The next morning, the sun filtered softly through the windows of the Carlton restaurant, the hotel's main dining hall.
The space was elegant and expansive, dressed in the kind of understated luxury that carried the Riviera's timeless air.
Marble floors gleamed beneath the gentle light, and tall windows opened to a magnificent terrace lush with greenery.
From there, one could see the famous La Croisette boulevard stretching along the coastline, the Mediterranean Sea shimmering beyond it.
Jihoon had chosen a seat out on that terrace, away from the clatter of utensils inside, where the salty breeze carried with it the scent of the sea mixed with freshly baked bread.
He sat with a plate before him, sipping coffee between bites, letting his thoughts settle after the stormy night before.
The cloudy storm inside his mind had calmed, if only slightly. The words Jim had told him replayed in fragments—hurricane, tsunami, forecast. He realized now that the storms ahead weren't his to command. Whether they came as hurricanes or tsunamis, altering their path was beyond his power.
He could waste his strength fighting inevitability, or he could do what sailors had done for centuries—ride the waves and adjust his course when the winds demanded it. That was the way forward, he decided. Not resistance, but adaptation.
The breakfast spread was the kind expected of a five-star Riviera hotel—an American-style buffet that left no craving unattended.
A wide selection of buttery croissants and flaky viennoiseries sat beside loaves of fresh bread, jams, and honey.
Platters of cold cuts and fine cheeses lined one side, while trays of scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, golden sausages, and roasted potatoes steamed on the other.
Juices—freshly squeezed orange, grapefruit, and even pomegranate—waited in glass carafes, gleaming in the morning light.
Jihoon, never one to overeat, had settled on a modest plate: scrambled eggs, a slice of rye bread with butter, and a small bowl of fruit.
He was halfway through, his fork pushing gently against the last bites of egg, when he lifted his head—and saw them.
Three men were walking toward him across the nearly empty terrace.
It was late morning, edging closer to brunch than breakfast, and the restaurant had thinned out.
By now, most guests had either finished or were still lingering inside, avoiding the sun.
Out here, Jihoon was alone. Which meant that the three approaching figures had no one else to be heading toward.
At first glance, they looked familiar, though Jihoon couldn't immediately place where he had seen them before.
They were all Asian, their features distinctly Korean.
The way they walked together suggested familiarity, but also a quiet hierarchy.
The man in the middle carried himself with a slight forward lean, as if naturally assuming the role of the one being followed.
Jihoon, however, knew better.
In Korean culture, authority often lay not with charisma or leadership but with age.
Eldest meant senior, and seniority meant deference.
That was the unspoken law—the chain of hierarchy that had been carved into Korean society for centuries.
As they drew closer, Jihoon's recognition sharpened. Their faces, once vague silhouettes, snapped into clarity. His eyes narrowed slightly. He knew exactly who they were.
And with that knowledge came obligation.
Though Jihoon's fame now extended well beyond Korea—recognized at Cannes, praised by critics, his name whispered as a rising auteur—he hadn't forgotten the rules of his homeland.
The hierarchy system, born from Confucian philosophy, had been passed down as a call for respect and harmony.
But somewhere along the way, its essence had been distorted.
No longer was it purely about cultivating virtue; it had become a tool for control.
Elders demanded obedience, even when wrong.
Juniors were forbidden from correcting them.
It was not guidance, but subjugation. A chain designed to bind rather than uplift.
Jihoon despised it. Yet he also knew it was not a chain easily broken.
If he ignored the approaching men, he could already imagine the fallout.
Whispers of arrogance, accusations of lacking manners, headlines painting him as disrespectful to his seniors.
In Korea, public opinion was a wildfire—fanned by the media, consumed by anti-fans, and impossible to extinguish once sparked.
Anti-fans weren't harmless trolls; they stalked, threatened, even attacked those they disliked.
And dislike was always manufactured, spun out of narratives written by journalists hungry for clicks.
So Jihoon did what survival demanded. He stood up.
"Hello, sunbae," he said in careful Korean, bowing slightly as he pulled out a chair for the eldest.
The man's face was calm, almost unreadable. Hong Sangsoo.
Jihoon had never met him before—neither in this life nor in his previous one.
Unlike Stan Lee, a man who could laugh at himself and brush off ego, Sangsoo was known for something else entirely.
A director with international acclaim, but also a man whose personal life and reputation carried shadows.
Jihoon wasn't about to test boundaries with him, not without knowing what lay behind the mask.
The other two men followed behind. Jihoon greeted them with respect, though without the same overt gesture as he had given to Sangsoo.
One was Lee Changdong, a filmmaker of immense literary sensibility, known for his ability to craft films that lingered long after the credits rolled.
The other was Kim Jeewoon, versatile and stylish, capable of moving seamlessly between genres with flair.
Together, they represented the old guard of Korean cinema.
Jihoon sat back down after they were settled, offering a polite smile. His mind, however, was already running ahead. He knew why they had come.
All three had films at Cannes this year, but only one had secured a place in the main competition lineup: Lee Changdong with Secret Sunshine.
Jihoon remembered it clearly, even from his past life.
It would win Best Actress, a prize that, while not directly honoring the director's skill, carried weight nonetheless.
A director who could guide an actor or actress to such a win would forever be seen as someone capable of cultivating talent to international acclaim.
In the world of cinema, that mattered more than outsiders might realize.
Actors, no matter how famous, always chased prestige. They wanted the accolades that proved they were more than just faces on a poster.
Winning at Cannes, Venice, or Berlin wasn't just about pride; it opened doors. It brought brand deals, ambassadorships with luxury houses, magazine covers, and roles in films that promised further prestige.
For directors, the benefit was twofold.
The prestige of being seen as someone who could "deliver" awards attracted actors to their projects.
And beyond that—behind the closed doors of hotels and parties—fame often blurred into other kinds of currency.
Power, profit, favors. In Hollywood, they had called it the red sofa policy.
Jihoon knew Korea was no different.
Still, Jihoon kept his expression neutral, careful.
Hong Sangsoo, watching him, seemed to sense the layers behind his courtesy. The younger man's bow had been precise, polite—but not warm. T
here was a distance in Jihoon's manner, as if he were fulfilling obligation without offering anything more.
Word had already reached Sangsoo about Jihoon's weird behaviour.
Strange, almost some said.
Aloof.
Arrogant.
Others whispered that he was simply antisocial, uninterested in friendships or alliances.
In an industry built on circles—networks like the Chungmuro circle in Seoul or the Busan school circle—Jihoon was a rare outsider.
He had built his own road, refusing to kneel for entry into the groups everyone else scrambled to join.
To some, it was arrogance.
To others, perhaps, it was self-preservation.
Sangsoo tilted his head slightly, studying Jihoon as if testing that theory.
"Jihoon-ah," he said finally, his tone softened with a faint smile. "Just call us hyung. No need for formality. Are you here at the festival alone?"
Jihoon set down his fork and gave a polite nod. "Alright then, Sangsoo hyung. I'm here with my producer. He just happened to be busy this morning, so for now, I'm alone."
Sangsoo's smile widened a fraction, satisfied with the reply. He leaned back in his chair, the air of seniority settling around him like an old coat.
"You're nominated for the main competition category, right?" he asked, voice even, but his eyes sharp—curious.