A week had passed since the secretive meeting with Boojin they all. It had been intense, strategic, and—above all—a turning point. Now, standing at the edge of a different kind of battlefield, Jihoon found himself in Los Angeles, finally making the trip he had postponed for far too long.
Los Angeles, California
Samuel Goldwyn Theater — 80th Academy Award Nomination Ceremony
Inside the grand theater, seats were filled with reporters, producers, critics, and executives from around the globe.
Major local media outlets like AP, Deadline, and Variety lined the aisles with their cameras poised and their eyes fixed on the stage and on the presenter.
Even beyond the American press, representatives from international media like from France, Japan, the UK, Brazil, and of course, South Korea—were present, all waiting with equal parts anticipation and skepticism.
Truth to be said Oscars had always carried a unique kind of weight in the world of film making.
Some directors believed other awards, like Cannes' Palme d'Or, were more artistically prestigious.
But there was no denying it: the Academy Awards were the most globally recognized symbol of cinematic success.
Even people who couldn't name a single film festival could tell you what the Oscars were. Ask anyone on the street—no matter their nationality—and nine times out of ten, they would've heard of it. That's just how deep the Oscars ran in the film cultural bloodstream.
For Asian filmmakers, however, the road to Oscar glory had been far from easy.
The first Asian film to win Best Foreign Language Film was the 1955 Japanese epic "Samurai: The Legend of Musashi".
Decades later, in 2000, Ang Lee's "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon" came close to breaking barriers again for East Asian cinema.
But in total, only four Asian films had won in that category by 2008—and none had come from South Korea.
But today would rewrite that history.
This moment wasn't about Inception—Jihoon's highly anticipated project still deep in post-production, with massive visual effects work yet to be completed. No, today's buzz was about something else entirely. Something smaller… but perhaps even more groundbreaking.
It was the beginning of the Horror Cinematic Universe—a bold collaboration between JH Pictures LA office and 20th Century Fox, forming the blueprint for an original intellectual property franchise.
A shared universe, much like what Marvel did with the MCU—except darker, and unlike anything anyone had attempted before.
And the first chapter of that story began with "GET OUT".
Now back to the crowd below the stage and among them was Choi Umjin, a young field reporter assigned by KBS. She stood quietly near the back of the crowd, scribbling half-hearted notes. She was restless, shifting from foot to foot, her heels beginning to pinch.
Deep down, she didn't believe today would bring anything special. After all, no Korean director had ever been nominated at the Oscars. Their attendance was more symbolic than hopeful—a chance to grab some flashy headlines for Korean netizens back home.
As the presenter stood under the spotlight, reading out the nominations, Choi Umjin was only half paying attention.
Her head was down, still dazed and casually scribbling notes in her worn-out reporter's notebook.
At the grand stage, the sea of flashing cameras, even the hush that had fallen over the theater—all of it faded into background noise as she mindlessly jotted bullet points she would probably revise later.
She'd been covering award ceremonies for years.
To her, the format was predictable.
Glamour, applause, and a list of names she could mostly guess ahead of time.
She barely looked up—until she heard something that made her pen freeze mid-scribble.
"Now, the nominees for the 80th Academy Awards for Best Original Screenplay have been revealed. This stories breathe life into the screen with distinct voices, fresh perspectives, and unforgettable emotion. This year's nominees are—"
"Juno, screenwriter Diablo Cody."
"Lars and the Real Girl, screenwriter Nancy Oliver."
"Michael Clayton, screenwriter Tony Gilroy."
"Ratatouille, screenwriters Brad Bird (story), Jan Pinkava, Jim Capobianco."
"Get Out, screenwriter... Lee Jiho—... Jihoon?"
The presenter's voice faltered for a beat. He blinked, glanced at the teleprompter again, and attempted the unfamiliar pronunciation.
His tongue tripped awkwardly over the name, his accent stretching and reshaping it into something strange—Lee Jihoon.
Down in the press section, Umjin let out a small laugh at the presenter's stumble. It was a common hiccup at international events like this—names mispronounced, especially those that didn't fit neatly into Western phonetics.
But then something strange happened.
As the presenter continued reading the name, a peculiar wave passed through Umjin.
Her amusement drained, replaced by a curious itch in the back of her mind. Lee Jihoon.
The name wasn't just unfamiliar—it was too familiar.
"Jihoon... Lee Jihoon..." she whispered under her breath, tasting the syllables like she was trying to place a forgotten song.
