There's a saying that sticks with Jihoon—"Act in your best interest."
It sounds simple, almost selfish at first glance, but to those who've lived long enough—who've felt the sting of broken promises and shifting alliances—it's something more.
It's survival.
In the adult world, especially in the upper tiers of society where power is currency, people don't move out of kindness. They move when it serves them. Relationships, alliances, even mentorships—they all orbit around one thing: aligned interests.
If what you need happens to overlap with what benefits them, then yes—doors open, favors flow, and resources are poured into your lap.
But the second your path diverges—even slightly—the warmth fades. The calls stop. The support quietly dries up.
It's not evil. It's not personal. It's just the way the world works.
This is something fresh graduates have to learn—not in a classroom, but in boardrooms, through late-night meetings, and carefully worded emails.
In school, they were taught about ideals and lofty concepts—told that effort and talent alone would be enough.
But the moment they stepped beyond the campus gates, they began to realize that the real curriculum was written in invisible ink—only revealed in the cold, unflinching light of lived experience.
The cruelty of society isn't always loud. Sometimes, it's quiet. Polite. It smiles at you while slowly stepping out of reach.
Jihoon wasn't bitter. Not in this life anymore.
If anything, he'd grown to respect how the world worked—harsh as it was.
Once you understood the rules, you stopped expecting fairness.
You stopped clinging to ideals.
And you started playing smart.
That's how you survived.
And more importantly, that's how you won.
The cold November wind nipped at his coat collar as Jihoon stepped outside Incheon Airport, the winter breeze biting but strangely refreshing.
He pulled his mask a little tighter and adjusted his sunglasses.
Not because he was being arrogant—far from it. These days, it wasn't just his work people recognized; it was his face too. Fame had crept up on him—subtle at first, but now unmistakably present.
There was a time when people only knew the films he made, the songs he wrote and the stories he told.
His name floated around, detached from any face.
But that time had long passed. And today, without an assistant or manager by his side—he had flown back earlier to prepare for a pressing meeting amid the unpredictability of the entertainment cycle—he wasn't about to risk getting swarmed by reporters or fans.
His phone buzzed.
Right on cue, a familiar voice called out, "Jihoon! Over here!"
Jihoon turned to see Jaehyun waving from the curb, already loading his suitcase into the trunk.
"Thanks for picking me up, hyung," Jihoon said as he slid into the passenger seat. His voice was muffled beneath the mask, but the gratitude came through clearly.
Jaehyun grinned as he got behind the wheel. "It's not a big deal. You sounded half-dead on the phone. Figured you needed a rescue."
Jihoon chuckled lightly. "Yeah, well, I wrapped up in LA earlier than planned. People back here are getting impatient."
"You mean the board?"
Jihoon shot him a look. "Yeah.. unfortunately."
As they pulled onto the highway, Jihoon leaned his head against the window, watching the gray sky blur past. "So… how's the company holding up?"
Jaehyun clicked his seatbelt and gave a thoughtful nod. "All smooth for the most part. But what's worth mentioning is the game division—it's making serious progress."
"Oh?" Jihoon raised an eyebrow.
"You remember those games you mentioned a while back—Angry Birds, Plants vs. Zombies?" Jaehyun began as he merged into traffic, glancing briefly at Jihoon.
Jihoon looked over, intrigued. "Yeah? Don't tell me they're still stuck in concept phase."
Jaehyun chuckled. "Not at all. Prototypes are coming along great. The artwork's finalized, the code's stable, and the gameplay feels tight. It's really fun. Addicting, even."
Jihoon smiled behind his mask. "Sounds promising. So what's the catch?"
Jaehyun let out a sigh. "Distribution. That's the wall we keep hitting."
"We tried thinking console," Jaehyun continued, "but honestly, that sandbox environment limits everything."
"No real-time updates, no online rankings, no viral potential. It just kills the whole vibe. These games are meant for the internet—fast, fun, shareable."
Jihoon's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "They're supposed to spread. Like wildfire. That's where the magic is."
"Yeah. The sales team floated the idea of uploading to Miniclip," Jaehyun added. "It fits the audience and format—browser-based, accessible. But the monetization sucks. The profit margin's razor-thin. After just the hosting and support costs, we're barely breaking even."
Jihoon leaned back, exhaling slowly. "So basically... we've got a firecracker with no fuse."
"Pretty much," Jaehyun said, laughing. "Unless we figure out a smarter launch strategy. Something scalable but not suicidal in cost."
Jihoon exhaled. "Then let's not rush the release. Let it cook a little more. Once we lock the right channel, we go all in. Until then, keep refining it."
