As the screen of the theater fades to black, the city of Seoul mirrors the sentiment—a vast expanse of dark sky, untouched by the brightness of stars.
The skyline is consumed by towering, cold fortress buildings, their neon lights flickered as if they've taken on the duty of the stars that no longer shine.
The winter air moves relentlessly through the city, biting and dry, swirling through the streets like the lingering emotions left behind by Jihoon's film.
For those who have just experienced the story, the city feels different now.
They walk with a lightness in their step, yet their hearts still carry the weight of the film's ending, drifting with them into the night.
The cold may grip the city, but somehow, as if by quiet miracle, the warmth of the story and the scenery lingers in their souls, offering comfort against the chill of the season.
Jihoon stands by the window of his office, gazing at the cold, dark expanse of the winter sky. The season, once just another time for the endless grind of his busy life, feels different now—he feels something he never thought he'd experience.
In his previous life, despite all the achievements he had gained, now in this life, a deep sense of loneliness and emptiness clung to his heart—a stark contrast to the man he once was.
From his high-rise perch, he watches the city below, a sea of lights and motion.
But amid all the hustle, he feels detached, as if the world continues on while he's stuck in a space of longing.
It's a feeling he's never had before—an ache deep inside him, a desire to understand what it's like to be part of something, to truly connect.
His mind drifts to the couples who just left the theater after watching his film, 'Your Name'.
He can almost picture them, hand in hand, their hearts full, the movie's ending lingering in their souls.
And yet, here he is, isolated in his own success, craving a connection he can't quite place.
He has no doubt his film will be a success—a story worth celebrating, a moment that deserves joy. But as he stands alone, the question lingers: who will he share it with?
There's no one to raise a glass, no one to laugh with in the glow of triumph. The realization crashes over him like a cold wave—he has achieved everything he once dreamed of, yet here in the stillness of his office, with no hand to hold, it all feels unbearably hollow.
And in that emptiness, loneliness curls around him, whispering a bitter truth: no matter how high the accolades pile, they mean little without someone to share the view from the top.
While Jihoon was still lost in the quiet haze of his thoughts, staring out the vast window of his office high above the Seoul skyline, the sudden buzz of his phone shattered the silence. The vibration echoed slightly on the glass desk—an intrusive, almost jarring sound that pulled him from his trance.
He blinked, slowly turning his head away from the city lights below. His gaze settled on the phone screen, still glowing. The name flashing across it made his lips twitch with the faintest smile.
Taeyeon.
That one name had a strange effect on him. No matter how heavy his heart felt, no matter how deep the loneliness sank, she always managed to lift something in him. His fingers brushed the screen as he picked it up, and for a brief second, the world didn't feel quite as cold.
He tapped "Answer" and brought the phone to his ear, his voice softer than usual, but laced with a playful edge.
"Hey…" His voice came out smooth, warm. "Why are you calling me this late? You miss me or something?"
There was a beat of silence—just long enough to imagine her rolling her eyes—and then came the sharp response from the other end.
"YA! Don't flatter yourself!" Taeyeon snapped. "Who would ever miss you?!"
Her voice—sharp, full of character—crackled through the speaker like a spark. Jihoon chuckled, a genuine sound that echoed in the stillness of the room. It had been a while since he laughed like that.
"Ahh, so feisty… but you didn't deny it," he teased, strolling back toward the window with the phone pressed to his ear. "Late-night call, emotional voice. I'm sensing some hidden feelings here."
"Pfft! Keep dreaming!" Taeyeon scoffed. "It's not like that! Me and the girls just finished watching your film. And I have to admit… it was really good. Like really good."
Her tone softened, though she tried to mask it under her usual sass.
"We all cried, even Tiffany—though she'll never admit it. But Yoona? She was a mess!" Taeyeon laughed lightly. "She kept saying she's going to win an award for this role. You should've seen her walking around the room like she's already holding the trophy!"
Jihoon smiled wider, the warmth of her words settling deep within him. But still, he couldn't resist teasing her one more time.
"So… that's all? Just a professional critique? No heartfelt confession? No sudden urge to ask me out for a midnight coffee under the stars?"
"Zzz… you're so vain, seriously!" she groaned. "Why do I even bother calling you?"
