk was equally monumental.
Once he stepped into China's political-media landscape, there was no easy way back.
He would no longer just be a filmmaker; he'd be a player in the silent tug-of-war between East and West.
He sighed softly. "This world really doesn't let anyone stay clean," he murmured to himself.
The office door creaked open.
Jim, his producer and business partner, strolled in with a cup of coffee from the JH's pantry.
"Still brooding, Lee?" Jim teased, taking a sip.
Jihoon smiled faintly without looking up. "Just thinking. About the next move."
"China?" Jim asked immediately, reading Jihoon like an open script — his eyes landing on the CFGC logo on the card in Jihoon's hand.
Jihoon nodded.
Jim chuckled and leaned back against the desk. "You're a mad genius, Jihoon. But let me remind you — we're filmmakers, not politicians. The moment you step into that world, it stops being about stories and starts being about power."
"I know," Jihoon said quietly, his voice calm but distant. "But if I don't take risks… you know how the system works. Today they praise you, tomorrow they replace you."
Jim studied him for a moment, then sighed with a faint smile. "Yeah, that's true. Just don't forget — you're still under contract with Fox. If you really go through with China, you won't be doing it for us."
Jihoon let out a soft laugh and reached for his coffee. "Don't worry. I haven't forgotten. Like I promised, HCU will always be my top priority."
"Good," Jim said, pushing off the desk. "Then keep it that way. China's not easy to navigate — Fox has thrown in tons of resources there, and it still barely moved the needle. Stick with Hollywood, kid. Don't go messing with stuff you don't fully understand."
He grinned as he headed for the door. "But hey, who am I to lecture you? I'm just the president of Fox. As long as you're honoring our deal, you're free to chase whatever crazy idea you want. Hah!"
As the door clicked shut, Jihoon turned the business card over in his hand — the gold CFGC emblem glinting under the light. His expression was unreadable, but his mind was already elsewhere.
For a long moment, he said nothing. The sunlight from the window framed the edge of the card like a flickering flame.