The laptop, now closed, sat like a sealed vault on Do-yeong's desk, holding his cinematic "first baby" within its silent confines. The quiet solitude of his room had been a sanctuary, a private screening room where his film was a masterpiece. But now, the time had come for its public premiere, a debut in the most intimidating venue imaginable: the school gym.
The walk to the gym felt like a slow-motion tracking shot through a gauntlet of impending judgment. Each classmate he passed, each casual conversation he overheard, seemed to be part of a looming, unspoken commentary. When he finally pushed open the heavy double doors, the sound of the throng hit him like a poorly mixed soundscape, a cacophony of adolescent chatter, echoing off the high ceilings.
The gym was packed. A sea of faces, a chaotic assembly of extras waiting for the main feature. Chairs were arranged in long, haphazard rows, facing a large projection screen that dominated one wall. It was less a grand cinema hall and more a hastily converted multi-purpose space, a visually bland setting utterly devoid of the meticulous production design he craved. The fluorescent gym lights, harsh and unforgiving, cast no flattering glow, only a clinical, unflattering illumination.
Do-yeong scanned the crowd, feeling like a ghost, an unseen observer. He spotted Ji-eun laughing with her friends, looking comfortable, unburdened. He saw Ha-rin sketching in a corner of her notebook, probably redesigning the entire gym in her mind to be more aesthetically pleasing. He considered joining someone, anyone, but the idea felt like disrupting a perfectly composed shot. He was the lonely auteur, the isolated visionary. His place, for now, was on the periphery.
He found an empty chair in the very last row, tucked almost out of sight. It was the perfect vantage point for a detached observer, a director watching his own rough cut unfold, but from a safe, anonymous distance. He slumped into the seat, trying to make himself invisible, to become a shadow in the poorly lit rear of the room. He could feel a knot forming in his stomach, a visceral reaction he hadn't accounted for in his meticulous script. This wasn't just self-doubt; this was raw, unedited fear.
The gym teacher, Mr. Han, a man whose presence usually inspired thoughts of dodgeball and push-ups, took the makeshift stage. He held a microphone with a slightly theatrical flourish, launching into an introduction that Do-yeong immediately identified as a stock character monologue – bland, functional, entirely lacking in subtext.
"Alright, everyone! Welcome to our inaugural First-Year Short Film Festival!" Mr. Han's voice boomed, slightly distorted by the cheap microphone. "We've got some fantastic entries today, showcasing the incredible talent of our students!"
Then, the lights dimmed. A hush, surprisingly, fell over the crowd. The first film began to play.
It was a goofy rom-com, predictable in its beats, featuring exaggerated acting and broad, slapstick humor. Do-yeong watched, his critical eye dissecting every frame. "The lighting is flat," he mumbled to himself, "the camera work is purely functional. And that character motivation? Pure cliché." He could almost hear the intended laugh track in his head.
Another film started. A group of boys fumbling through a horror parody, complete with fake blood and deliberately bad jump scares. Laughter erupted, genuine and loud, from the audience. Do-yeong felt a pang. They were entertained. Was that his goal? No, he swiftly corrected himself. His goal was truth.
One by one, the films played out – generic stories, uninspired visual choices, safe narratives. Most were designed for easy laughs or simple messages. The audience responded with cheers, giggles, and appreciative applause. Do-yeong sat there, a silent critic in a packed house, each passing film tightening the knot in his stomach. Their films were light, palatable, easily digestible. His was… something else entirely.
He felt the familiar rush of blood to his ears, the cold sweat on his palms. He had treated this project like it was Cannes material, a profound artistic statement. But watching these other films, seeing the ease with which his classmates had approached it, made him feel utterly exposed. He was anticipating mockery, not for the film itself, but for the very idea of it. For his seriousness, his intensity, his absolute conviction in the power of cinema, a conviction he suspected no one else in this room truly shared. His film was coming up soon. He just had to wait, invisible, for the verdict.