Roy's current role was that of a journalist—or at least, that's what he appeared to be for now. He'd boarded the plane for one reason: to obtain something from a certain individual. So even though he looked relaxed, sipping his drink with half-lidded eyes, in truth, he was scanning his surroundings with razor-sharp focus.
Among the crowd, his attention was locked on a single man—an Eastern man sitting quietly in a corner, holding a book with a calm expression.
Next to the man was a camera, suggesting he might be a photographer. Judging by the way he never let the camera out of his sight, there didn't seem to be anything suspicious about him. But ever since Roy laid eyes on him, his instincts had been screaming a warning.
Something about that man was off. Roy had been watching him ever since he boarded the plane. But up until now, he hadn't seen anything unusual.
Then, after the plane had been in the air for a while, a sudden noise shattered the calm inside the cabin.
An explosion!
Roy shot to his feet. This wasn't happening on the ground—they were thousands of meters in the air! Whatever had exploded was no minor issue. At this altitude, even if the plane fell into the ocean, it would be torn apart on impact.
"Sir, please return to your seat," a flight attendant hurried over to stop him. She tried hard to appear composed, but the bloodless pallor on her face betrayed her fear.
"What just happened?" Roy wasn't the only one who heard the blast. Every media professional in the cabin heard it too, and everyone knew something had gone terribly wrong. As soon as they saw the flight attendant arrive, they swarmed around her, demanding answers.
"Please remain calm. Everything is under control. Please return to your seats…"
She was still trying to calm the passengers down when another explosion rang out—louder and closer this time.
"Oh my god! Look outside!" someone screamed, their voice hoarse with panic.
Those near the windows immediately pressed their faces against the glass—and saw a trail of smoke drifting past from the front of the plane, along with unmistakable shards of torn metal.
"We're going down! We're falling!" another person shrieked.
At that moment, the chaos onboard could no longer be contained. No amount of calming words from the flight attendants could help now. The entire cabin descended into panic. People ran around like headless chickens. Some were frantically searching for parachutes or life vests, while others were already crying and scribbling final messages into their notebooks.
Roy had faced worse situations than this. Compared to the others, he was still able to stay relatively calm and analyze what was happening. But when he instinctively glanced toward the man he'd been watching…
He was gone!
From where Roy sat, anyone passing by would have had to cross his line of sight—there was no way he wouldn't have noticed. Yet the man had vanished without a sound, without a trace.
Now wasn't the time to track him down. Escaping from this situation was going to require more than luck.
Roy quickly calculated his next move. He rushed to the front of the cabin to assess the situation. He saw that everyone there was dead, and the cockpit door had been completely blown open. Without wasting another second, he bolted off in a specific direction…
This opening sequence didn't take up much time, but it managed to establish a great deal: the protagonist's identity, personality, the crisis at hand, and the tension in the story. As viewers watched the characters react to the threat of imminent death, they didn't have time to think too much—their hearts were fully immersed in the fate of the passengers.
At the same time, audiences were left guessing: What exactly happened? Why did a "big shot" die so suddenly? Why go so far as to destroy an entire plane just to eliminate someone? What is Roy really after? And who is that mysterious Eastern man?
Alright, those who had seen the trailer would've recognized that the Eastern man was the second male lead, played by Leslie Cheung. But what kind of character is he? While his identity remained a mystery, his few scenes were enough to leave a strong impression—he was cool, enigmatic, and undeniably intriguing.
While general audiences cared about whether the film was entertaining, professional critics and cinephiles were seeing something else entirely: Laila's mastery of pacing had reached a new level.
People who had seen Laila's films before often described them as "爽"—a hard-to-translate Chinese word that suggests something intensely satisfying. And where does that sense of satisfaction come from? The simplest answer: pacing.
Laila had an almost supernatural grasp of narrative rhythm. She knew exactly where to linger, where to skip, where to insert a meaningful glance or a loaded silence. In her films, there was never a single frame that felt like filler. Every scene served a purpose, and removing even a single one would make the film feel incomplete.
Because the plot never dragged, audiences were able to give it their undivided attention. They couldn't look away from the screen, even for a second—afraid that a blink, a glance at the time, or a quick bathroom break might cause them to miss something crucial.
Hollywood insiders had long been studying Laila's secret to success. They knew she was an editing genius. Many had tried to emulate her style, but this wasn't something that could be replicated through study alone—it required instinct, talent, and vision. The way she visualized and edited a film simply worked—and it worked every time.
That's not to say there's nothing to learn from her. But trying to copy her exactly was wishful thinking. Even absorbing a fraction of her technique would already be a massive gain for most.
Film schools had even created dedicated courses to analyze her work. Many newcomers to Hollywood entered the industry by following in her cinematic footsteps. She had become a role model and an icon to aspiring directors everywhere.
Laila herself, of course, knew nothing of this. At this moment, she was focused solely on observing the audience's reaction behind her.
In her eyes, this first act was crucial. She believed she had told the core of the story with the most effective pacing possible—but she couldn't be sure if the audience would feel the same. In film, television, novels, or comics, the beginning is always the most important part.
If a story doesn't hook its audience right from the start, no matter how good the rest is, it'll still lose impact.
From what we've seen so far, Laila has clearly nailed it. In just a few short minutes, the film had conveyed everything it needed to without boring the audience.
Now that was a brilliant beginning.