Chapter 68: Hiding in the Stall
At the same time. In the farthest stall of the innermost bathroom at Yongsan CGV. Under the warm golden lighting that rivaled a decent hotel, a certain director clutched his chest, gasping for breath. Hooook, hooook, hooook.
He was a director who had submitted a short film to this festival. More precisely, he was one who had intended to watch it in the general screening room instead of the special one reserved by the organizers for industry folks to enjoy the films comfortably and gauge reactions firsthand—but in the end, he had turned tail and fled. O Director.
"·······Yeah, no way I can do this."
He had ended up hiding in the bathroom. Curiosity had been killing him, but the thought of hearing the audience's biting critiques right next to him made his heart pound like a drum.
But no one could blame O Director. He had entered the Arena Short Film Festival opening ceremony with some confidence built up after making the finals out of 50 shorts—"This one's pretty solid, right?"—only to encounter the real masters there.
"Director O! I'm really looking forward to this one!"
"Th-thank you······"
Jeon Yong-il, no less. The moment the king of Korean noir said he had high hopes, a lead weight of pressure sank into his chest. And that wasn't all.
"······Let's see it."
"Y-yeah, th-thank you!"
Yoon Chang-ho's expression at that moment. Even as he feigned politeness, that subtle gaze scanning him up and down like he was sizing up trash. Thump! Thump! Thump! From then on, the anxiety had gnawed at him—the fear that those microscope-sharp eyes would dissect every flaw in his baby like a child.
"What if they see right through my shallow tricks?"
Honestly, the actors had carried this one. Lee Tae-gyu, Han Joo-hyuk, Cheon Yoo-seong, Yang Se-hee. All he had done was cast these ridiculously talented folks out of sheer luck and set up a stage where they could ad-lib freely.
"Damn it, I should've just admitted I couldn't direct and bowed out."
O Director regretted every choice he'd made.
"I should've just shut up and retired quietly······"
Like that. As he reached a trembling hand into his pants pocket for the heartburn pills—
━━━━BOOM!
The bathroom door flew open with an explosion like a bomb going off. O Director jumped in shock, and two men's frantic voices pierced his ears.
"·······D-did you piss? No?"
"Y-you psycho, of course I did!"
"I didn't!"
"Me neither!"
"That was close."
"H-ha! Right?!"
"Man, we almost became the idiots who piss themselves during a horror flick."
"People still do that these days? No way~"
They barreled in, yelling excuses at each other like they were defending their lives, then split off to the urinals. Splash! Splish-splash! The director, who had unwittingly tuned into this live broadcast, realized even from inside his stall:
"·······What the hell."
Unlike their thunderous entrance, the sound hitting the urinals was pathetically weak—drip. Drop. And despite their bold excuses hurled at each other, an awkward silence stretched out—
"············."
"············."
What, there are bigger wimps than me out there. That was the thought crossing O Director's mind when—
"Th-that's why I said let's hit the bathroom, you psycho!"
"H-how was I supposed to know?!"
It hit him crystal clear.
"·······That psycho cult flick was that creepy!"
The first review of his film.
Yongsan CGV. In each screening room, as Sai-bi Church Maknae Son ended, a bizarre phenomenon unfolded.
The door burst open. Audiences poured out with zombie-like blank stares. These were hardcore film fans who usually swapped reviews the second they stepped out.
But now:
"············"
"············"
"············"
No one opened their mouth. They had no clue how to even start rating what they'd just seen.
So they went through the routine. Headed to their cars or public transit. Got home. Ate dinner. Washed up slowly. Sat down, gathered their thoughts. Then finally tapped at their phones or keyboards.
Tap······ Tap······
And shared the inexplicable shock they'd experienced.
And so the reviews for Sai-bi Church Maknae Son began flooding film communities.
After day one.
Film fans, curiosity piqued, started relay-posting their takes.
Not just film communities—word of mouth spread to friends and acquaintances. Riding that buzz, as day two and three of the festival passed, more reviews poured in, the hype only growing hotter.
Day four. The day before the closing ceremony, where the judges' final deliberations would happen.
The day before the closing ceremony. After the judges voted on their genres, they cross-reviewed high-scorers from others to pick the grand prize.
In the special screening room packed with actors, directors, critics, reporters, and industry insiders—the spot organizers always set aside for serious evaluations, separate from audiences—Yoon Chang-ho lounged in the best seat, leg crossed.
Waiting for Sai-bi Church Maknae Son to start, he yawned and nodded off.
"·······That's that."
Yoon Chang-ho had already narrowed down grand prize contenders. Honestly, he was convinced this festival's biggest gem was the one transcending all genres.
Not because Petition Police was his romance category jury pick. In just 20 minutes, it had stuffed every limit a short could hold.
"Joo Min-hee, you've been practicing."
She was the core. The actress set for a casual tea time before tomorrow's closing, post-final votes.
He smirked, recalling her radiant beauty that elevated even a short to art. Not out of lust, of course. He never let personal feelings taint his film judgment.
"·······Impressive."
His assessment of her guts to dive into "real" art. After all, it was time for her.
Art's realm was merciless. Yoon Chang-ho, who had made two agency execs beg with three visits before agreeing to meet her, now pondered a fun dilemma.
"Hmm."
Pair her against Seol A-yoon for his next lead? He'd verbally promised her a role, but not specified lead—directors' whims adding auditions was routine.
In that sense—
━━━━Flash!
The special screening went dark. Snapping from reverie, Yoon Chang-ho eyed the screen boredly.
"Hmm."
About to start. But low expectations. He was here out of duty to preview buzzed films pre-closing.
Lee Tae-gyu. Honestly, zero interest. Hadn't watched his drama. Choi Sung-chul the DP recommended him, but the more he dug, the less he vibed.
"O Director's fine, whatever."
Teaming with a third-rate hack like O showed passion for art, sure.
"But Gu Jeong-hwan next?"
That fluke 10-million director? Fine, say he lacked taste.
But.
"·········Model Detective 3?"
Hearing that title, judgment sealed. Lee Tae-gyu was a shallow crowd-pleaser chasing cash, no pride in craft.
In a word: vulgarity—he despised it. His feud with Jeon Yong-il in Stranger Tastes stemmed partly from "shallow noir."
Still did.
Whoosh—
Torrential rain hit the screen; his face soured instantly.
"Cliché from the jump."
Horror starting dark and rainy? Shallow.
Yoon Chang-ho watched with bored apathy, but as time passed—
"············?!"
- Hahahahahahaha.
When Lee Tae-gyu's eerie laugh ended the film—
"F-fucking hell?"
He spat the vulgar curse.
"············We're screwed."
This was the grand prize.