Sometimes confrontation begins not with words, but with friction—two forces colliding until sparks turn into grudges. It's human nature, Jihoon thought.
Yet, standing here amid the polished floor of the Grand Theatre Lumiere, he still couldn't understand what had made this particular man—Harvey—hold such an inexplicable grudge against him.
They had met only once before. Once.
And somehow, this bloated man seemed to carry enough hostility for a lifetime. His fat belly, Jihoon thought, could barely hold manners, let alone decency.
Harvey's behavior didn't surprise him entirely—after all, the man's reputation in Hollywood was as loud and messy as his breathing—but the timing of it made Jihoon's blood simmer.
They were at Steven Spielberg's premiere, a night meant to celebrate art and craftsmanship, not host the tantrum of a self-entitled king-maker.
Jihoon's gaze turned cold, a slice of winter behind his eyes, but before he could respond, Jim spoke first.
"Harvey," Jim said flatly, his voice cutting through the murmurs, "if you've got nothing better to do, maybe you should start by cleaning up your own mess."
A ripple of suppressed laughter moved through the nearby guests.
Harvey's grin faltered.
He turned toward Jihoon, eyes flickering with humiliation and malice. Since it wasn't Jihoon who had spoken, he smirked mockingly, as if the younger man needed an adult to defend him.
But when his gaze returned to Jim, the smirk turned into something else—nervousness, maybe even fear.
He knew exactly who Jim was.
The current president of FOX wasn't someone you picked a fight with.
Jim's words carried weight, enough to make or break a career.
One phone call, one quiet blacklist, and Harvey's projects would dry up faster than spilled champagne on the Cannes carpet.
He'd seen it happen to others before.
And now, realizing his own stupidity, he started to regret opening his mouth.
He hadn't planned to cause a scene—he just couldn't help himself.
Because when he saw Spielberg's attention linger on Jihoon earlier, when he saw the crowd subtly turning toward the young director with curiosity and admiration, something ugly inside him twisted.
Jealousy, insecurity—call it whatever you want, it was the bitter truth.
To him, Jihoon was just a kid.
A foreigner barely out of his twenties, suddenly seated front-row beside Spielberg.
It should have been him.
In his warped weird logic, that was unfair.
His mind was small, but his ego was enormous—bigger than his waistline, and twice as hard to manage.
Realizing he'd already crossed the line, Harvey scrambled to regain some footing.
He forced a smirk and tried to redirect the confrontation. "Hey, kid," he said, voice dripping with fake bravado, "don't hide behind your babysitter. Be a man and defend yourself."
It was a cowardly move, one meant to pull Jihoon into his little circus while avoiding Jim's wrath.
If he could bait Jihoon into reacting, the heat would stay on the boy—not him.
Jim, seeing through the act, felt his patience thinning. He was ready to crush Harvey completely, to remind him that he was out of his league—but before he could speak again, Jihoon raised a hand, resting it gently on Jim's shoulder.
"I got this," Jihoon said quietly.
He stepped forward, his tone calm but his presence sharp. "Harvey, that's your name, right?" he began, his voice clear enough for everyone nearby to hear.
"I'm not sure what I did to offend you, but we've met exactly twice—including today."
"Maybe it's time you stop your circus act and start behaving like an adult."
"Even a teenager like me knows this is Mr. Spielberg's premiere. Don't you think this kind of behavior is beneath you? Aren't you ashamed? Or do you just enjoy embarrassing yourself in public?"
Each sentence landed heavier than the last—measured, polite on the surface, but with enough sting to make Harvey's face redden.
Jihoon didn't raise his voice or resort to insults; he didn't need to. His composure alone was more humiliating than shouting could ever be.
And beyond defending himself, Jihoon had another purpose—he was protecting Spielberg's event. Causing a scene here would tarnish the atmosphere, maybe even reach the tabloids.
A scandal like "Spielberg's Premiere Turns Chaotic" could overshadow the film itself. Jihoon was giving everyone, including the organizers, a chance to save face.
Right on cue, one of the event organizers appeared, stepping forward with a diplomatic smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
He quickly assessed the situation—the tension, the audience, Harvey's flushed face, Jihoon's calm posture—and understood everything in a glance.
He approached Jihoon first. "Monsieur Lee," he said politely, offering a small nod, "thank you for handling that so gracefully."
Then, turning to Harvey, his expression hardened. "And you, Mr. Weinstein—" his tone now sharp enough to cut glass, "—you're a guest here, not the host."
"This is France, not Hollywood. We don't tolerate this kind of disgraceful conduct. You will leave the premises immediately, or I'll have security escort you out."
The room fell silent.
Harvey froze, his earlier arrogance draining out of him like air from a punctured balloon.
He looked toward the exit, where two security guards were already waiting, their postures firm and unforgiving. He tried to force a smile. "Fine," he muttered. "I was leaving anyway."
He began to walk, his steps heavy and uneven, but just as he passed Jihoon, he stopped for one last petty act of defiance. Leaning close, he muttered, "This isn't over, kid. I'll remember this."
Jihoon blinked, genuinely stunned at how childish the man sounded.
He couldn't help but let out a small, disbelieving laugh. "For someone your size and age," he said under his breath, "I expected at least a little maturity. Guess I was wrong."
Jim burst out laughing beside him. "Hah! Your mouth's no better than his pea-sized brain," he said, pointing playfully at Jihoon.
The tension in the air dissolved into a ripple of quiet chuckles among those who had stayed behind.
The storm had passed.
As Jihoon and Jim prepared to leave, the event organizer approached them again, his earlier firmness replaced by warmth. "Gentlemen," he said, "I deeply apologize for the inconvenience. I hope this doesn't ruin your evening. If there's anything I can do to make up for it, please don't hesitate to ask."
He reached into his pocket and handed Jihoon a sleek name card.
Jihoon hesitated. Normally, such gestures were directed toward Jim, who was the established figure between them.
But Jim gave him a nod—take it.
The organizer continued, "Please enjoy the rest of your time in Cannes. And if you ever need assistance with anything here, Mr. Lee, don't hesitate to reach out." He shook both of their hands, then left with a polite bow.
Jihoon looked down at the card.
Elegant font.
A family crest embossed in gold.
Strange, he thought. He glanced at Jim, confused. "Shouldn't he have given this to you instead?"
Jim smiled, his tone casual but meaningful. "You know how France's work... He's just returning you a favor," he said. "You saved him the trouble of dealing with that mess himself."
"It's his way of thanking you—for keeping the situation under control instead of turning it into a scandal. Keep the card. You might need it someday."
As the organizer disappeared into the dispersing crowd, Jihoon still couldn't shake off the curiosity.
There was something about Jim's expression—something that suggested this man wasn't just any event coordinator.
"Who is he?" Jihoon asked finally.
Jim turned to him, half-grinning, half-serious. "He's from the Bolloré family," he said. Then, without another word, he started walking toward the exit, leaving Jihoon standing there in quiet astonishment.
The Bollore family.
Jihoon looked back down at the card.
Printed neatly in the center was the name: Yannick Bollore.