25 May 2007, Summer Dry Season – Los Angeles
After over months of behind-the-scenes prep, Jim Gianopulos from 20th Century Fox had the Fox lot buzzing with activity.
The reason? Jihoon's next film was finally about to start pre-production.
And it wasn't just any film. It was 'Inception'—a mind-bending, genre-defying project that Jihoon had been guarding like a crown jewel.
High-concept, high-stakes, and award-worthy, Inception wasn't just a film—it was a statement. A declaration that Jihoon wasn't here to play small.
Though Jihoon had lived in LA in his past life, stepping onto American soil now felt foreign.
In this life, he had no nostalgic strings tied to this place. No friends to catch up with. No old hangouts.
Just purpose. And that purpose led him to the iconic Fox Studios lot in Century City, where cinematic dreams had been carved into history since the golden age of Hollywood.
The studio buildings stood like weathered guardians of tradition—aged not in decay, but in prestige.
Here, classics were born, edited, and refined. And now, Jihoon was about to carve his name into that legacy.
Before cameras rolled, Jihoon was invited to a full table read—a chance to gather the crew, cast, and executives in one space to breathe life into the script for the first time.
As his car pulled up at the studio gate, Jim Gianopulos was already waiting, practically bouncing with enthusiasm.
"Jim! It's been a while," Jihoon said warmly, stepping out of the car and embracing him casually.
He was only accompanied by his executive assistant this time—Fox's in-house team would take care of most production logistics.
All Jihoon needed was someone who understood his vision.
Jim grinned. "You have no idea how hyped the execs are over your script. The concept blew our minds! I don't know how your brain works, but thank God it does."
After quick greetings, Jim gestured toward the building. "Come on, everyone's already inside. Let's not keep 'em waiting."
Inside the conference room, a large oval table was already surrounded by buzzing voices.
Familiar faces and Hollywood newcomers mingled casually, some thumbing through script pages, others chatting over coffee. As Jihoon walked in, the room fell into a respectful hush.
"Sorry! Hope I'm not too late," Jihoon said with a sheepish grin as he walked to his seat at the head of the table.
Hyunbin had already arrived, sitting quietly and watching the room. Jihoon gave him a subtle nod. He remembered the actor's reaction when he was first offered the role.
Hyunbin had been stunned. A Korean actor being cast in a major Hollywood film wasn't unheard of—but leading one? That was historic.
Jihoon had promised Hyunbin a role back in Cannes last year, but when 'Your Name' was cast, the lead had gone to newcomer Ji Changwook.
That had stung, even if Hyunbin never said it. But now, Jihoon had more than made good on his promise.
This was 'Inception'. And Hyunbin's character—"Ryu," the reimagined version of Saito—was tailor-made for him.
"Hi, Marion," Jihoon turned to his left. "Glad we get to work together."
Marion Cotillard smiled warmly. "Jihoon, right? Am I saying that right? Either way, I'm really looking forward to this."
"You nailed it," Jihoon chuckled.
To his right, he found another familiar face. "Cillian. Finally, we get to collaborate."
Cillian Murphy returned the smile. "Likewise. Still remember your Cannes speech last year. Didn't think we'd be doing this so soon."
They exchanged a warm handshake before Jihoon continued greeting the rest of the table: Leonardo DiCaprio—charming and cool as ever—was cast as Arthur, the calm yet deadly 'Sentinel'; Tom Hardy as Eames, the stylish 'Pretender'; and Hyunbin as Ryu, the enigmatic Korean tycoon who funds the dream heist.
Once everyone settled, Jihoon stood up and clapped his hands.
"Alright, let's kick things off," Jihoon said with a clap of his hands, standing at the front of the room like a professor who actually made his class want to show up.
"We've got a lot to cover, and this—" he grinned, glancing around the table, "this is just the beginning."
"But it's also where the energy starts. So, don't hold back—every idea counts here, even the weird ones."
A chuckle rippled through the room, then quiet settled in like a soft curtain. Scripts rustled. Pens clicked. The mood shifted. Eyes turned toward Jihoon—not just politely, but attentively.
