As expected, the Korean media was ablaze the next morning.
News outlets, entertainment blogs, morning talk shows—every platform was echoing the same headline: "Hyunbin Spotted in L.A. With Director Jihoon—Secret Hollywood Project in the Works?"
To the casual observer, it might've seemed like just another celebrity gossip piece—nothing too unusual in the world of glitz and flashing cameras.
But to anyone who understood how deeply South Korea's economy was intertwined with its entertainment industry, this wasn't just news.
This was a seismic event.
See, in most countries, the entertainment industry is considered more of a cultural asset—something akin to a dessert in the national economy.
It may generate profit and serve as a source of soft power, but it rarely competes with major economic sectors like manufacturing, finance, or energy.
However, South Korea is a notable exception.
In Korea, entertainment is not just culture—it's a strategic export.
Alongside semiconductors—which, though still undergoing a transitional phase within his family's control, are slowly preparing to reach their full potential—both sectors stand as two of the primary contributors to the nation's GDP growth.
From K-pop and K-dramas to films and digital content, Korea's cultural exports play a critical role in driving national income, boosting tourism, and expanding the country's global influence.
For a country that has built a significant part of its global identity on K-pop and K-dramas, the idea of one of its own—Jihoon—quietly stepping behind the camera of a Hollywood production wasn't just impressive.
It was historic.
No Korean director had ever been granted such a high level of creative control on a major American studio film.
Until now, the only widely recognized Asian director to achieve a similar feat was Ang Lee—a Taiwanese filmmaker.
Some might not immediately recognize his name, but most have seen his work: Hulk (2003), Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, and the Oscar-winning Life of Pi (2012).
Now, Jihoon was standing beside him—another Asian filmmaker breaking into the elite inner circle of Hollywood directors.
Whether or not the rumors were true, the mere possibility was enough to send shockwaves through the global entertainment ecosystem—and the markets noticed.
South Korea's entertainment industry isn't just glitz and red carpets—it's serious business.
Many of the country's top entertainment companies are listed on the KOSDAQ and KRX exchanges.
A single rumor about a major artist's new project can swing valuations by millions. So imagine what a story like this could do.
The moment Jihoon's name was speculated to be tied to a Hollywood production, entertainment stocks surged.
Shares of CJ Entertainment, Lotte Entertainment, and even smaller, lesser-known production companies began climbing sharply.
Investors didn't wait for press releases or confirmation—they bought on hype, emotion, and momentum.
In a country where market sentiment can shift with a blog post or a headline, the belief that Korea might finally have a homegrown director leading a Hollywood blockbuster was more than enough to ignite the sector.
Behind the scenes, the financial elite—hedge funds, institutional investors, and savvy whales—watched the market unfold like a well-scripted thriller.
Some rode the wave early. Others waited for the peak before cashing out.
A few even shorted the rally, betting that rumors would eventually fade and take stock prices with them.
That's the strange and often surreal reality of South Korea's economy: when culture becomes one of your strongest global exports, entertainment doesn't just influence hearts—it moves markets. It drives investor behavior.
It becomes a measurable factor in GDP.
Los Angeles, 6:08 AM, in Jihoon's hotel room.
Jihoon was half-asleep, still entangled in a tangle of sheets, when his phone finally buzzed loud enough to drag him out of unconsciousness.
He fumbled around the hotel nightstand, knocking over a glass of water before finally grabbing the phone.
Caller ID: Jaehyun (Manager)
Jihoon squinted at the screen, then groaned. "It's barely sunrise, what now…"
He answered with the voice of a man who hadn't spoken since yesterday. "Yeah…?"
On the other end, Jaehyun didn't even say hello. He was already mid-panic.
"Boss! You need to check your phone. Your work phone."
Jihoon sat up slowly. "What are you talking about—?"
"You're trending in Korea. Like, top of Naver. Everyone thinks you're directing a Hollywood movie. Did you tell someone?"
Jihoon blinked. "Wait… what?"
He reached for his other phone—the one with all the important numbers—and unlocked it.
