Jihoon leaned back in his chair, stretching out the tension in his shoulders.
It had been a long week—intense, exhausting, but also deeply rewarding. BURIED was wrapped.
The post-production drive was ready to ship off to Cannes.
Everything was moving forward exactly as planned.
A small, satisfied smile crept onto his face. He wasn't just making films—he was building something bigger.
And if everything went according to schedule, he might actually beat Marvel to the punch.
That thought alone gave him a strange rush.
The idea of going head-to-head with a giant like Marvel wasn't intimidating to Jihoon.
It was thrilling.
The kind of thrill that came with real risk, the kind that made your heart race just thinking about the possibilities.
"If I'm chasing a high," he muttered to himself, "might as well go all the way."
Marvel was building its empire on capes and superheroes. Their universe was sprawling, colorful, and larger-than-life.
Jihoon's universe, on the other hand, was darker. Sharper. Rooted in fear, mystery, and the unknown. It wasn't designed for comfort—it was built to haunt.
Still, he didn't want his Horror Cinematic Universe (HCU) to feel small or limited.
Horror might be a niche genre, but his vision stretched far beyond just a few scary movies.
He wanted mythology. Lore. Something immersive—something fans could fall into and lose themselves in.
Pacing around his office, Jihoon scratched his jaw, deep in thought.
"The internet is still in its early stages," he murmured.
"But it's growing—fast. And there's no real shared fictional universe online yet. Since my universe can't compete with theirs in flashy comic-style storytelling, I might as well carve out a different path."
That's when the idea clicked.
What if he didn't just build his cinematic universe on screen? What if it lived online too?
It wasn't just about marketing anymore. It was about creating an experience.
Jihoon sat back down and opened his notebook, flipping to a clean page. Scribbling in the margin, he wrote two words: SCP Foundation.
The SCP Foundation was an online collaborative fiction project—a fictional organization that contained and cataloged strange, paranormal, and often horrifying anomalies.
In Jihoon's previous life, it had already started gaining traction within niche internet communities.
But in this new life, Jihoon believed that momentum could reach entirely new heights—especially when paired with the rise of his Horror Cinematic Universe (HCU).
The concept of each "entry" was written like a government file—cold, clinical, and deeply unsettling.
Perfect for his HCU. Though entirely fictional, it could still maintain an air of mystery that captivated audiences—blurring the line between reality and fiction, and leaving them to wonder what was real.
He could already picture the interface of an official-looking website, mimicking that of a secret government agency.
A covert organization hidden from the public eye.
Files, videos, redacted documents, eerie photographs.
Each entry would tie back to one of the films in his HCU.
His fans could read, speculate, and piece together every post-credit scene of the movies.
The movies would be just the beginning—the website would be the rabbit hole.
And it didn't stop there.
If he was going to create something on the scale of Marvel's MCU, he'd need his own version of their top-tier mythology.
Marvel had the One Above All—an all-powerful cosmic entity that stood above even the most powerful heroes and villains.
For Jihoon, that meant turning to cosmic horror.
He'd been a long-time admirer of H.P. Lovecraft's Cthulhu Mythos—the idea that ancient, godlike beings once ruled the universe and still lurk in the shadows, waiting.
Lovecraft's work wasn't just about monsters.
It was about the terrifying insignificance of humanity in the face of unknowable power.
That was the kind of fear Jihoon wanted at the heart of his universe.
A being like Cthulhu wouldn't just be another creature—it would be the source of all horror in the HCU.
The reason the world was twisted. The root of the fear that connected all his films. Not a hero. Not even a villain. Just a force. A presence. The ultimate origin of dread.
He envisioned a loose pantheon of horrors. Interdimensional gods. Ancient rituals. Secret societies. Government conspiracies. All feeding into a universe that felt connected, dangerous, and eerily plausible.
And thanks to the SCP-inspired site, the mythology wouldn't stay behind the scenes. Fans could discover it, piece by piece, document by document.
Jihoon smiled to himself again, more excited now than he had been in weeks.
The idea hit him like a shot of adrenaline.
Jihoon couldn't sit still—he immediately grabbed his pen and began scribbling everything down. One idea after another poured out of him like a flood.
Soon, sheets of paper covered the entire table, each one filled with story beats, website mechanics, visual concepts, and character links. It looked like the blueprints of something bigger than just a movie—it was a world.
He called over his assistant, Mara. "Help me sort these," he said, pushing the scattered papers toward her. "We need to organize the sequence, make sure everything connects logically."
Mara nodded, already used to Jihoon's bursts of creative madness.
She got to work without asking further questions.
"And one more thing," Jihoon added. "The SCP website—we need it online before the premiere of GET OUT. And also make sure it's polished and official-looking. No bugs, no placeholders. It has to look like a real secret agency site."
By launching the SCP Foundation website alongside the film, Jihoon could secure the relevant copyrights early, giving him full control over the IP.
That meant fewer legal headaches down the road and greater flexibility for turning the universe into a full-scale film franchise, complete with merchandising, spin-offs, and perhaps even a TV series.
But he wasn't about to repeat the mistakes of his past life.
"This time, there has to be structure," he muttered to himself. "Strict moderation. We can't just let anyone upload anything like it did before. It'll turn into chaos."
Jihoon knew that in his previous life, the SCP Foundation website launched in 2008.
At first, it gained attention from horror fans chasing a thrill, but it eventually faltered—not because of a lack of interest, but due to internal issues.
The site's biggest flaw was its open-editing, community-driven nature, which led to structural weaknesses.
With over 7,000 entries, the site became overcrowded and poorly moderated.
The quality of entries was wildly inconsistent, and navigation became confusing—one entry might be SCP-178, only to jump next to SCP-679, making it hard for fans to follow the lore.
Despite its passionate fanbase, the lack of standardization made it difficult to manage as a cohesive narrative universe.
Jihoon, however, planned to do things differently. His version would operate under a systematic command structure.
Only carefully reviewed, high-quality content would be considered part of the official canon—everything else would be filtered out.
He understood that if the lore became too messy, the brand's value would plummet. Once fans lost trust in the world you built, it was nearly impossible to win it back.
As he paced the room, another thought sparked in his mind. "And I should start investing in those game-changing internet platforms before they blow up."
His past life had shown him just how fast the digital landscape could shift. If he moved early, he could position himself not just as a filmmaker but as a serious investor.
With the extra money, he could accelerate JH's development and keep it independent—safe from the meddling hands of greedy chaebol families.
He wouldn't have to beg for budget approvals or dilute his vision for the sake of corporate interests.
His mind was clearer than ever. He had no interest in playing by the old rules. This life was his to direct, and he wasn't about to bow to anyone else's script.
That was why, while he was in Los Angeles, he focused will not just on building his filmmaking career but also on gaining power. He knew that when he returned to Korea, he wouldn't get the beginner treatment anymore. To compete and keep hostile forces at bay, he needed to be stronger than ever before.