Summer on Screen
It was a scorching late August afternoon, the kind where the air felt dense and unmoving, pressing against the city like an invisible weight.
Seoul's skyline shimmered under the merciless sun, its towering glass and steel giants reflecting waves of 31°C heat, transforming the streets into a relentless furnace.
Pedestrians moved sluggishly, their sweat-drenched clothes clinging to their bodies like damp shrouds. Faces gleamed under the oppressive glare, breaths came heavy, and every step felt labored.
The wind, once a welcome reprieve during the monsoon season, had vanished without a trace—leaving only the stifling warmth that seemed to have struck an uneasy alliance with the lingering summer heat.
Inside Jung Youngmin's Taekwondo studio, the atmosphere was no different—humid, stifling, and thick with the scent of effort.
Jihoon's body ached, drenched in sweat from the rigorous training session that had pushed him past his limits.
His muscles burned, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath, but he embraced the exhaustion.
It was a familiar ache—one that spoke of discipline, endurance, and the silent release of the stress that had built up over months of relentless schedules.
He wiped the sweat from his brow, exhaling sharply as he reached for his bag.
His training was done for the day, but there was no time to linger. His schedule was relentless, and he had another pressing engagement ahead and he have no time to waste.
Lee Sooman and Yoon Jongbin were waiting. The final cut of '200 Pounds Beauty' had been completed, and the time had come for the first screening.
They had chosen SM Entertainment's screening room for the occasion, a place where the film will be review by every frame, every edit and every second.
Jihoon yanked on a fresh shirt, barely noticing the sting of sweat still clinging to his skin.
His mind had already shifted, pushing past the exhaustion of training and locking onto the next task.
As he stepped out of the studio, the midday heat crashed into him like a wave, wrapping around his body like a suffocating shroud. The air was thick, unmoving, relentless—each breath felt like inhaling fire.
There was no time to linger. He quickened his pace, weaving through the sweltering streets toward SM's headquarters, where the promise of shade and cold air awaited.
The moment he stepped through the glass doors, the blast of air-conditioned relief washed over him, cutting through the heat like a sharpened blade.
He exhaled, feeling the tension in his body loosen, a fleeting moment of gratitude that anyone who had suffered a brutal summer afternoon would understand—the simple, profound relief of escaping the scorching world outside.
Not long Jihoon have arrived into the screening room, the hushed conversations barely wavered, yet he could feel the weight of countless eyes subtly shifting in his direction.
The room was already filled with executives from both SM Entertainment and JH Entertainment—a gathering of sharply dressed professionals, their suits crisp, their shoes polished to perfection.
And then there was Jihoon—dressed in nothing more than a fitted T-shirt, black joggers, and a pair of worn sneakers.
His hair was still damp from training, a faint sheen of sweat lingering from the Taekwondo session he had rushed from.
Had it been anyone else, whispers would have started, murmurs questioning their lack of decorum. But no one dared to say a word.
Jihoon wasn't just anyone.
As the CEO of JH Entertainment and one of Korea's most renowned directors, his presence alone commanded attention.
His reputation spoke louder than a pressed suit ever could. Still, despite his status, he dipped his head slightly in greeting, offering a quiet yet firm apology.
"Sorry for being a little late," Jihoon said, his voice steady, carrying the weight of discipline ingrained in him over the years.
A low chuckle rose from the front row. Lee Sooman, eaned back in his seat, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he took in Jihoon's casual attire.
"I assume you just came straight from a workout?" he mused, one brow raised.
Jihoon managed a small, sheepish grin. "Yeah, Taekwondo. Rushed over to make sure I wasn't too late."
Seated nearby, Yoon Jongbin leaned in, shaking his head dramatically. "Ahh… it must be nice to be the boss," he sighed, placing a hand over his heart.
"We corporate slaves have to work our fingers to the bone just so the CEO can have the luxury of training in the middle of the day."
