Time flew by like a fly buzzing endlessly around a pile of cow dung—that was the most accurate way to describe Jihoon's state of mind during the entire two-hour screening.
Not because 'Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skul' was a bad film—far from it—but because the "fly" in question wasn't on the screen.
It was sitting right behind him.
Harvey Weinstein.
The fat bastard had been staring at Jihoon since the movie started, his gaze clinging like an unwanted shadow.
Jihoon didn't know what this man's deal was, but the feeling was unbearable, is like sitting down at a picnic only to find a fly buzzing straight into your sandwich, then into your mouth.
Not dangerous, sure. But absolutely disgusting.
He had to endure that feeling for two whole hours.
When the credits finally rolled and the lights came up, Jihoon exhaled like a man released from captivity.
The screening was over, and freedom was finally within reach. He stood up, straightened his jacket, and stretched his stiff shoulders.
He wanted nothing more than to leave the theater, breathe some fresh air, and erase Harvey's unpleasant presence from his mind.
But manners came first.
Before leaving, Jihoon and Jim his producer had to greet the host. It wasn't just common courtesy; it was respect.
After all, this wasn't just any screening. It was Steven Spielberg's premiere. The man himself.
The legend who defined modern cinema since the 1980s.
The director behind Jurassic Park, E.T., Jaws, and Schindler's List. A man who could turn blockbusters into art and art into blockbusters.
If James Cameron was the "King of the World," Spielberg was the pioneer of New Hollywood, the architect of modern storytelling, and the most successful film director in history.
If anyone deserved deference, it was him.
"Steve, thanks for having us today. We really enjoyed watching your new work," Jim said, offering his hand.
Spielberg smiled, a genuine warmth lighting up his face. "Hah! The pleasure's mine, Jim. Always good to see you here."
"Are you leaving already?" Spielberg asked, his voice carrying that friendly curiosity.
"Yeah," Jim nodded, "me and Lee here are about to head out."
"Oh, I see." Spielberg's eyes shifted toward Jihoon, and though the question came from Jim's direction, it was clear who he was really addressing.
"Your film's screening tomorrow, isn't it?"
Jim noticed that Spielberg's attention had turned to Jihoon, so he didn't answer.
Instead, he gave Jihoon a small gesture, silently telling him to take it from there.
Jihoon caught the signal immediately. Without hesitation, he stepped forward and replied in a calm, respectful tone. "Yes, it's tomorrow. If you're free, Mr. Spielberg, I'd be honored if you could join us."
There was no trace of nervousness in his voice—just composure and sincerity.
Spielberg's eyes softened with a spark of admiration.
For a man his age, Jihoon carried himself with unusual confidence. His posture, his tone, even the way he made eye contact—all of it told Spielberg this young director wasn't just another lucky newcomer.
He had the temperament of someone destined for the big stage.
He gave Jihoon a firm pat on the shoulder. "If I can find the time, I'll be there," he said with a smile, then turned to Jim.
"Jim, I've got to hand it to you—you really hit the jackpot with this one. You lucky bastard."
Jim's grin could've lit up the entire room. "Haha! Lee's still young. There's plenty for him to learn, but I'll take that as a good sign."
Spielberg rolled his eyes playfully. "You're still the same shameless guy I know. Always taking credit for talent you didn't have."
The room laughed lightly.
Then Spielberg turned back to Jihoon, his tone shifting slightly more serious. "Lee, I've watched your film—the HCU project. It's fascinating work. The way you weave multiple storylines across different timelines—it's bold, and it's new. That concept gave me a few ideas of my own."
He paused, as if letting the words sink in before adding, "To be honest, after hearing your interview I've been toying with the idea of a Jurassic Park Universe."
"Where multiple stories connected under one cinematic world."
"And what you did with your cinematic universe—it's opened up a whole new direction for filmmakers. You may not realize it yet, but you've started something big."
