At the Fox studio lot, the wheels of the entertainment empire were already turning at full speed.
The first phase of Jihoon's ambitious horror cinematic universe—the HCU—was officially underway.
The chapter begins with GET OUT, followed by SAW, which is directed by Oren Peli, with none other than Stephen King onboard as producer, overseeing the tone and execution based on Jihoon's script. Production was underway right next door to Jihoon's own indoor set, where he was preparing to shoot BURIED, the third film in the franchise.
It was a massive undertaking—but thankfully, they had three passionate creatives at the helm, each handling one of the projects.
And even luckier, the genre itself worked in their favor.
Horror films traditionally came with low production costs and fast shooting schedules, which meant things moved quicker than anyone had anticipated.
But this wasn't just luck—it was all part of Jihoon's design.
Every move, every release order, every piece of creative control had been meticulously planned by him.
He wasn't just directing a film—he was shaping an entire franchise from the ground up.
Yet that level of control came with consequences.
In Hollywood, especially at major studios like Fox, films were almost always producer-driven. Which also means that the producers of the film usually called the shots—everything from budget allocations to casting choices to final cuts.
And directors, unless they were in the league of Christopher Nolan, Steven Spielberg, or James Cameron, rarely got full creative control.
Those legendary names had earned it—through decades of box office hits and global influence.
Jihoon, on the other hand, was still relatively new in their eyes.
Yes, INCEPTION had gained him attention.
Yes, Oscar buzz had started to form around his name.
And yes, JH's productions had proven successful in Asia and parts of Europe.
But in the American market? Jihoon hadn't truly been tested yet.
That's why some executives at Fox were growing uncomfortable. Jihoon wasn't just directing the film—he was controlling nearly every aspect of the entire HCU rollout.
And more than that, JH's Los Angeles branch had secured a 30% stake in the franchise.
To the traditionalists at Fox, that was too much. Jihoon had invested capital into the films, sure.
But to them, that didn't justify such a large share.
In Hollywood, there's an unwritten rulebook that everyone seems to follow.
Especially when it comes to directors.
Top-tier filmmakers are usually rewarded with massive paychecks or a small percentage of the box office—but only after they've proven themselves within the American studio system.
It's a hierarchy built on tradition, reputation, and a good deal of gatekeeping.
And Jihoon's deal with Jim broke those rules wide open.
His first film hadn't yet earned the official stamp of approval from the U.S. film industry.
He hadn't played the political game that often shaped careers within the Hollywood system.
And more importantly, he hadn't been "tested" in the eyes of the industry's gatekeepers.
Sure, Jihoon was undeniably talented.
He had vision, drive, and a strong track record in Asia.
His films had made waves overseas, winning praise and pulling in solid numbers.
But to many Hollywood insiders, he was still viewed as an outsider—a foreign name without domestic box office success to prove his worth.
In their eyes, he hadn't yet earned the right to sit at the same table as the Nolans or Spielbergs of the world.
So when Jim Gianopulos, the powerful chairman of 20th Century Fox, gave Jihoon his full backing—complete with creative control over HCU Franchise—many within the studio raised their eyebrows.
Not just in confusion, but in genuine disbelief. They weren't just doubting Jihoon's skill—they were quietly questioning, "Did he really earn this?"
Because to them, Jihoon wasn't Nolan.
He wasn't Fincher.
He certainly wasn't Spielberg.
He was—at least in their view—just another creative hopeful.
And in Hollywood, unless you've joined that elite club of directors, you don't get to dictate terms.
You certainly don't get final cut or a seat at the producer's table unless you've made the system money their way.
What really made them nervous, though, wasn't just Jihoon's talent.
It was the control. Full control meant the studio couldn't micromanage budget lines.
Couldn't sneak in extra charges. Couldn't carve out their usual slices from inflated invoices.
See, in the movie business, there are a hundred little ways to profit outside of the official paycheck.
A prop car needed for one explosion scene?
You might buy a cheap second-hand wreck and bill it as a brand-new vehicle.
The differences in opinion among board members—sometimes involving tens of thousands of dollars—often end up lining someone's pockets.
Multiply that across locations, wardrobe, special effects, and you start to understand why some studios hate giving up production control.
It's not just about "creative vision." It's about money.
But Jihoon wasn't interested in any of that because from the very beginning, he had made his position clear to Jim:
He would only be involved in films he personally directed.
He had no desire to be part of the typical Hollywood system of producing-for-hire or ghost-controlling other people's projects, and he certainly wasn't interested in boardroom politics.
He only wanted to make films.
And this approach wasn't entirely new.
Hollywood had long experimented with foreign directors.
Back in the early 2000s, they welcomed directors like John Woo, the legendary Hong Kong filmmaker who helmed Mission: Impossible 2.
That film was a success and temporarily boosted confidence in hiring non-American talent.
But the honeymoon didn't last.
Woo's next big-budget feature, Windtalkers (2002), turned out to be a financial disaster.
The box office flop nearly sank MGM and led to major layoffs.
Since then, studios had become extremely cautious about giving full reins to international directors—especially those whose fanbase was mostly outside North America.
So Jihoon, like Woo before him, found himself lumped into that category: brilliant, but untested.
In another word means Asia loved him. Hollywood… wasn't so sure.
And yet, Jihoon wasn't here just to impress the American market. He had a bigger plan.
Right now, he was in the thick of filming Buried. He'd already prepared Ryan Reynolds, both mentally and physically, for the intense role.
Time was tight.
The Oscars ceremony was approaching, and he had to attend—GET OUT's screenplay, which he had written, had been nominated.
Timing was everything.
And the HCU also had its own competitor.
The Marvel Cinematic Universe—the about to be legendary MCU—was about to kick off its first phase with Iron Man.
Marvel had a better chance at long-term success, no doubt. Their budget was bigger. Their characters were household names. But Jihoon had one potential advantage—he could be first.
He didn't need to outgun Marvel. He just needed to introduce the concept of a cinematic universe to mainstream audiences before they did.
If he could release and connect his horror films before the term "cinematic universe" became synonymous with capes and superpowers, he could be the first to introduce the concept to mainstream moviegoers.
And in entertainment, sometimes being first matters more than being the biggest.
His approach was different. Leaner. Smarter. More personal.
Where Marvel spent hundreds of millions to tell one story, Jihoon aimed to do it with a fraction from that—focusing on tight narratives, unique horror concepts, and strong, memorable characters.
He believed that low-budget didn't have to mean low-impact.
If anything, limitations could force brilliance.
Just imagining the possibility—the idea of going head-to-head with the Hollywood giants and holding his own—made Jihoon's eyes burn with determination. This wasn't just about films anymore.
It was about proving that a new kind of cinematic universe could exist—and thrive—even in the shadows of giants.