Today, the theater was not just a venue — it was the beating heart of world cinema.
Every flash of a camera, every whisper of silk gowns, every hurried step of an assistant marked the pulse of an art form that thrived on spectacle and emotion.
Inside, the hall was already filled with some of the most celebrated figures in film.
Directors whose names were carved into history.
Actors and actresses whose faces alone could draw tears, laughter, or applause from millions.
If someone were to make a film with the people gathered here tonight, it would undoubtedly become the most phenomenal blockbuster in cinematic history.
Because the talent in this room could reshape the whole itself — they only needed the right story to tie them together.
That thought alone would made Jihoon smile. After all, writing stories, espeically a good ones was in his territory.
From the moment he arrived, the entire place had turned into a storm of flashing lights.
Reporters from every corner of the world crowded around the carpet, shouting questions, firing shutters in rapid succession.
The scene looked less like a film premiere and more like a battlefield.
The cameras crackled and flared like machine guns, their flashes was relentless and if those weren't cameras but real guns, today's headline wouldn't be read "Buried Premiere at Cannes" — it would read "Red Carpet Massacre."
But despite the chaos, he couldn't help but feel proud. This was his moment.
Unfortunately, one name was missing from the guest list — the true king himself, Steven Spielberg.
But even without Spielberg's presence, the event had already reached its peak.
The energy was electric, the media practically in ecstasy — a continuous, euphoric frenzy.
As host and director of the night, Jihoon had no time to rest.
He stood at the entrance of the Lumiere, greeting each guest personally as they arrived.
Hours of smiling, shaking hands, and exchanging polite words had left his throat dry and his back sore, but he carried on, fueled by a mixture of adrenaline and gratitude.
"Hi, Mr. Penn, thank you for coming. I really admire how you've make Mystic River a masterpiece in subtle storytelling."
"Welcome, Ms. Portman," Jihoon said next with genuine enthusiasm. "Your performance in Léon: The Professional left a deep impression on me. I hope someday we can collaborate."
He bowed slightly, then turned again as another guest approached. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Soderbergh. I appreciate you taking the time to attend."
Moments later came a small group from Korea. Jihoon's face lit up. "Sangsoo hyung, Jeewoon hyung, and Doyeon noona — thank you for coming. Please, make yourselves comfortable. Let me know if you need anything."
Then he noticed a familiar figure behind them and grinned. "Jiang! Come on in and get comfortable!"
Jihoon shook hands with each of the renowned directors and actors present, feeling a rush of fulfillment with every greeting. But when it came to Jiangwen, the exchange was brief.
Jihoon simply gave him a playful push toward the entrance.
Since their last meeting over coffee, the two men had reached a quiet understanding — no need for formal pleasantries.
Jihoon knew Jiang wasn't there to flatter anyone; he was there for Quentin.
Speaking of Quentin — when Jihoon saw the American director arrive alone, without his usual partner-in-crime, producer Harvey Weinstein, he immediately understood.
The fiasco Harvey had caused yesterday still hung in the air like a sour aftertaste.
As Quentin approached, he looked slightly sheepish. "Hey, sorry, Lee… about yesterday's commotion—"
Jihoon quickly waved it off with a smile. "Don't worry, man. It's no big deal. Come on in — Jiang's already inside waiting for you."
He clapped him on the shoulder and guided him toward the theater.
As the crowd thickened, Jihoon took a moment to glance around.
Nearly every face in the room was recognizable — from Oscar-winning producers to festival jurors, from international stars to film brokers eyeing their next big acquisition.
Then, among the sea of tuxedos and glittering gowns, Jihoon noticed an older man — Asian, maybe in his late fifties — watching him with a knowing smile.
His face felt oddly familiar, but Jihoon couldn't quite place where he had seen him before.
The man nodded politely, and Jihoon returned the gesture before being pulled away by another arriving guest.
He shrugged it off.
In this industry, faces blurred over time, especially when one spent most of their career meeting hundreds of people at every event.
As the evening progressed, the theater began to fill completely.
The buzzing of conversation dimmed into a gentle murmur as the lights flickered low.
Soon after, the production team of 'Buried' took the stage to officially begin the premiere.
The audience cheered as Jihoon and Ryan Reynolds walked up together — the only two people directly involved in the film. Jihoon could already hear light laughter ripple through the audience. It wasn't often that a feature film had just one actor in its entire cast.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Jihoon began with a grin, "as you can see, introducing the cast of Buried is going to be a pretty short process tonight."
The crowd laughed. The tension in the room melted away, replaced by curiosity.
Jihoon continued, explaining that the film had been shot in less than twenty days — an incredible feat considering the emotional weight and technical precision required.
He described the concept as something new, something different from the Hollywood formula.
"Buried," he said proudly, "isn't a film about spectacle or scale. It's a film about isolation, fear, and the human spirit. There are no explosions, no car chases — just one man, one space, and one desperate fight for survival."
He turned to Ryan, his voice filled with admiration. "And for that, I have to give full credit to Ryan here. His performance is the heartbeat of this film. In a one-man show, every flicker of expression, every breath, every moment of silence becomes the action. It's not easy to carry an entire film on your own, but he did it brilliantly."
The audience applauded warmly.
Jihoon could see some of the jury members nodding — that was exactly the reaction he'd hoped for.
He decided to add a touch of humor. "To be honest," Jihoon said, "this film took a bit of a toll on Ryan."
"Being trapped in a box for days isn't exactly relaxing. So, we actually hired a professional psychiatrist to stay on set, just in case. About twenty percent of our budget went to keeping him sane."
The crowd erupted in laughter. Even Ryan played along, shaking his head in mock protest.
Jihoon smiled.
The lighthearted tone helped, but beneath it was a calculated move. He knew the jurors were listening, and by highlighting Ryan's dedication and mental strain, he was subtly guiding their attention toward his actor's performance.
It wasn't manipulation — not exactly.
Just strategy.
If others in the industry pulled strings through backroom favors, Jihoon preferred to earn recognition through craft and subtle persuasion.
No scandals, no dirty deals — just honest work presented in the right light.
As the laughter died down, he shifted to a more reflective tone.
"Filming Buried," Jihoon admitted, "was more challenging than I ever anticipated. On paper, it sounded simple. A man, a coffin, a camera — what could go wrong?"
"But as I learned, the simpler something seems, the harder it becomes to perfect."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "When you remove all distractions — all locations, all supporting characters — what's left is raw humanity. And capturing that honestly is the hardest thing of all."
The audience listened intently.
Even from the stage, Jihoon could see the blend of curiosity and respect in their eyes.
This wasn't just another thriller; this was an experiment in cinematic minimalism, and everyone could feel it. Especially the directors present, in particular, seemed to resonate with it more deeply than anyone else.
Joihoon than went on to thank his crew — the unsung heroes who had made the impossible possible.
"Every lighting angle, every sound, every cut had to be precise. There was no room for error. The entire world of this film existed within a wooden box, and somehow, my team managed to make that world feel alive."
By the time Jihoon finished his introduction, the room had quieted.
The buzz, the chatter, even the rustling of programs faded into anticipation.
The lights dimmed further, and the massive screen flickered to life.
As Jihoon took his seat beside Ryan, he exhaled slowly.
All the greetings, the flashes, the polite conversations — they faded away now.
This was the moment that truly mattered.
He leaned back, eyes fixed on the screen, and smiled faintly.
For him, Cannes wasn't just about awards or red carpets.
It was about proving that a good story — even one confined to the size of a coffin — could still shake the hearts of audiences around the world.
And as the opening scene of 'Buried' began to unfold, the entire theater fell silent.