Jihoon listened quietly, feeling a mix of pride and humility because by right the idea wasn't his to start, but who cares, he's the first one to establish the idea anyway.
The idea of the cinematic universe wasn't just a storytelling gimmick—it was a revolution.
In the years ahead, studios would race to build interconnected worlds, resurrecting old franchises and reimagining classics.
And to think, he was the one who had unknowingly lit that spark.
Spielberg knew it too.
He understood how such innovation could reshape an entire industry.
Just like how Georges Melies once transformed cinema with special effects—creating stop motion, multiple exposures, and time-lapse photography—Jihoon had redefined narrative structure for the modern age.
Both men were pioneers in their own right.
To the public, fame was fleeting.
But in the academic halls of film schools, names like theirs would be written into textbooks, studied for generations.
And for legends like Spielberg or Cameron, who had long transcended the chase for money, this—innovation, legacy—was what mattered to them most.
Spielberg wasn't envious; he was impressed.
Jihoon had achieved something that even the titans of cinema respected—a feat not measured in box office numbers but in creative influence.
Jihoon smiled and responded modestly, "Thank you. But even without me, someone else would've eventually come up with the same idea. I just happened to be there at the right time."
Spielberg chuckled, patting him on the shoulder again. "Hah! You're a humble one, aren't you? Keep that attitude—and keep working hard. Sooner or later, you'll be standing at the top with us."
He said it casually, but his words landed like a thunderclap.
The surrounding crowd, mostly directors, producers, and actors, fell silent for a moment.
Spielberg's voice wasn't loud, but it carried weight—and everyone heard it.
At the top with us.
Those words weren't small talk.
"The top" meant the pantheon of modern filmmaking—the small circle that included James Cameron, George Lucas, Martin Scorsese, Christopher Nolan, and Spielberg himself.
For someone like Jihoon, still in his late twenties, to be told he'd someday stand among them—it was an extraordinary endorsement.
People exchanged glances.
Some whispered, some nodded thoughtfully.
At first, many had assumed Jihoon was just a lucky upstart—a profitable newcomer backed by a powerful producer.
But Spielberg's praise shattered that notion completely.
Now they saw him differently.
Jihoon wasn't just another young director riding on hype. He was someone to be taken seriously. Someone dangerous—in the best possible way.
As the murmurs grew, a single voice sliced through the air like a knife.
"Ck… Bootlicker," the voice sneered. "Climbing to the top by kissing some ass, huh?"
The words weren't shouted, but they were loud enough to ripple through the quiet theater.
Heads turned toward the source, curiosity flashing in their eyes.
And there he was.
Harvey.
The human embodiment of a stain you couldn't wash off a white shirt.
Sitting there with his greasy grin, his voice dripping with contempt.
Everyone knew who he was.
Not just because of his rotund figure that could be spotted from a mile away, but because of his notorious reputation.
Harvey Weinstein—the infamous producer known for his temper, his arrogance, and his long list of misconduct.
The crowd's reaction was mixed.
Some smirked, ready for drama.
Others looked uneasy.
Everyone knew Harvey had a history of picking fights, often for the sake of attention, like some spoiled kid with a big daddy issue.
And now, it looked like Jihoon had unknowingly become his latest target.
Jim's eyes narrowed instantly, his smile fading.
Jihoon, however, stayed calm. He'd dealt with worse in his time—both in his past life and this one.
Inside, though, he couldn't help but sigh.
Here we go again.
Harvey leaned forward slightly, the smirk on his lips widening as if daring Jihoon to respond. "Guess the new kid thinks he's hot stuff, huh?"
"Just because Spielberg pats your head, and suddenly you're the next Scorsese?"
Whispers flared again, tension rising like static before a storm.
Jihoon didn't move. He turned slowly, his eyes locking on Harvey's with a cold, measured look.
No anger.
No fluster.
Just calm.
That silence—controlled, heavy, unshaken—was enough to make Harvey blink, if only for a second.