Inside the sunlit meeting room at JH, the tension was mild but unmistakable—like the quiet hum of an engine just before it roars to life.
Jihoon had only just returned from Los Angeles, still jet-lagged and running on fumes, and now found himself face-to-face with the last person he wanted to see. The staff had warned him about the visit, but that didn't make it any easier.
Across the sleek coffee table, Lee Sooman sat with one leg casually crossed over the other, his hands resting calmly on his lap. There was no sign of nervousness, no awkwardness in his demeanor. If anything, he looked far too at ease—like a man who knew his presence was expected, if not inevitable.
His sharp eyes studied Jihoon with that familiar mix of curiosity and calculation, the silence hanging just long enough to make a point—before he finally spoke.
"Jihoon-ah…" he said, his voice even and unhurried. "Didn't I ask you to speed up your return to Korea? It's been almost a month since I made that call."
His tone wasn't scolding. It was more like a friendly nudge—disappointed but understanding, like a father mildly chiding a stubborn son.
Jihoon groaned and flopped into the armchair, tossing his bag carelessly to the side. "Come on, old man. I was working, not sipping margaritas on the beach."
Lee Sooman chuckled, his shoulders shaking slightly with amusement. "Still rude as ever, I see. You haven't changed a bit."
"And you still love talking in circles," Jihoon shot back. "Just get to the point already. I literally just stepped off the plane, and whatever patience I had left probably got lost in baggage claim."
Lee Sooman raised his hands in a gesture of mock surrender, a faint, knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Alright, let's not waste time," he said. "I'll be direct. I'm here to confirm your stance—your intentions, to be precise—regarding your continued involvement in the Korean film industry."
Jihoon blinked slowly, then rolled his eyes, letting his head fall back against the chair with a soft thud.
There it was.
The polite phrasing couldn't mask the real meaning behind the visit.
Lee Sooman might've dressed it up in words like confirmation and industry well-being, but Jihoon saw right through it.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the man across from him. "So, they want to know if I'm still going to make movies here—or if I'm taking everything to Hollywood."
Lee Sooman didn't confirm or deny it. He simply sipped his coffee, eyes calm, waiting.
And Jihoon understood why the question mattered so much.
This wasn't about artistic vision, personal ambition, or even patriotism.
It was about economic leverage—about control over a finely tuned system that had taken decades to construct.
A system built not just to promote creativity, but to consolidate influence, wealth, and gatekeeping power.
If Jihoon decided to take his next slate of projects abroad—to build outside the reach of Korea's entertainment infrastructure—it wouldn't just ruffle feathers.
It would detonate a carefully calibrated balance.
The Korean entertainment industry wasn't just about music, TV, or movies.
It was a critical component of the national economy—a soft power juggernaut that funneled global attention, domestic pride, and billions in revenue back to the country.
From management agencies and production studios to distribution arms, press circuits, and streaming platforms—every entity in the pipeline existed in mutual dependency.
A closed-loop ecosystem, carefully maintained to ensure the blood stayed circulating within it—and more importantly, that none leaked out.
But Hollywood didn't play by those rules.
The moment Jihoon chose to operate independently on that global stage, the Korean system, with all its contracts, connections, and conventions, would cease to matter—at least in his world.
He would no longer need their financing, their platforms, their validation.
In fact, he could render them irrelevant.
And they knew it.
That's why Sooman wasn't here to stop him. He was sent because they feared what Jihoon's independence might signal.
If Jihoon broke away—and succeeded—it wouldn't just mean lost revenue.
It would shatter the illusion that the system was indispensable. It would prove that others could follow suit. Maybe not with Jihoon's precision, maybe not with his reach—but success was still success. And once that precedent was set, the cracks would begin to show.
Because this wasn't just about culture. It was about capital.
Korea's entertainment economy wasn't a silo—it was tightly interwoven with the national stock market, GDP forecasts, and international trade strategies.
Streaming rights, global tours, branded merchandise—these weren't side hustles. They were critical arteries in the country's economic bloodstream.
If Jihoon walked away, it could rattle investor confidence, undermine the very system they had long protected, and destabilize entertainment-driven market sectors that had been propped up for years by image, branding, and domestic consumption.
At this level, Jihoon's decision wasn't just personal anymore.
It was structural. It was a threat to the very ecosystem that had once nurtured him—and now feared him.
And that's why Lee Sooman had come today.
Not as a mentor.
Not as a respected elder of the industry.
But as a messenger for a nervous establishment.
Still, Jihoon had no intention of burning bridges.
That had never been his style. He didn't want to burn the old road—he just wanted to build a new one.
One where he didn't have to stop at every checkpoint, handing out fees to the gatekeepers who had long controlled Korea's entertainment pipeline.
Gatekeepers backed by chaebols who profited off every step of an artist's journey.
So he leaned back slightly, glanced at Sooman, and said calmly, "Actually… you don't have to worry that much. My collaboration with Fox isn't going to be a regular thing. They just liked one of my scripts. That's all this is."
Lee Sooman listened, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he asked, "Did you sign any kind of deal with Fox for future projects?"
Jihoon chuckled. "Not at the moment."
That made Sooman laugh too, a soft, knowing sound. "You sly fox. Just be honest with me, Jihoon-ah."
"Rumors are already going around that JH and Fox are planning to launch a new joint company in the States."
Jihoon didn't flinch. His smile held steady.
He knew this kind of news wouldn't stay buried for long. Too many people had been involved in early discussions.
And when that many people were in the loop, confidentiality was more a hope than a guarantee.
Still, Jihoon wasn't concerned.
Because while the rumor had legs, the real contents of the contract were still under lock and key.
If they truly knew what the deal entailed—if someone had actually leaked the real wager clause—Lee Sooman wouldn't be here fishing for answers.
They would've sent someone with real authority. Someone ready to sink their teeth into the clause Jihoon had already signed with Fox.
Because while the deal seemed outrageous to most business minds, it was seen as a chance for a hefty feast of JH.
According to the agreement, Fox had agreed to back Jihoon's Inception, with a strict condition.
First, it had to be nominated for an Oscar and hit certain global box office thresholds.
Added to that a second clause involving the distribution of Paranormal Activity—a film by Oren Peli that Jihoon had helped acquire—under similar box office performance conditions, making the stakes feel astronomical.
To anyone else, it was career suicide. A reckless gamble that tied Jihoon's entire film trajectory to impossible metrics.
But Jihoon wasn't just anyone.
He knew how this played out. He had already lived it once. Inception would succeed. Paranormal Activity would explode.
And this time, with Jihoon as the director of Inception, he was confident it would resonate even more deeply than it had in its original life.
So when Nolan and Peli approached Fox asking for distribution, Jihoon didn't hesitate.
He folded their projects into the deal. To outsiders, it looked like lunacy—risking his company, his future, and his credibility.
But Jihoon wasn't gambling. He was simply betting on a game whose outcome he already knew.
Still, he wasn't about to explain all that to Lee Sooman.
He shrugged casually and said, "Well… it's not really a big deal."
Like someone unconcerned that the old man had finally caught wind of what he was building.
Because by the time they understood what Jihoon was really doing, it would already be too late to stop him.
[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe, JiangXiu, Daoist098135 and Daoistadj for bestowing the power stone!]