Jihoon let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "Hyung, if you want, we can switch—I'll show up early next time, and you can go sweat it out at Taekwondo instead."
"I'll even throw in some push-ups for you."
Jongbin snorted. "You want me to die, don't you?"
"Not necessarily," Jihoon smirked. "But it would be funny."
Jongbin snorted but didn't argue. Jihoon made his way toward the section where the JH Entertainment executives were seated, taking his place among his team.
He exchanged nods with his colleagues before finally settling into his seat.
The lights dimmed.
The soft hum of the projector filled the air before the first images flickered onto the screen.
'200 Pounds Beauty' was about to have its first official screening.
As the screen flickered to life, the story of '200 Pounds Beauty' unfolded before the audience, drawing them into the world of Kang Hanna—a woman with an extraordinary voice but a body that society deemed unworthy of the spotlight.
Played by Kim Ahjoong, Hanna was a ghost singer, lending her powerhouse vocals to Ammy, a pop star whose only real talent was looking good in front of a camera.
Ji Seoyoon's portrayal of the vain and talentless Ammy made it easy to root against her, especially as she continuously belittled Hanna, treating her as nothing more than a tool.
But Hanna's heart belonged elsewhere—to Sangjun, her producer, played by Joo Jinmo.
Though he never outright mocked her, his indifference stung just as much. And then came the breaking point—a public humiliation so crushing that it shattered whatever self-worth she had left.
That was when she made the choice.
An extreme, full-body plastic surgery transformation. A year of pain, isolation, and reinvention.
When she finally emerged, she wasn't Hanna anymore. She was Jenny—a breathtaking beauty, completely unrecognizable from her past self.
Especially when the film's climax came.
The stage lights flared, the hush of the crowd giving way to anticipation. Jenny stood there, no longer the timid woman hiding behind someone else's fame. She owned the stage.
Then, the music hit.
The OSTs Byul and Maria hit with full force, their melodies soaring through the room they in now. But it wasn't just the songs—it was the way they were integrated into the film.
Yoon Jongbin had taken Jihoon's advice, enhancing the crowd's reaction, making every cheer, every tear, every emotion feel real.
The camera angles, the lighting, the way Jenny's eyes shone with raw passion—everything was meticulously crafted, every frame carrying the weight of her journey.
Jihoon's essence was woven into the very fabric of the film.
Though Yoon Jongbin held the director's title, Jihoon's influence bled through every frame, a silent force shaping the soul of the story.
The way music and visuals intertwined—it was more than just a performance; it was an experience, meticulously crafted, elevated by a signature touch that had become unmistakably his.
It wasn't blatant, nor did it seek validation, but for those who truly understood, it was there—undeniable.
The subtle yet masterful blend of sound and imagery, the way emotion was heightened with the perfect cut, the lingering of a note just long enough to carve its way into the audience's heart.
This was Jihoon's artistry. His signature.
And more than just a technique, it was a legacy.
This wasn't something he merely imparted to Yoon Jongbin—it was something he had instilled into the very foundation of JH Entertainment.
Not just a style, but a culture—a legacy. A philosophy rooted in the art of storytelling through sensation.
Jihoon's vision for JH Entertainment was never just about making films; it was about evoking emotion, immersing audiences so deeply that they didn't just watch the story—they felt it.
Every frame, every note, every silence was a thread in the tapestry of human experience, designed to awaken all the senses and leave an imprint long after the screen faded to black.
As the credits rolled and the screen faded to black, a lingering silence filled the room. The executives remained seated, still immersed in the emotions the film had stirred within them.
The weight of the story, the seamless blend of visuals and music, the raw sincerity of each scene—it all lingered in the air, refusing to dissipate so easily.
Though the film carried no grand philosophical message, its execution was masterful. The storytelling was fluid, the emotions palpable, and the music—undeniably powerful—amplified every moment to perfection.
It was the kind of experience that demanded time to process, the kind that settled deep within the soul before fully registering. Even as the credits rolled, the film still held them captive.