Afternoon at JH's Los Angeles Branch.
The afternoon sun poured lazily through the half-open blinds of JH Picture's Los Angeles branch office.
Papers were scattered across the desk, concept sketches pinned to the wall, and a faint smell of coffee lingered in the air.
Jihoon leaned back on his chair, stretching his arms with a quiet groan.
It had been one of those Mondays — dull, endless, full of paperwork and storyboard revisions.
His mind, however, wasn't on the mundane tasks of the day.
It was on Assassin's Creed Universe — his latest passion project — the one he wanted to get absolutely right.
He flipped through the rough sketches spread across the desk.
Lines of dialogue scribbled in the margins, combat poses drawn in ink, detailed environment notes — it all came together like a puzzle in his head.
The Seoul Digital Art team would need to understand every frame, every intention.
He didn't want his creation to be misunderstood.
To Jihoon, ACU wasn't just another game adaptation; it was a statement — his way of blending film narrative with digital artistry, a world that connected history and emotion.
Finally, after hours of refining and packing up his notes, Jihoon shut his laptop with a soft click. His work for the day was done, but the day itself wasn't.
Tonight was the Buried private screening.
A Different Kind of Premiere
By now, Buried had already entered its official release cycle.
The world premiere at Cannes had been a triumph — Ryan Reynolds' gripping performance had taken home the Best Actor Award, a moment that had the entire festival buzzing.
The film didn't need another Hollywood red carpet.
Cannes alone was the ultimate publicity.
So tonight's event was something else entirely — a private, friendly screening, more like a thank-you gathering than a publicity stunt.
The guest list included a mix of industry friends, crew members, and loyal fans of the HCU Horror Cinematic Universe franchise.
No flashbulbs, no reporters fighting for angles — just people who genuinely loved movies.
The screening was held in a small, independent theater Jihoon had rented somewhere in downtown LA. Each attendee received free popcorn and drinks — his way of saying "thanks for sticking around."
It wasn't glamorous, but it was warm.
Among the crowd were some familiar faces — Jordan Peele, Keegan-Michael Key, and James Wan, who had recently joined JH Studios.
Despite being part of the team, James was still very much a hardcore fanboy of Jihoon's cinematic universe, quoting lines from Horizon and Chronos War like a devoted follower.
Jordan and Keegan, meanwhile, were still active with their sketch comedy group.
Jordan had actually sent in a formal application to join JH as a creative director.
The irony wasn't lost on anyone — the man who'd later redefine horror was still nervously waiting for a callback from Jihoon.
But honestly, who could blame Jihoon?
Since arriving in Hollywood earlier that year, his life had been a whirlwind.
Producing films, attending festivals, directing premieres — his schedule had no brakes.
Every month, his name showed up somewhere — Cannes, Hollywood, New York, even late-night talk shows.
By April, he wasn't exactly a household name in America yet, but within the industry, everyone knew him.
To the press, he was the "Walking Headline" — a man who, despite his fame, had zero scandals.
No tabloid romances, no late-night escapades, no hidden affairs.
Reporters kept digging, hoping to uncover some messy Hollywood secret, but the cleanest thing they found was his morning skincare routine.
If anything, the gossip magazines had resorted to publishing fan letters from smitten girls — especially high schoolers who gushed over his sharp features and calm, confident aura.
"A tough yet gentle type," one fan wrote. "He looks like he could ruin my GPA."
The Gathering at the Theater
By evening, the theater was buzzing softly with chatter and laughter.
The lights dimmed to a golden hue, casting a warm glow over the rows of plush seats.
Among the guests tonight were Leonardo DiCaprio and Matt Damon — both invited personally by Jihoon.
They were soon to co-star in The Departed, a project that hadn't yet started filming but was already in motion.
In Hollywood tradition, casting was often a complicated, sometimes compromised process.
Many directors and producers were known for using what insiders jokingly called the "Red Sofa Method."
It wasn't glamorous — more like a dark open secret of the industry.
The red sofa, placed discreetly in the corner of casting rooms, symbolized an unspoken trade — a role for a favor.
Actors who were desperate enough knew what sitting on that sofa meant: a quiet negotiation between dreams and dignity.
But Jihoon never entertained that culture.
Having the foresight of experience — and perhaps a wisdom that felt too old for his age — he knew exactly who fit what role.
He didn't waste time on "sofa diplomacy."
Instead, he personally invited actors to private auditions at JH Picture.
If they matched his vision, they got the role. If not, no hard feelings.
That's how Matt Damon got the part.
And as a token of gratitude, Jihoon had invited both Matt and Leo to tonight's Buried screening.
The trio sat together in the center row — Jihoon between the two Hollywood veterans.
On Jihoon's left, Matt leaned back casually, munching on popcorn like he was watching a football game.
On his right, Leonardo was his usual composed self — stylish, slightly smug, and carrying that unbothered coolness of a man who'd survived Titanic fame.
Then there was Ryan Reynolds.
The Golden Leaf Moment.
Ryan strolled into the theater late — typical of him — with that signature grin that could either charm or infuriate you depending on the hour.
He carried the Cannes Golden Leaf Trophy like it was his emotional support pet.
"Sorry, folks," he said, sliding into the seat beside Leo. "Traffic was brutal. You know how it is — all these people trying to catch a glimpse of the Best Actor of Cannes."
Jihoon nearly choked on his soda.
Matt chuckled quietly, trying to hide his grin behind a handful of popcorn.
Ryan, being Ryan, wasn't done.
He polished the golden leaf trophy with his sleeve and glanced over at Leo, whose jaw had subtly tightened. "You ever held one of these before, Leo?"
Ryan asked innocently, pretending to admire his reflection on the trophy's shiny surface.
Leo didn't reply — his expression was calm, but his eyes burned with the quiet heat of irritation.
Unbothered, Ryan nudged him lightly with his elbow and whispered, "Come on, this has got to feel better than some of those supermodels you've dated."
Jihoon couldn't help laughing. The scene unfolding beside him looked like something straight out of Saturday Night Live.
Ryan kept stroking the trophy like it was a cat purring on his lap, humming to himself with smug satisfaction.
Ever since Jihoon had mentioned that Leonardo had always longed for a Best Actor win but never managed to snag one, Ryan had been waiting for this moment—not out of mockery, but simply because he was a little bit of a bitch in his own way.
"You know," Ryan went on, grinning, "they say hard work pays off—but I think being buried alive really brings out the actor in me."
That did it. Jihoon snorted, nearly spilling his drink. "Careful," he said. "Keep rubbing that thing, and Leo might actually bury you next."
The entire row erupted in laughter — even Leo cracked a reluctant smile, shaking his head in mock defeat.