Jaehyun smiled. "Sounds good, boss."
Jihoon leaned back in the passenger seat, his eyes half-lidded as the Seoul skyline slowly unfolded through the car window.
The familiar sprawl of high-rises and neon-lit signs felt like a quiet reminder: he was home—but not exactly at ease.
LA had been chaotic. Productive, yes. He'd closed deals, wrapped up post-production, sat through countless meetings.
But all of it had drained him, down to the bone.
Now that he was back in Korea, the real game resumed—the one with unspoken rules, hidden hands, and moves you didn't see coming until it was too late.
He turned his gaze to the city rushing past.
Seoul hadn't changed much in the few months he'd been gone.
The skyline still pulsed with the same relentless energy, but Jihoon knew better than to mistake familiarity for safety.
Especially when news of his return wasn't exactly a secret. Not in this world.
When you're part of a chaebol ecosystem—where even the airline you board is under the same umbrella—you don't return quietly.
Eyes were always watching. Information always moved faster than you thought it could.
So it wasn't a surprise that when Jihoon finally arrived at the JH headquarters, the staff at the front desk had already informed him: Lee Sooman was waiting upstairs.
Calm. Patient. Sipping coffee in Jihoon's office like he belonged there.
But Jihoon had already granted permission for him to wait. Not out of obligation, but because he understood what this visit represented.
It wasn't just a casual drop-by from an old industry friend.
No. This was a move. A deliberate one.
Lee Sooman wasn't here as just the founder of SM Entertainment or a former executive producer.
He was here as a message.
Normally, if the matter were truly about business, they'd have sent someone else, like Lee Mikyung perhaps, or one of the high-level executives with direct ties to the media arm of their empire.
Someone from CJ ENM or the distribution side.
But instead, they sent Sooman. And that said everything Jihoon needed to know.
This wasn't a threat.
It was diplomacy.
A gentle tap on the shoulder instead of a shove.
To send someone like Lee Sooman—a figure from the music industry, with no direct stake in Jihoon's film dealings in the US—was the equivalent of saying, "We come in peace."
They were playing the relationship card.
Yes, SM had invested in many of Jihoon's previous films, but they didn't own him.
And certainly not now, when his name held just enough weight in the industry to shift conversations.
In the Korean hierarchy of entertainment, music was profitable, but it wasn't king.
Not compared to film.
And that was the truth nobody liked to say out loud.
Despite the glitz and glamour of K-pop, the real money—and power—was in cinema.
It was far more profitable and easier to manage compared to handling a group of underage idols, who were often used to sweeten business deals or deflect accusations aimed at it's rivals.
The profit margins in film were massive—sometimes four times greater than those in the music industry.
And in a country obsessed with titles and roles, the unspoken hierarchy was clear: variety MCs at the bottom, followed by singers, then actors, scriptwriters, and finally—the directors.
Directors were gods in the production world. Their words shaped careers. Their decisions made or broke reputations.
And Jihoon, as much as he disliked the politics, was climbing that ladder fast.
But this hierarchy wasn't just limited to showbiz.
It was a shadow cast over every part of Korean society.
A modern evolution of the feudal class system—wrapped in professionalism and coated with "tradition."
Every workplace, every family, every government office played by these rules, even if they pretended not to.
And Jihoon understood the rules well.
He also understood that Lee Sooman, despite his fame and legacy, was still someone's messenger today.
A man delivering goodwill on behalf of a much bigger machine. Someone up the food chain had decided Jihoon was still useful—worth pulling back into the fold, not pushing out.
That's why Sooman was here, and not one of the executives directly involved in Jihoon they seem as "unauthorized" overseas filming project.
He also understood that Lee Sooman, despite his fame and legacy, was still someone's messenger today.
A man delivering goodwill on behalf of a much larger machine. Someone higher up the food chain had decided Jihoon was still useful—worth pulling back into the fold rather than pushing out, conveniently dismissing the bad blood that had been spilled before.
That's why Sooman was here, and not one of the executives directly involved in what they deemed as Jihoon's "unauthorized" overseas film project.
Those people wouldn't come personally. Not yet.
They didn't believe Jihoon could claw his way out of the trap they'd buried him in—one reinforced by the leash of tradition and rules embedded in Korean society since its very inception. No, they didn't think it was worth getting their hands dirty just yet.
Jihoon exhaled slowly, then offered a faint smile as he stepped into the room—the real world of "your best interest."
[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe, JiangXiu, OS_PARCEIROS, Daoistadj and Daoist098135 for bestowing the power stone!]