But before Jihoon could respond, he heard laughter in the background—soft, joyful echoes of the other members talking and giggling, faint through the speaker.
"Wait—Taeyeon—" he started, but she cut him off.
"Nope! That's it. I'm hanging up before you say something even more ridiculous. We'll talk later. And hey… congrats, Jihoon."
And just like that, the line went dead.
Jihoon stood there for a moment, phone still to his ear, the dial tone replaced by the quiet hum of the room.
Yet, the warmth lingered. The laughter he heard before the call ended stuck with him more than he expected. For a brief moment, the office didn't feel so cold. For a brief moment, he didn't feel so alone.
He looked out over the city again, but now, Seoul didn't seem quite so distant.
In the days that followed the releases, Jihoon's film 'Your Name' continued to shine on the big screen, casting its spell on audiences across Seoul—and soon, across the nation.
The theaters remained packed, with lines forming outside even during the weekday matinees. People of all ages—young couples, families, solitary viewers—were drawn in by word of mouth, social media buzz, and something more intangible: a sense that this film wasn't just entertainment, but an experience.
Inside the theaters, it was common to see rows of quiet, teary-eyed faces, lit only by the soft glow of the final credits.
Some lingered in their seats even after the lights came on, reluctant to leave the world Jihoon had created. Others walked out in silence, holding hands or clutching tissues, eyes still shimmering with emotion.
It wasn't just the poignant story that drew praise, though the narrative—mysterious, intimate, and deeply human—touched something raw and universal.
Audiences marveled at the film's visual poetry, as if Jihoon had painted each frame with light and composition rather than simply filming with a camera.
The sweeping shots of mountaintop temples, the intricate urban landscapes of Seoul, and the quiet stillness of snow-covered streets—each scene felt like a photograph pulled straight from a dream.
Critics began to take notice too.
Online forums lit up like fireworks, online blogs flooded with clips, edits, reaction videos, and emotional reviews.
Hashtags related to the film trended worldwide:
#YourName, #JH Composition, #YoonaDeservesAnAward.
Film students broke down scenes in detail, praising the innovative camera angles, the way Jihoon used light and shadow to mirror the characters' inner struggles, and how the transitions between timelines flowed like poetry.
"Who is this director?" one viral tweet asked. "I've never cried so hard in a theater and still wanted to go back the next day."
Another comment, reposted thousands of times, simply read: "I watched 'Your Name' yesterday. And today, the world just feels different."
It wasn't hyperbole.
Jihoon's inbox overflowed with emails from film festivals and studio executives. Invitations poured in—requests for interviews, panel discussions, distribution deals.
Even international platforms like The Ellen DeGeneres Show, a popular variety talk show, and Paramount Pictures—which Jihoon had previously partnered with—began circling back, either hoping to learn more about the reclusive filmmaker whose debut was now being whispered about as a masterpiece, or seeking a chance to collaborate.
Jihoon remained quiet as usual, like what he usually does.
He watched the rise of his film from the solitude of his office, reading the articles, and film critque reviewing his film and even watching the fan edits.
He saw people fall in love with the story he had buried his soul into.
Each piece of praise only deepened the strange ache inside him—an ache made not of sadness, but of yearning. A yearning to share this moment with someone, not through a screen, not through headlines, but face to face.
And then, as the light of his success began to spread, a net of shadows began to stretch.
What happened next was never part of the strategy—not his, nor JH's carefully calculated plan.
Because when someone rises too quickly, too far, too brilliantly… they begin to cast shadows on the very shoulders they once used to climb.
And those shoulders?
They don't forget the weight of the person who stepped on them to ascend.
Jealousy begins to fester in the darker corners of the industry.
Old rivals, forgotten acquaintances, even former allies—some whispered in closed rooms, others plotted in silence.
Whispers turn into grumbles… and grumbles, eventually, into action.
Some wanted a piece of the spotlight. Others wanted it snuffed out.
The applause that had once been a soothing balm was starting to sound like thunder before a storm.
In this industry, success was never merely a reward—it was a currency, a threat, a double-edged sword. Jihoon, in his quiet pursuit of art, hadn't yet realized that his steady rise—his quiet brilliance—had not only earned him admiration…
…but had also drawn a bullseye target on his back.
[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe for bestowing the power stone!]