"Hello, this is your statuette. Please keep it safe."
A staff member from the Academy handed Jihoon the golden Oscar, its polished surface catching the light in a way that made it look almost unreal.
Winners usually head straight to a small engraving station backstage, where their names are etched onto the base of the award.
It's a tradition—almost a ritual—and Jihoon wasn't about to skip it. After all, this was his first Oscar in this lifetime, and he wanted every detail to be perfect.
As the award rested in his hands, he turned it over slowly, taking in its details.
"It's pretty good," he murmured to himself with a small grin. "I wonder how much it's actually worth."
From a few steps away, Jim overheard and chuckled, walking over.
"Hahaha, trust me—the Oscar is worth far more than the metal it's made from. Its value is in what it represents."
Jihoon smiled, still weighing the trophy in his hands. For Jim, tonight had been a victory worth celebrating—even if GET OUT had only managed to take home this single award.
Jim wasn't new to the game.
He'd spent enough years navigating Hollywood's backrooms and red carpets to understand a simple truth—film festivals and award shows were rarely just about prestige.
For the big studios—the so-called Hollywood "big six"—the real value of a trophy wasn't in the shine of the gold plating, but in the waves it could send through the industry.
Most of them would rather funnel their time and money into marketing blitzes that could push ticket sales through the roof than chase awards for the sake of bragging rights.
For directors, a trophy might feel like an ice-cold drink on a sweltering summer day—refreshing validation for their work. But for studios, especially giants like them, it was little more than a drop in a river already rushing toward the box office.
This time, though, was different. Tonight's win wasn't just another shiny ornament on a shelf—it was a lever. And in the right hands, that lever could move far more than a single film.
For both Jim and Jihoon, the Best Original Screenplay award meant visibility.
It was the kind of spotlight that could turn heads in boardrooms, attract investors, and ignite conversations among fans.
It wasn't just about celebrating GET OUT's success—it was about laying the groundwork for their next big project: the Horror Cinematic Universe.
The plan was ambitious, but it had the potential to unite a niche horror fan base while pulling in curious mainstream audiences.
And Jim knew, perhaps better than anyone, that in certain cases, a screenplay award could give a film a second wind at the box office—sometimes even more than a Best Actor or Actress win.
For now, the trophy sat gleaming in Jihoon's hands, but to them, it was more than gold-plated metal. It was a key—one that might just unlock the door to something much bigger.
"By the way," Jim said, tilting his head with a knowing smile, "you up for The Vanity Fair Oscar Party?"
Jihoon looked at him, amused. "Okay, let's go."
The Vanity Fair party was legendary.
Every year, it was the most anticipated event after the Oscars—a glittering parade of winners, nominees, and Hollywood's most influential figures.
Board members from Disney might be seen chatting with A-list actors, studio heads would mingle with rising directors, and talent agents would hunt for their next big client.
To some, it was simply a place to unwind after the high-stakes tension of the ceremony—a night for champagne, music, and laughter.
To others, it was a marketplace.
Place where deals were whispered in corners, resources exchanged, and careers quietly made—or broken.
An actor might land a role over casual cocktails, sealing the agreement with nothing more than a smile and a promise.
A producer could secure the funding for their next project with a firm handshake across a dimly lit restaurant table.
But in the shadows, away from the red carpets and flashing cameras, there's a side of the business far less glamorous.
For some actresses, the path to opportunity was paved not just with talent or perseverance, but with unspoken bargains that demanded their bodies in exchange for roles.
It was a practice whispered about in dressing rooms, back hallways, and even in the media—one that had existed for as long as Hollywood itself.
A stain the industry rarely acknowledged, yet one that lingered just beneath its polished surface.
Jim, who had taken a genuine liking to Jihoon, knew all this.
Still, he led him through the crowd, introducing him to the big players—executives from Disney, Universal, Paramount, and the rest of Hollywood's so-called "big six."
Jihoon's achievements were impressive—two major international awards and a record-breaking box office run across Asia—but to the American and European elite, he was still untested.
To them, Jihoon was just a promising "import talent," not yet a household name. The smiles he received tonight were polite, the handshakes warm but measured.
Jim saw it all, but he didn't mind. He would rather they treat Jihoon with this kind of polite distance—it meant Jihoon's identity would remain tied to Fox for a long time.
He believed Jihoon would stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Nolan and Spielberg before the year was out, especially once INCPETION and the Horror Cinematic Universe hit theaters.
This was why he was moving now, before the world caught up, to brand Jihoon as Fox's most valuable new partner.
And courtesy was easy to give when you were shaking hands with the youngest-ever Cannes Grand Prize winner—and now, the year's Oscar winner for Best Screenplay.
Even the most reserved "pencil pushers" knew it didn't hurt to be friendly.
Between formal introductions and small talk, Jihoon found himself overhearing snippets of a very different conversation—one that revealed the darker undercurrent of the night.
A group of executives were trading names, not of box office hits, but of young actresses in their twenties—women who had been "pressured" or "traded" into compromising situations for a shot at a role or access to the right circles.
The way they spoke, it was as if they were discussing items on a menu, their tone disturbingly casual.
Names floated in the air like unwanted confetti—Mischa Barton, Brittany Murphy, Lindsay Lohan, even Megan Fox.
And at the center of tonight's whispered "list"?
None other than the so-called Kingmaker himself—Harvey Weinstein.
To some in the crowd, his name carried little weight.
To anyone who truly knew the business, Harvey was one of Hollywood's most powerful producers, a fixture at events like Vanity Fair.
A man whose shadow loomed large—and not always for reasons that glittered.