Late October, 2007
The year had raced by like a car winding up and down a mountain pass—sharp turns, sudden drops, moments of breathtaking view followed by stretches of hard road.
For Jihoon, 2007 had been nothing short of a whirlwind. He'd made his first mark in Hollywood, and though the road ahead was still uneven, it felt smoother than before.
All that remained was the release of Inception—his boldest project yet. If that film succeeded, his path would be firmly paved.
But that was a problem for tomorrow.
Today, Jihoon faced a different kind of mountain: education.
Frankly, he couldn't even blame Professor Kim Minsoo for dragging him back to school.
After all, how many second-year university students had spent less than a month in actual classes?
His degree wasn't finished, and his academic record—though technically outstanding—was absurd on paper.
It looked more like a ghost had been enrolled at Seoul National University.
So, after wrapping up a round of intense meetings with his company staff, Jihoon finally returned to SNU on a crisp, sunny afternoon.
A soft breeze rustled the fallen autumn leaves as he made his way into the familiar administrative building, wearing a hoodie, jeans, and a guilty smile.
Inside the office, Professor Kim Minsoo glanced up from his desk as the door creaked open.
He took off his reading glasses, a spark of recognition lighting his eyes. There stood his most perplexing, most promising, and—without question—most successful student.
He couldn't help but grin.
"Look what the wind blew in," Kim Minsoo said warmly, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk.
"Sit down. Let's talk."
Jihoon gave a sheepish chuckle, scratched the back of his neck, and slid into the chair. "Hi, professor."
"You still remember me, huh?" Minsoo teased.
Jihoon grinned.
Professor Kim pulled up a digital file on his monitor, scanning it for a moment before leaning back in his chair.
"You ranked ninth in cultural studies and first—again—in professional subjects. Outstanding."
He looked at Jihoon with genuine admiration. "You've accomplished more outside this school than most directors achieve in a lifetime. And yet, somehow, you're still keeping your grades afloat. I'm impressed."
Jihoon blushed slightly, fiddling with the sleeve of his hoodie. "I, uh… try."
"I know you do," Professor Kim Minsoo said, his voice calm and kind. He leaned forward slightly, setting aside his glasses with a sigh.
"But, Jihoon-ah… university isn't just about grades or career plans. You're missing the other half."
Jihoon blinked, confused. "Other half?"
"The life part," Minsoo replied with a faint smile. "Friendships. Camaraderie. Memories."
Jihoon sat still, unsure how to respond. His hands fidgeted on his lap as he stared at the desk between them.
"You've been enrolled here for nearly two years, and in all that time, you haven't made a single real friend on campus," Minsoo said gently.
"Not one classmate to grab coffee with. No one to share even the smallest part of your daily life."
Jihoon looked away, his gaze drifting toward the window.
Outside, the leaves were just beginning to turn amber, gold, and red—fall in Seoul always had that quietly poetic beauty.
He felt it in the pit of his stomach: guilt, and something else he couldn't name.
"It's not healthy," Minsoo continued, his tone soft but unwavering. "I know your time is precious. I know what you're building outside is exceptional."
"Hell, I even watched Shoplifters last night and it hit me like a freight train. You're far beyond your years, Jihoon."
"But you're still human. And even with everything you've accomplished, you're living like an island."
Silence settled in the room, thick and still.
"I'm not asking you to start a fan club," Minsoo added with a chuckle. "Just… let someone in. Try."
"Go to a club meeting. Sit with someone in the cafeteria. Talk to your classmates like they're people—not bystanders."
He paused, then added quietly, "University only happens once, Jihoon. Trust me, you don't want to wake up a decade from now and realize you missed it all."
Jihoon shifted in his seat. His mind replayed the words over and over.
He could feel the sincerity radiating from Professor Kim—not just as a teacher, but as a mentor… maybe even something closer to family.
The kind that nags you, yes, but only because they care.
And yet, Jihoon wasn't an ordinary 18-year-old. Not anymore.
He had lived that part already—once, in his other life.
The chaotic all-nighters, the fleeting crushes, the drunken poetry slurred into plastic cups.
The heartbreaks. The friendships. He had already spent enough of those youthful days. He wasn't looking to relive them.
But still… Kim Minsoo had a point.
Jihoon could call producers in LA with one text. He had actors in Seoul and Paris saving his number.
But when it came to grabbing lunch on campus?
He had no one.
Professor Kim watched him, then softened his voice once more. "I've been teaching a long time. I've seen more talented people than you—people with fire in their eyes and gold in their heads."
"But they burned out because they had no one beside them to talk to."
He held Jihoon's gaze.
"You've come so far. But success, Jihoon… without someone to share it with? That's just another empty trophy."
Jihoon swallowed. He hated how much those words struck him, because they mirrored his own persona in his past life.
Kim Minsoo knew Jihoon's reputation on campus—quiet, absent, untouchable.
The student leaders had already spoken to him about it. There was tension. Whispers. People wanting to meet Jihoon not for who he was, but for what he was.
The prodigy. The filmmaker. The connection.
In a place like SNU, hierarchy wasn't a ghost—it was an institution.
Seniors acted like generals; the connected, like royalty.
The powerful fed off the rising, the ambitious latched on to the gifted. Everyone played their role in the machine.