Missed calls:
Lee Sooman (3)
Lee Mikyung (2)
Unknown Number (+82) ×… too many to count
"...Oh." Jihoon let out a sigh, now fully awake. "That's not… supposed to be public yet."
"Yeah, no kidding!" Jaehyun's voice cracked under pressure. "I thought this was just, like, a plan for next year! I didn't think it was gonna go public now!"
"Well, it was supposed to be quiet for a while."
"Well, someone must have spilled something, because I've been fielding calls since midnight back in Seoul. Executives. Investors."
"Even some guy from the Culture Ministry who apparently thinks you're defecting or something, hahaha!"
Jihoon pinched the bridge of his nose. This wasn't just about headlines—it was about territory.
In Korea, the film industry wasn't just a business—it was a closed-loop ecosystem, carefully held together by tradition and unspoken rules.
Everything operated in a predictable cycle: financing, casting, production, distribution.
Each part fed into the next, and everyone knew their role.
If you were a filmmaker, you didn't just direct.
You collaborated with familiar players—SM Entertainment might invest, CJ ENM would handle distribution, and along the way, every major stakeholder would get their share.
It was a system built on trust, hierarchy, and a quiet, rigid choreography that kept the circle intact.
Stepping outside of that system? That wasn't innovation—it was heresy.
So when Jihoon checked his phone and saw the missed calls from Lee Sooman and Lee Mikyung, he didn't need to listen to the voicemails to understand what they wanted.
They weren't calling to congratulate him.
They wanted answers.
To them, Jihoon's silence wasn't just mysterious—it was defiance. His move to work independently with Hollywood wasn't seen as ambition, but as betrayal.
He wasn't just breaking the mold; he was walking away from the very circle that had built him.
And in their world, that kind of independence was unforgivable.
"Let me guess," Jihoon muttered, "they're pissed."
Jaehyun gave a dry laugh. "If I had to guess? Yeah."
That's how things worked in Korea—a rigged and outdated system where those who benefited from the circle controlled everyone within it.
Just look at the idol industry: foreign artists like Lisa from BLACKPINK often faced unequal pay, restrictive contracts, and subtle yet persistent discrimination.
The system protected its own and prioritized local profit—even at the expense of fairness.
And now, Jihoon was leaping straight out of that circle, with Hollywood waiting on the other side.
He could already imagine their faces.
The men and women who had built entire careers profiting from the loop of predictable, domestic content—now forced to watch one of their golden boys go rogue.
And not just anywhere, but into a market ten times the size, with rules they couldn't influence and doors they couldn't lock.
Hollywood wasn't their backyard. Their reach didn't extend there.
And the repercussions? He could already imagine them.
Of course, there'd be backlash. There always was.
Sooner or later, someone would try to drag him back—or punish him for leaving.
But Jihoon had made peace with that.
Let them be angry.
By the time the ripple came back to hit him, he would have built a wall too high to shake—the very wall he'd been planning to build from the start
"Should I say something?" Jaehyun asked hesitantly.
Jihoon leaned back into the pillows, his voice calm now. "Not yet."
"Then what do I tell them?"
"Just post a statement on the company site. Just something simple. 'JH Pictures is officially collaborating with 20th Century Studios on a joint production.' That's it."
"Should I include your role?"
"Yeah, why not" Jihoon smirked. "That's more fun anyway."
"Got it." Jaehyun sighed, the weight of crisis management falling squarely on his shoulders again. "You owe me coffee."
"Make it a bottle of soju when I'm back."
Jihoon hung up, dropped the phone, and stared at the ceiling.
The line clicked off. Jihoon let the phone drop beside him, its screen still glowing for a moment before fading to black.
Silence filled the room, broken only by the faint buzz of early morning traffic beyond the L.A. skyline.
He stared at the ceiling, not really looking at anything.
The news was out. The calls had started. The backlash would come. That was inevitable.
But for the first time in a long time, he wasn't anxious. Not because he thought he was untouchable—but because he knew the rules of the old game no longer applied.
He was building something new now.
[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe, JiangXiu and Daoistadj for bestowing the power stone!]