Back at the Fox Studio lot in Century City, inside one of the soundstages converted for rehearsal, Jihoon sat in the middle of a quiet, dimly lit set with a stack of scripts in hand.
Across from him sat Ryan Reynolds.
Yes—that Ryan Reynolds. The sluttest man who in the future would be dubbed the snarkiest and most charming loudmouth alive.
The king of quick wit and comedic timing.
But right now?
He was just Ryan.
A regular guy hustling through Hollywood, showing up for auditions like everyone else, still waiting for his big break.
No red carpets. No headlines. Just a guy trying get his acting for his living.
To Jihoon, actors in the entertainment world could generally be sorted into two distinct categories.
The first: true actors—those who devoted themselves to the craft.
These were people who trained in theater, spent years perfecting their techniques, and saw acting as an art, not just a job.
These were performers who could disappear into a role so completely, you'd forget who they really were.
They might not always be in a front-page news or adored by the general public, but they quietly collected awards from film festivals across the world, building reputations that directors deeply respected.
And honestly, most of them preferred it that way.
They didn't want to be chased by paparazzi or stuck with a celebrity label.
And from a director's perspective, fame like that could often get in the way of the work they are about to commit.
Because when an actor became too recognizable—too closely tied to a single iconic role—it could haunt them, making it difficult for audiences to see them as anyone else.
Take Leonardo DiCaprio, for example.
After Titanic, the name "Jack Dawson" clung to him like glue.
He gave a great performance, no doubt, but the romantic image of Jack became a shadow that followed him through every role he took afterward.
For years, film critics and festival juries seemed to hold that image against him—not out of spite, but because it distorted their perception.
No matter how good he was in another film, people still saw the "Jack" in him.
It wasn't until The Revenant in 2015 that Leo finally shattered that image for good.
He gained weight, roughed up his appearance, and dove headfirst into a brutal, wordless performance that stripped away all traces of his former heartthrob persona.
It was raw, rugged, and utterly transformative.
And for that, he finally won his long-overdue Oscar for Best Actor.
That's what Jihoon meant when he talked about real actors—those who constantly challenged themselves, who didn't let fame dictate their path, and who weren't afraid to risk their image to pursue something deeper.
The second category: movie stars.
These were performers who might not have the deepest acting chops, but possessed that unshakable charisma, the kind that could light up a screen and sell out a box office.
Think Tom Cruise—undeniably magnetic, with global popularity thanks to action-packed franchises like Mission: Impossible.
He wasn't known for complex, character-driven dramas, because that wasn't where his audience lived.
He thrived in adrenaline-fueled spectacles, and he knew exactly how to deliver.
And right now Ryan Reynolds, back in the 2008, was still trying to find out which kind of performer he would become.
Although people would come to associate him with comedy—thanks to roles in future films like Deadpool, Free Guy, and Red Notice—his early career was more diverse.
He had a quiet hunger to grow as a serious actor.
In fact, he'd taken on several smaller, artistic films, hoping to sharpen his craft.
But the industry hadn't been kind, especially in hollywood.
Casting sessions were brutal, and few doors opened for him.
His first noticeable break came in 2004 with Blade: Trinity, where he played a wisecracking action hero alongside Wesley Snipes.
It gave him visibility, but didn't quite redefine him.
That wouldn't happen until 2009, when he starred opposite Sandra Bullock in The Proposal.
That was the real turning point—mainstream appeal, comedic timing, box office numbers.
Jihoon, even at that point, still saw him as someone trying to balance both worlds—a man capable of being a true actor, if given the right material.
But everything changed in 2016 with Deadpool.
Ryan didn't just play the role. He became it.
The performance was so iconic, so burned into public consciousness, that it created a kind of psychological lock-in.
Whenever audiences saw him on screen after that, they couldn't help but see Deadpool—no matter what character he was playing.
To Jihoon, that marked the moment Ryan transitioned from actor to movie star.
Not because he lacked acting skills—far from it—but because his image had become inseparable from a single character.
And that was dangerous in its own way.
Directors began to hesitate, even if Ryan could technically deliver the performance, because the emotional dissonance he brought could disrupt a film's tone.
Seeing him try to play a straight-laced, serious character often felt off-kilter—like Deadpool was lurking just beneath the surface, ready to crack a joke.
It wasn't a criticism. It was just the cost of success.
A choice Ryan had made, consciously or not. A career-defining decision that carried both reward and limitation.
But that was the future.
Right now, Jihoon wasn't interested in Deadpool Ryan.
He was working with a hungry, versatile, unproven actor who still had something to prove.
And the role he was preparing Ryan for wasn't easy.
In fact, Jihoon had warned him upfront: this wasn't just emotionally demanding—it was psychologically dangerous.
The story delved into mental trauma, manipulation, and identity erosion.
It was the kind of performance that could drain a person if they weren't careful. To Jihoon, this wasn't just about hitting marks or memorizing lines. It was about peeling layers off a character—and maybe even off yourself.
And Ryan? He didn't flinch.
He listened, took notes, asked questions. He showed up early, stayed late.
Whatever people might say about him in the future, Jihoon didn't care. What mattered was the Ryan standing in front of him now—a committed, focused actor still hungry to prove himself.
And in Jihoon's eyes, that was the purest form of an artist: someone still willing to take risks, still unafraid to fall.
Jihoon wasn't just offering him a part in a movie. He was offering him something much rarer in Hollywood—a chance to be tested. To be pushed to his limits. A role that could just as easily break him as it could redefine him.
Because to Jihoon, storytelling was never just about putting on a show. It was about truth. The kind of truth that doesn't fade after the screen goes dark.
The kind that unsettles people, stays with them, forces them to look inward.
He didn't care for flashy gimmicks or shallow plots. What mattered to him were the stories that peeled back the human experience layer by layer—until the audience saw something real, something raw, maybe even something they weren't ready for.
BURIED was exactly that kind of film.
It wasn't just another film slotted onto a release calendar. In Jihoon's hands, BURIED became a haunting blend of art and horror—where beauty was found in silence, and fear came not from monsters, but from truth.
It was his second major move in building the HCU. And this film wasn't just another project.
It was a statement. A declaration of what his cinematic world would stand for.
And Ryan, whether he realized it or not, was about to become the face of that world.