Across town, on the opposite end of Los Angeles, the afternoon sun hung lazily over the affluent, tree-lined neighborhood of Los Feliz—one of the safest, wealthiest districts in LA.
Mansions from the early 20th century, preserved like museum pieces, sat proudly along the sloping streets.
Spanish Colonial Revival homes with red-tile roofs glowed warmly under the sunlight, Tudor houses showed off their steep gables, and sleek Mid-Century Modern estates hid behind trimmed hedges and privacy gates.
It was the kind of neighborhood where anyone working in Hollywood eventually dreamed of living.
And today, inside one of those homes—specifically Jordan Peele's place—the atmosphere was unusually chaotic.
He had a guest.
Not for a friendly visit.
Not for a barbecue.
But because of a very sudden and very strange invitation.
Inside Peele's Living Room.
Peele's living room was messy in the most "comedian bachelor" way possible—DVDs on the coffee table, half-written sketch ideas on legal pads, and a basketball bounching lazily near the open porch door.
The window facing the driveway let in a patch of warm sunlight, illuminating the hoop installed above the garage.
"Peele!! Come look at this!"
Michael Key shouted from in front of the computer, almost vibrating with excitement.
Jordan, who was shooting hoops barefoot on the porch, leaned inside.
"What's up? Did our post finally hit 10,000 likes?" he asked hopefully.
Ever since they watched Get Out, both of them became absolute fanatics of the HCU—Jihoon's "Horror Cinematic Universe."
To them, discovering the HCU had been like children finding a hidden toy chest.
They binge-watched Saw and Buried together.
They wrote fan theories.
They defended the films online like rabid chihuahuas in mating season.
Even the wildly popular Buried Easter-egg analysis on the SCP forum?
Yeah, that was their joint masterpiece.
So when Key waved him over, Peele expected something trivial.
But the moment he saw the screen, his chubby face froze—then lit up like a Christmas tree.
"…No way."
"YES WAY!" Key yelled. "It's an invitation. From JH Pictures. And before you ask—I checked. Not a prank. It's a direct private message from the website administrator himself!"
Peele blinked.
"Administrator…? You mean—"
"Yup," Key smirked. "It's likely from Lee himself."
Both men stared at each other.
Then Peele whispered, like he was afraid the air might shatter the moment:
"…So we have a real chance to join JH Pictures?"
Under normal circumstances, the idea of joining JH Pictures was already like winning the lottery.
But today?
It was closer to salvation.
Because both Key and Peele were officially unemployed.
MADtv had ended just a few months ago in 2008, leaving them drifting without a new gig.
And back in 2008—unlike the 2014 comedy boom—demand for sketch comedians wasn't exactly high.
Studios weren't hunting for comedy duos; they were cutting budgets, tightening belts.
Rent.
Mortgages.
Credit card debt.
Expenses piling up like a curse layered on top of another curse.
Without work, their lives were basically: sleep, stress, and surfing the internet until dawn—mostly on HCU forums.
So this invitation…
This was a lifeline.
A golden rope thrown to two drowning comedians.
Key adjusted his glasses and reread the message carefully.
"The private message says they want us to come in for a face-to-face discussion. If things go well, the JH Pictures screenwriting team would welcome us."
Peele didn't even try hiding his excitement.
"Then what are we waiting for? Let's go now!"
"Hey—hey—slow down." Key held out his palm. "We should rewatch the HCU films. All of them. Just to prepare. We have to be ready. This could be the biggest chance of our entire careers."
Peele paused.
Exhaled.
Then nodded with determination.
"…You're right. Okay. I'll go get the DVDs."
He rushed into the next room so fast it was almost comedic.
Because aside from being hardcore fans…
He desperately needed this job.
Between the mortgage and the bills breathing down his neck, this opportunity wasn't just about passion anymore—it was survival.
Get Out, Saw, and Buried—all crucial pillars of the HCU.
And although Key and Peele had rewatched them countless times, the two sat down like diligent high schoolers reviewing for final exams.
"Reviewing the old helps us find the new," Key muttered like a monk preparing for enlightenment.
They hoped they might catch hidden clues or patterns.
Jihoon wasn't the type to create shallow horror.
Everything in his films connected.
Every frame carried meaning.
And even after multiple rewatches, the two still never felt bored.
The desperation in Paul's voice from Buried.
The brutal survival dread of Saw.
The chilling usurpation of identity in Get Out.
These emotions weren't just cinematic—they were universal.
They were the core of what made Jihoon's films unforgettable, the exact thing that made fans rewatch them for years.
And every rewatch increased DVD sales.
Every rewatch created more fans.
Every rewatch revealed more detail.
That was Jihoon HCU's charm.
And it was also why Key and Peele knew they had to be on their A-game before the meeting.
Meanwhile — At JH Pictures.
Inside a dimly lit editing room, Jihoon and several editors were hunched over screens. The faint hum of machines filled the space, mixing with the rapid clicks of a mouse.
"Let's adjust the ending scene again," Jihoon said, leaning forward. "Use the zoom-in shot from the extra sequence we filmed."
One editor pulled it up.
"This one?"
"Yes—that's the one." Jihoon took control, dragging the footage into position. "Freeze the frame on the golden dome. Hold… and wait for the rat climbs onto the windowsill. Then we slowly pan out to show the entire building."
He wasn't just telling them what to do—he was teaching them.
He always did.
Explaining his directing style, camera language, symbolic choices, and editing philosophy.
Because he didn't want a team that needed babysitting.
He wanted a team that could finish his visions even when he wasn't in the room.
And fortunately, the editors were finally starting to catch on.
"The rat isn't just a prop," Jihoon continued. "It symbolizes the underworld society. In the ACU universe, assassins are like rats—dirty, desperate, surviving in the sewers."
One editor nodded slowly, absorbing the meaning.
"And just like the protagonist on this movie," Jihoon added, "no matter how much the rat tries to climb the golden roof, it will always fall back to its true nature."
That was the tragedy of the story.
The philosophical backbone.
Unlike Infernal Affairs, which drew heavily from Buddhism, Jihoon knew that message wouldn't translate well to Western audiences.
He couldn't force viewers into researching Eastern philosophy just to understand a film.
So he portrayed the underworld through class struggle instead—the reality that the poor, no matter how hard they climbed, couldn't stand beside those born with golden spoons.
Different culture.
Different philosophy.
Same tragedy.
Aesthetic Differences
Jihoon loved the original Infernal Affairs deeply.
Its melancholic quietness.
Its restraint.
Its Eastern romanticism.
But The Departed needed to be different.
Raw violence.
Dark humor.
Cold realism.
Unrestrained performances.
A version tailored for Western audiences.
Not to surpass the original—never that.
But to respect it by not copying it blindly.
Finally…
Jihoon leaned back, stretching his arms.
"That's about it. Continue fine-tuning everything. Compress the runtime to under 150 minutes if possible."
The editors nodded as Jihoon stepped away from the screen.
He didn't know it yet.
But across town, two unemployed comedians were watching his films like their lives depended on it.
And soon…
Their worlds were about to collide.