"Jihoon-ah! What a coincidence! Are you here for the Indiana Jones premiere ceremony too?!"
The familiar voice echoed through the bustling crowd outside the Grand Theatre Lumiere, cutting through the flashlights, chatter, and the glamorous chaos that came with the Cannes Film Festival.
Just as people liked to joke before—Jihoon was a walking jackpot—somehow he always ended up at the center of something big, whether he planned it or not.
And tonight was no exception.
He stood at the entrance of Cannes's grandest auditorium, the very heart of the festival, where only the most prestigious films got screened.
The event was for 'Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull', a massive production that had turned every head in town.
The posters were everywhere, Harrison Ford's face larger than life on every billboard from La Croisette to the old port.
But the true star behind the curtain wasn't Ford—it was Steven Spielberg himself.
A name that didn't just belong to cinema—it defined it.
From 'Jurassic Park' to 'Schindler's List', Spielberg had built an empire of emotion, spectacle, and storytelling.
If James Cameron was the self-proclaimed "King of the World," then Spielberg was the architect who built that world.
To filmmakers, meeting him wasn't just a career milestone—it was like meeting cinema itself.
His influence shaped generations, his success made him the highest-grossing director of all time, and his reputation demanded nothing short of royal treatment wherever he went.
So naturally, tonight, Cannes had rolled out its most dazzling carpet for him.
Jihoon, dressed in a neat black tuxedo, had just finished chatting with Jim, his producer, when he noticed Spielberg standing beside them.
Jim had known the man for years through studio circuits, and Jihoon, being relatively new to the global scene, was trying to keep his composure.
For someone who used to study Spielberg's shot compositions frame by frame, standing next to him felt surreal.
That was when someone called out his name again.
He turned around. and saw Kim Jeewoon, waving cheerfully from a few meters away, was making his way through the crowd with Hong Sangsoo, trailing behind him.
Jihoon smiled politely, gave a short bow to Spielberg and Jim, and said softly,
"Excuse me for a moment."
Jim nodded, continuing his conversation with Spielberg, as Jihoon made his way toward the two Korean filmmakers.
"Yeah, sunbae," Jihoon greeted with a grin, "you're here for the premiere too?"
"Of course!" Jeewoon laughed, brushing invisible dust off his blazer. "What, you think we'd miss the hottest ticket in town?"
Jihoon chuckled, but he didn't go out of his way to introduce them to Jim or Spielberg.
It wasn't arrogance—it was etiquette.
In this kind of environment, introductions had rules.
Unless Spielberg himself showed interest, it would've been inappropriate.
After all, Jihoon had just met the man today; he wasn't about to overstep.
And besides, the moment he saw Jeewoon and Sangsoo's eyes flicker toward Spielberg, he understood their intentions.
That bright, starstruck look wasn't hard to read.
It was the same look every director, actor, or producer got when they saw an opportunity they might never have again—a chance to shake hands with the Spielberg.
In the film world, connections were currency.
Meeting Spielberg was like meeting Obama—if you did, you told everyone you knew.
And if you were lucky, maybe, just maybe, he'd remember your name.
Jihoon stayed calm. He'd seen this kind of thing play out too many times before.
Sangsoo, trying to mask his excitement, quickly changed the topic. "Yeah, Indiana Jones is the talk of the festival right now. We thought we should catch the premiere before the tickets completely sell out."
Jeewoon added, "Half the billboards in Cannes are just Harrison Ford's face! If we don't watch it, we'd be the only people left who didn't."
"Hah, fair enough," Jihoon said, smiling. "What about Changdong hyung and Doyeon noona? They're not here with you two?"
Sangsoo scratched his head. "Ah, they're busy with their own premiere."
"Changdong hyung's film is competing in the main category, remember? He's running all over the place. And Doyeon's helping him tonight—she's the female lead, so, yeah, she's pretty tied up."
Then, as if remembering something, Sang-soo leaned in and lowered his voice. "Oh, right… Jihoon-ah, about that recommendation we talked about…"
Jihoon glanced around, making sure no one was listening, and said smoothly, "It's done, hyung. My producer, Jim, put in a good word for you among the jury. Now it's all up to luck."
He said it like a man closing a deal—but in truth, he hadn't said a word to Jim about it.
He could have, easily.
But favors in this business were like currency, and Jihoon wasn't about to waste his on Sangsoo, who had offered nothing in return.
Every "recommendation" came with strings attached—a favor for a favor.
And if you didn't hold up your end, you didn't deserve the help.
Besides, Jihoon already knew from his memories—'Secret Sunshine' was destined to win Best Actress.
So why waste his influence on something already written in fate?
When Sangsoo heard his answer, his face lit up like a child on Christmas morning. "Really?!" he blurted out, his voice rising higher than it should.
"Hyung, calm down," Jihoon whispered sharply, pressing his hand down. "Don't make it obvious."
The last thing he needed was for Jim—or worse, Spielberg—to overhear and ask questions that would unravel his convenient little lie.
Sangsoo quickly caught himself, scratching the back of his neck. "Ah—sorry, sorry. I just got a little too excited."
He looked around nervously, relieved that no one was paying attention.
They were speaking Korean anyway, so the crowd around them didn't understand a word.
Still, he couldn't help himself and asked again, his tone softer this time. "Jihoon-ah… do you really think we stand a chance for the award?"
Jihoon pretended to think, rubbing his chin theatrically. After a moment of silence, he said, "Maybe. There's a high chance."
Sangsoo grinned, his excitement barely contained.
He grabbed Jihoon by the shoulder and said with genuine emotion.
"Jihoon-ah, you have no idea how much this means to us. I know we can't do much for you right now, but if you ever need anything in Korea—we'll help you in any way we can."
Jeewoon nodded vigorously beside him. "Yeah, we might not be big on the global stage yet, but in Korea? Our voices still count for something."
He puffed his chest proudly. "You know, like the Baeksang or the Blue Dragon Film Awards—we can help you there."
Jihoon's polite smile froze for a second.
Of all things they could offer him, that was what they thought would impress him?
To outsiders, those Korean awards sounded grand, prestigious, even glamorous.
But Jihoon, who had lived through the system once before, knew better.
Behind the golden statues and red carpets, those ceremonies were little more than playgrounds for networks and politics.
The so-called "major film awards" in Korea weren't decided by art—they were decided by sponsors, ratings, and alliances.
And Jihoon weren't in that category.