Her brows furrowed.
Wait.
That was a Korean name.
And not just Korean. That specific arrangement—surname first, then given name—that was textbook Korean naming convention. It hadn't been anglicized or adapted. Just... Lee Jihoon.
Her eyes darted to the screen where the nominees were displayed in bold white letters against a shimmering background.
"Best Original Screenplay – Get Out – Lee Jihoon."
Her breath caught.
"Lee Jihoon?!" she gasped aloud.
The reporter beside her turned, startled by her sudden outburst, but Umjin didn't care.
She was already scrambling for her camera, her hands trembling with excitement.
"A Korean... A Korean writer is nominated for an Oscar?!"
Shock flooded her face, then gave way to something else—realization.
She knew that name.
She knew who Lee Jihoon was.
She rubbed her eyes like a cartoon character, trying to make sure she wasn't seeing things.
But the name remained there, still glowing on the screen like it belonged.
And she was sure of it now.
Lee Jihoon—the reclusive screenwriter who had quietly built a reputation in indie circles, who had once been whispered about in Seoul's underground cinema scene—was now being announced on the biggest stage in the world.
Umjin's pulse quickened.
This was it.
The scoop of her carrer.
She wasn't just witnessing history. She was one of the first to know what it meant.
But even before she could finish scribbling a headline idea in her notebook, the presenter was already moving on, his voice rolling smoothly over the next list.
"And now, the nominees for Best Actor…"
"Best Director…"
"Best Picture…"
And there it was again.
GET OUT.
GET OUT.
GET OUT.
Nomination after nomination.
Her jaw dropped.
Everything was pointing to one film—and at the center of it all was that name: Lee Jihoon.
--------
California, Beverly Hills—tucked away in a quiet, upscale neighborhood was a spacious modern mansion temporarily assigned to Jihoon by 20th Century Fox.
It wasn't just any rental—it was a statement. A place worthy of someone who had shaken Hollywood with his debut and earned the kind of buzz studios dream about. For now, it served as his base while he was in town.
Inside the sunlit living room, Jihoon sat casually on a deep leather sofa, a steaming cup of tea in hand, legs stretched out, and eyes barely paying attention to the TV in front of him.
The Oscar nomination ceremony was playing live, but for Jihoon, it was just background noise.
He should've been there—at least, that's what most would expect. But Jihoon wasn't the type to chase spotlights for things like nominations. Not anymore. In his previous life, he had walked red carpets too many times to count. The novelty had long worn off.
If it were the actual awards night, he'd have shown up out of respect, maybe even for the cameras. But a nomination announcement? That was a job for assistants or studio reps.
And truthfully, most veteran directors felt the same. Once you've seen the cycle a few times and earned your share of accolades, you stop rushing to every event with your name on the list.
Jihoon, now known as the youngest Grand Prix winner in the history of Cannes, had more than earned the right to skip a few.
Still, he wasn't alone. Sitting across from him were three familiar faces from the industry—Jim Gianopulos, the former CEO Fox; legendary horror novelist Stephen King; and Oren Peli, the low-budget mastermind behind Paranormal Activity.
The four of them had been talking casually, sipping drinks, occasionally commenting on the nominations as they popped up on screen.
Eventually, Jim Gianopulos turned to Jihoon, eyeing him with a mix of curiosity and amusement.
"Alright, now that you've got your nomination," he said, "mind telling us why you pushed us so hard for this? Do you have any idea how many favors I had to call in? Not to mention the mountain of resources we poured in just to make this happen?"
Before Jihoon could answer, Oren Peli chimed in with a groan. "Yeah, seriously… do you even know how many brain cells I fried finishing this film in time for the nomination deadline?" His tone was exaggerated, but the exhaustion behind it was real.
Stephen King glanced over at Jihoon too. He didn't know him all that well—just enough to respect his work—but even from a distance, it was clear Jihoon wasn't the type who chased awards or clung to the glamour of Hollywood.
This kid was deliberate.
Focused.
Everything he did had purpose.
And pushing a horror film for Oscar consideration? That didn't quite fit the mold.
"Honestly," Stephen said, leaning back in his seat, "this whole thing feels a little off-brand for you. I mean… we're building a franchise here—something that scares the hell out of people and makes a killing at the box office. It's not exactly Oscar bait."
All eyes were now on Jihoon, waiting for his answer.
He took another slow sip of his tea, smiled faintly, and set the cup down.