As expected, the production of BURIED moved swiftly and efficiently under the full momentum of the Fox studio machine.
With everything running like clockwork, it took just over nine days for the production team to complete more than three-quarters of the shoot.
A pace that even Jihoon hadn't fully anticipated.
Much of this success could be attributed to Ryan Reynolds, whose performance had far exceeded Jihoon's expectations.
Of course, Jihoon didn't just leave things to chance.
Under his close supervision, Ryan's acting was carefully shaped, refined, and calibrated to match Jihoon's precise vision.
Scene by scene, take by take, Jihoon pushed him to reach deeper into the character's fear, desperation, and hopelessness—until it didn't feel like acting anymore.
BURIED was never meant to be a blockbuster in the traditional sense.
It was a minimalist thriller, low in budget but high in ambition.
From its bold narrative concept to its unconventional approach to storytelling, the film was designed to challenge both the audience and the industry.
The entire story unfolds inside a single coffin.
One actor.
One location.
Ninety minutes of claustrophobic tension.
But Jihoon wasn't content with just telling a clever story.
He wanted to elevate it—turning what could've been a simple gimmick into a powerful, award-worthy piece of cinema.
In his past life, he had seen BURIED as it was originally made.
While it had potential, the previous director hadn't pushed the suspense to its limits.
The sense of dread, the emotional weight, the philosophical undertones—those had all been undercooked.
Jihoon wanted more.
He wanted the audience to feel every moment of isolation, every inch of fear, every breath that echoed in the tight space.
Themes of mortality, helplessness, and futility weren't just there for decoration—they were the soul of the story.
This wasn't just a thriller. It was a psychological excavation.
But achieving that meant everything rested on Ryan's shoulders.
There were no costume changes, no location jumps, no flashy action scenes to distract from weak moments.
The entire film lived or died under Ryan's performance.
Every twitch of his eyebrow, every breath he took, even the rhythm of his heartbeat—which the microphone occasionally picked up—had to be in complete sync with the emotion of the scene.
Jihoon was uncompromising.
He directed with surgical precision, calling for retakes whenever a single frame fell short of his vision.
As a result, while the overall production was ahead of schedule, the number of retakes was unusually high.
Some of the production team member might have called him obsessive, but Jihoon knew this kind of intensity was necessary.
This film wasn't about spectacle. It was about raw, vulnerable, human fear—and it had to feel real.
To ensure Ryan didn't burn out or mentally spiral from the pressure of such an immersive role, Jihoon even brought a licensed psychiatrist to the set.
The line between performance and reality was razor-thin, and Jihoon wasn't about to let his lead actor slip into something dangerous.
Because the last thing he needed was for Ryan to mentally break and turn into Wade Wilson before he even landed the role.
Now, on the final day of shooting, Jihoon stood behind the camera, eyes fixed on the monitor as the last scene of BURIED played out in the suffocating silence of the tiny set.
Ryan was fully committed, his sweat was dripping and soaking through his clothes, his voice cracking and his is eyes darting with fear like a man truly trapped six feet underground.
"And… CUT!"
Jihoon exhaled sharply and leaned over the monitor, fingers dragging the playback bar back to the beginning of the take.
He watched it in silence, studying every micro-expression, every blink, every breath Ryan took.
It looked good. Really good.
He gave a small, satisfied nod to himself.
Then he turned toward the cramped coffin set, where Ryan still lay motionless, eyes staring at the ceiling, like he hadn't heard the word "cut" at all. He hadn't moved a muscle.
Jihoon walked over quietly, crouched down beside the coffin, and gave Ryan a gentle pat on the shoulder.
"Hey," he said softly, "you did great. It's over."
Ryan blinked a few times before finally turning his head.
Jihoon gave a half-smile. "It's time to come back up to the surface, man."
Ryan let out a shaky breath, part relief, part exhaustion.
Jihoon kept his voice calm and reassuring. "You've been buried for weeks... Literally."
"But you nailed it. I promise you, this role is going to get you that Best Actor award."
Ryan gave a tired chuckle, still lying in the box. "You sure I'm not getting buried by critics instead? Just like the movie title?"
Jihoon laughed. "Only if they're praising you. Trust me."
Jihoon extended his hand, and Ryan took it, pulling himself out of the coffin set with effort—his muscles sore, face pale, but his eyes still holding that spark of life.
Jihoon turned to one of the assistants nearby and called out, "Let's get the doc to check him, yeah? And give him something real to eat.. Not those protein bars."
As Ryan shuffled off the cramped set, the on-call psychiatrist fell into step beside him, offering a reassuring smile and a few gentle words as Jihoon hung back a moment longer.
He watched Ryan's retreating figure, then turned his gaze to the empty coffin prop. His mind was already deep in thought about how to align the perfect post-credit tease to thread BURIED into the wider HCU timeline...
Across the globe, the Oscars loomed large.
Since GET OUT's screenplay nomination, Hollywood's glittering PR machine had been in overdrive—endless cocktail parties, lobbyists wrangling for judges' votes, red-carpet photo-ops.
When Jim called to invite him to those star-studded soirees, Jihoon turned him down flat.
"Thanks, Jim," he'd said, voice calm but firm. "But I need every spare minute in the edit suite. BURIED deserves my full focus."
Jim had sounded half-surprised, half-admiring. "Fair enough. Just don't forget to enjoy a little victory celebration."
Jihoon chuckled. "My celebration starts in Cannes."
Because while the Oscars were a trophy worth chasing, this year his true passion lay in the south of France.
He'd set his sights on the Cannes Film Festival—specifically, the Feature Films section.
To get there, he had to finish editing Buried by month's end.
Now, on the final day of February, the job was done.
Jihoon held two fresh hard drives in his hands.
One copy, meticulously packaged, was going out today via the festival's official submission channel—a privilege he'd earned two years earlier when he'd attended Cannes with his debut feature.
The second copy he kept for theatrical release, complete with one crucial addition: a hidden post-credit Easter egg.
He smiled at the thought.
The first version was pure award bait: sleek, unblemished, the tension honed razor-sharp.
The second was the same film… but with a final sting in the tail, a hint of the next chapter in his HCU.
Slipping the drives into his bag, Jihoon paused and called across the room to his assistant, Mara—a personal assistant who would be in charge of his U.S.-based activities. She had just graduated when she accepted the offer last week. "Make sure people at Fox know which is for the theatrical prints. Don't mix the Cannes piece up…."
Mara nodded, her excitement mirroring his. "Got it. Everything's set."
Across the hall, Oren Peli was just wrapping up his shoot on SAW, and even that film carried a secret nod toward its own future.
And Fox was finalizing a tiny Easter egg in their release of GET OUT—a cameo so subtle most viewers would miss it the first time around.
Jihoon leaned back against the coffin prop, closing his eyes for a second. "Three films, back to back," he murmured to himself. "By year's end, my universe will be born."
He opened his eyes, heart pounding with anticipation. The HCU was no longer a dream—it was about to take shape, piece by thrilling piece.