And Jihoon? He had become the crown jewel no one could reach.
Too elusive to use. Too distant to approach. Too busy to belong.
Minsoo knew the danger of that isolation. He had seen it in other prodigies who collapsed under the weight of their own brilliance, because they never allowed anyone else in.
Still, the university wasn't just a place of scheming. It could also be where lifelong bonds began.
Even if people had motives, even if some only wanted a piece of Jihoon's shine—there might still be someone genuine, someone who saw the person, not the name.
"Look," Minsoo added with a sigh, "I know it's complicated. I know some of these kids—or the people backing them—might just want something from you."
"But not all of them. And you'll never find the genuine ones unless you open the door, even just a little."
Jihoon knew Professor Kim was right.
That quiet truth settled in his chest like a stone—uncomfortable, immovable, real.
Outside these campus gates, the shadowy hands that once clawed at him—elites, brokers, opportunists—had, for now, loosened their grip.
He'd kept them at bay, building walls around himself, isolating his name behind deadlines, film sets, and boardrooms.
Out there, he was someone. A name whispered in meetings, a number saved in producers' phones, a player too high on the ladder to touch carelessly.
But in here—in this school, in this centuries-old system designed to mold and sort and restrain—he was just another cog.
And this machine? It didn't care about past lives or billion-won deals. It had rules. Hierarchies.
Unspoken rituals handed down like gospel. And Jihoon, like it or not, was still part of that machinery.
For now, he was still under this roof. Still a student.
Still bound.
He looked up slowly, the weight of a thousand silent expectations pressing on his shoulders like invisible sandbags.
But he didn't want to talk about that. Not now. Not with Minsoo, who—despite everything—remained one of the only people who genuinely seemed to care.
"Alright," Jihoon said quietly, voice steady but faint. "I'll try."
Minsoo smiled. It wasn't triumphant. It was gentle—warm, proud, and tinged with a rare kind of relief.
The kind a teacher feels when a student finally takes one unguarded step toward the life waiting beyond grades and accolades.
"That's all I ask."
But deep down, Jihoon knew trying wouldn't be that simple.
The pressure wasn't just from classmates or faculty.
It came from above—far above. From the top of the food chain. The place where tradition wasn't just honored, but weaponized.
He could already feel it pushing down on him: invisible, yet absolute.
And whether Professor Kim saw it or not, Jihoon did. He saw the leash, still tightly knotted around his future.
Because in this country, power wasn't centralized in one place. It was institutionalized—woven into three pillars: the school system, the corporate world, and the military.
He'd already slipped through the cracks of the corporate leash, just barely. His reputation, his success, his value had made it easier for them to look the other way—for now.
But the other two?
They weren't so easy to dodge. Especially not the military.
No matter how many films Jihoon wrote, how many lives he touched—he was still a Korean male approaching legal age.
And like every Korean male, he had to serve compulsory military service—unless he changed his nationality.
When the time came—or when it was arranged by them—he'd have to fulfill his military duty, just like what they did to Kim Jongkook at the peak of his career.
To those unaware of the hierarchy's true game, the military might seem like patriotic duty. But Jihoon knew better.
It was a tool. A method of control. And school? Just another piece in that same machine.
Right now, Jihoon was protected—by his student status, by his age.
But if he were expelled, he could already imagine the draft notice landing at his door.
Conscription wasn't just national duty. It was leverage.
A way to discipline, to silence, to remove anyone who stepped out of line or disrupted the fragile balance.
Take GD, for example—arguably Korea's most talented songwriter, a creative force and moneymaker for his entire label.
But during the 2015 MAMA Awards, he called out the ceremony on his rap line saying its lack of credibility and respect toward artists.
You didn't need to guess who funded the event—CJ Group.
And they weren't the kind to take public criticism lightly.
Just take a look at him after his service, GD returned a changed man, not the healthy kind.
Official reports suggested mental health struggles, and you didn't need a medical degree to see the difference. Just compare his demeanor before and after.
What really happened in that army camp?
No one knows.
But rumors about Korea's military culture weren't exactly reassuring—bullying, hazing, depression after discharge. It was all part of the whispered warnings.
Jihoon had no interest in experiencing any of that firsthand.
Still, they weren't reckless enough to push him just yet. Jihoon wasn't the key piece in their game. Not worth a meticulous takedown. But he wasn't naive—he knew he was on the board.
Caught between the silent war of the Samseong Lee family, the CJ Lee faction, and the political party that is backing them, Jihoon was merely a pawn.
But even pawns could shake the board.
And with Jihoon's growing visibility, a small misstep—or a forced fall—could ripple through the entire game.
Expelling a high-achieving student like him would tip the scales too visibly.
And they knew Jihoon wouldn't go down without a fight.
So, for now, as long as he stayed on the designated path, they would leave him alone.
To ensure that, they had to keep him inside the education system—another pillar they controlled.
That's why the pressure landed on Professor Kim: to keep Jihoon in line, to make sure he was "committing more time" to school activities.
But this wasn't about learning.
It was about surveillance. About control.
About keeping Jihoon exactly where they could see him.
[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe, JiangXiu, Night_Adam and Daoistadj for bestowing the power stone!]