The last of the group films sputtered to a finish on the big screen, met with a smattering of polite applause and a few lingering giggles. Do-yeong watched the credits roll, a montage of six names, all smiling brightly in their 'behind-the-scenes' photos. He felt a strange mix of detachment and dread. Their films were light, collaborative, forgettable. His was singular, raw, and now, terrifyingly exposed. The moment he had simultaneously craved and feared was fast approaching.
Mr. Han stepped back to the microphone, tapping it to ensure it was still working. The gym, momentarily quiet, buzzed with the residual energy of the previous screening. "Alright, everyone," Mr. Han began, a slight, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips, "that was our final group submission for today's festival. We've seen some truly creative work." He paused, letting the words hang in the air. Do-yeong's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, unsynced drumbeat.
Then, Mr. Han's gaze seemed to drift towards the back rows, scanning the anonymous faces until, Do-yeong imagined, it landed precisely on his slumped form. The smirk on the teacher's face widened just a fraction. "And now," Mr. Han announced, his voice carrying a distinct, theatrical lilt, "we have our last film of the day. A rather… unique entry."
A ripple of murmurs went through the crowd. Do-yeong felt every single pair of eyes in the gym, imagined them all turning towards his isolated corner. He wanted to melt into the plastic chair, to become part of the shoddy set design.
"This final film," Mr. Han continued, his voice now almost performatively dramatic, "was made by a single student."
The words hung in the air for a beat. Then, like a perfectly timed comedic cue, a snicker broke out from the middle rows. It quickly snowballed. A wave of laughter, low at first, then growing louder, more confident, swept through the gym. It was the sound of recognition, the collective understanding that this 'single student' could only be one person. Everyone already knew it was Do-yeong. The film-obsessed kid who talked like a walking encyclopedia of cinema, the one who probably took this whole 'project' way too seriously.
Do-yeong felt a hot flush creep up his neck. He lowered his head, not wanting to meet anyone's gaze. He clenched his fists, knuckles white, digging his nails into his palms. He imagined the camera pushing in, a tight close-up on his bowed head, every muscle tense with humiliation. This was the moment he had anticipated, the moment the world, in its crude, unedited form, would laugh at his earnest ambition.
The laughter, though sharp, was also brief. Mr. Han, having made his point, cleared his throat. "Alright, let's settle down, everyone," he said, though his tone held little actual authority. "Let's give our final filmmaker the respect they deserve."
The harsh gym lights flickered, then slowly, deliberately, began to dim. The laughter subsided, replaced by the shuffling of feet and the expectant whispers of a crowd settling in. In the growing darkness, Do-yeong felt a strange shift. The humiliation was still there, a bitter taste in his mouth, but something else was stirring beneath it. A defiant spark. They had laughed. Fine. But now, they would watch. And he had poured his entire soul into what they were about to see. The screen glowed faintly, waiting for his first, true cinematic statement.