Despite being the youngest person in the room, he owned it like a seasoned veteran. No posturing, no bravado—just calm command.
Even the Fox producers, Jim and Martin Perez, who had sat through a hundred of these sessions with half-asleep directors, were suddenly sitting upright, leaning in.
Jihoon wasn't some lucky indie darling who had stumbled into a studio deal.
No, he was the real deal—writer, director, producer, editor—hell, practically the water boy if he needed to be. Every inch of this film had his fingerprints on it. And it showed.
But what really cemented that unspoken respect wasn't his title.
It was what he'd done with 'Your Name'—a film that hadn't won awards, but had already captured hearts.
It had stormed through Asia and Europe, shattered box office records, and swept critics off their feet like a summer typhoon.
And now, the guy who created that sensation had come to North America for his next venture—and everyone in the room had a feeling they knew what was coming next.
Plus, let's be honest—how many people win the Cannes Grand Prix at 17? That alone was insane.
Aside from Marion Cotillard, who'd snagged Best Actress earlier that year in a surprise win, no one else in their age bracket had touched that kind of gold.
Not even Cillian Murphy, not Tom Hardy, not Hyubin. And sure, Leo had a cabinet full of awards by 2007—but most were fan-voted popularity contests.
Nothing yet had truly honored his acting on the world's most critical stage.
For actors, that kind of award? It wasn't just about ego—it was leverage.
It meant bigger roles, higher paychecks, and permanent respect.
Jihoon and Marion were the only two in recent memory who had walked away with that kind of validation. And Jihoon hadn't even hit this twenty.
The assistant director flicked on the slide projector with a soft click, and the lights dimmed slightly.
Jihoon's hand-drawn storyboards appeared on the screen—meticulous sketches, each frame alive with emotion and movement.
The characters even looked like the actors cast in the roles. A few people exchanged glances, quietly impressed.
Jihoon walked to the blackboard, grabbed a piece of chalk like he was back in high school, and started sketching out a diagram. Circles, arrows, lines crisscrossing like subway routes.
"Okay, so let's talk structure," he said, underlining the words Non-Linear Narrative. "This film plays with time."
"We've got three storylines. One is peaking. One is rising. One is just beginning."
"They're not happening in order—but they are building together. Think of it like... weaving tension, not stacking it."
He paused, glanced around, then added, "Basically, you're watching a dream. And not just any dream—a lucid one."
He turned, smiling. "You know that weird moment when you know you're dreaming? You're aware, but you're still stuck inside it."
"Sometimes it's fun—you fly, you fall in love, you get everything you want. Other times, it's terrifying. Because no matter how hard you try, you can't wake up."
A beat of silence. People leaned in. That hit home.
"That's the emotional core of this story," Jihoon continued. "We're playing with that fear, that longing."
"That what if feeling you get when you wake up and miss something that was never real. But it still haunts you. That's what the characters in this movie are going through. That's the spine of the film."
Around the table, heads nodded. Someone scribbled notes. Another tilted their head, staring at the storyboard like it suddenly made more sense.
Jim, still sitting quietly near the end of the table, blinked. He'd expected a typical script read—a bit of dialogue, some dry direction, maybe a few coffee refills. What he got instead felt more like a film school lecture—like the kind of directing class students get back on campus. And oddly enough, it also felt a bit like a therapy session—one of those where people dig deep for emotional clarity and relief.
A slow, slightly baffled smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Well, damn," he muttered to Martin under his breath. "Is this a movie or an exploration of the human cognitive structure?"
Martin chuckled softly. "Bit of both, I think."
By the time the script reading actually started, the room was buzzing—not with noise, but with thought. With feeling. Everyone had that look—the one people get when they realize they're working on something special.
And maybe that's what Jihoon did best—not just tell stories, but remind people why they fell in love with storytelling in the first place. The kind of story that doesn't just entertain, but lingers—grabbing the audience's attention little by little, until one day, it's remembered as a classic.
[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe and JiangXiu for bestowing the power stone!]