The next few days flew by like a caffeine-addicted pigeon, coo-coooing all the way.
Jihoon was buried up to his neck in film shooting, scribbling on his drawing boards, barking directions, and doing that thing he always did on set where he stared into the distance like a war veteran remembering battles he never fought.
Meanwhile, Mara's claws—normally always out, sharpened, polished, moisturized with pure capitalist greed—seemed to finally retract.
She watched her precious money-printing machine aka Jihoon going back into full director mode on The Departed, and a rare expression crossed her face: relief.
Because to Mara Murdoch—daughter of media empires, heiress of headlines and stocks—Jihoon focusing on filmmaking again meant only one thing:
The money printer was back online.
To her, Jihoon wasn't just Jihoon.
He was JH, the wunderkind director.
He was the guy who pulled box office numbers out of thin air.
He was a sentient ATM with a camera.
So naturally, Mara formed a theory.
And like all theories produced inside the Murdoch brain ecosystem, it was equal parts genius, madness, and absolutely none of anyone's business.
Her conclusion?
Jihoon must remain single for JH to thrive.
A ridiculous theory—yes.
But was she wrong? Also yes, but don't tell her that.
Like somehow romance was the kryptonite to corporate profit.
Like Jihoon holding hands with someone would instantly crash the stock market.
Like nine Korean girls could vaporize his business sense with a single group selfie.
But Mara wasn't dumb enough to say it out loud.
If she ever breathed that theory to anyone else, Jihoon would probably throw a script at her face, Taeyeon would kick her shin, and Jessica would simply blink at her two times and freeze her soul.
And besides, the Murdorch family raised her on pure capitalism juice—profits first, logic somewhere in the bins.
Combine that with her princess complex which everyone who knew her quietly accepted as "standard Mara behavior", and of course she lived in her own 3D world where money sparkled and relationships were glitches in the system.
Anyway. Back to the film set.
Jihoon was hunched over his storyboard, revising lines and angles, trying to blend the original Hong Kong Infernal Affairs vibe with his ACU worldview.
Because in his previous life, he watched both the original and the Hollywood remake The Departed, and he knew something was missing.
Both films told the same story.
But the soul?
Completely different.
If you look closely at Infernal Affairs, the original wasn't just a cop-versus-mole story.
It was drenched in Buddhist philosophy—identity, karma, duality, all wrapped up in a sleek, restrained Asian style.
And the ending?
Oh, the ending.
Poetic, tragic, ambiguous.
The kind of ending that makes you stare at your ceiling at 3AM in the morning just to be questioning your birth rights.
In Buddhism, evil isn't just "go to jail," it's cosmic punishment.
Where in their spectrum where people who commit evil deed would land in Avici Hell.
It was the lowest hell level where your soul gets microwaved by karma forever.
No breaks. No weekends. No leave application.
The film captured that. The whole "your choices haunt you even after death" thing.
But the Hollywood version?
Scorsese turned it into a raw, violent, gritty tribalism piece. Fast pacing, blood, corruption, screaming, betrayal, gunshots every two minutes.
Basically an American curry-flavored chaos.
Both versions were great.
But they lived in different universes.
Jihoon knew this was normal.
Cultural translation is the biggest final boss for any filmmaker.
You can't expect Scorsese—a Catholic man raised on guilt, wine, and church pews—to suddenly understand Buddhist karmic cycles.
That's like expecting a preacher to teach Zen meditation, instead of saying namaste, they would be saying nah hell I'm not gonna stay.
If Hollywood tried to copy-paste the Buddhist themes directly, the global audience would probably stare and ask:
"Bro what?? Why is everyone so calm?? Why is karma chasing him like a tax officer?? What is an Avici??"
This is why filmmaking ain't easy as it look like.
You need to research the audience before you serve them the film on a cinematic platter.
Like if you shoot a Jesus-centric masterpiece and try to sell it in China—good luck, bro.
Christians are only 2.7% there.
The rest are Buddhist, Taoist, or "I believe in my grandma's spirit and zodiac luck."
Same with Buddhism movies in the West—Americans would be confused, wondering why nobody is shooting guns every five minutes.
So yeah, filmmaking is geography plus philosophy plus vibes.
While Jihoon sank deeper into his creative wormhole, Jim—his Hollywood partner—stood quietly nearby.
He'd been there for a while, waiting patiently because he saw Jihoon in "creative trance mode" and knew not to interrupt unless the building was on fire or the IRS was calling.
Jim was a good partner.
Surprisingly good.
For someone representing Fox, he had never once interfered with Jihoon's casting choices, creative decisions, or those chaotic methods where Jihoon just invites actors directly instead of doing official casting sessions like normal directors does.
In Hollywood, casting is like currency.
Exchanges of favors, reputation, resources, politics and not to mention sex favor.
But Jihoon acted like a kid picking his favorite Pokemon, sturborn and picky.
Most producers would've throttled him already.
But Jim?
Nope. Cool as a refrigerated cucumber.
This was why Jihoon trusted him.
If Jim wasn't around, Jihoon would've jumped ship to another major studio before Fox could even blink.
Time ticking like it's licking on a Kentucky Fried Chicken, licking is good if you know what I mean (wink).
So anyway, time went by, and Jihoon finally set his pen down.
Jim handed him a bottle of Evian and said, "Took you long enough."
Jihoon shot him an eye roll; the way Jim said it made it sound like creative work was something you could easily whip up in a 7-Eleven microwave.
But Jihoon also knew Jim wasn't the type to swing by unannounced without a reason.
So his tone wasn't exactly sweet when he replied, "Creative work isn't instant ramen. What do you want?"
Jim exhaled and leaned in.
"It's about James. He told me you had ordered him to submit the script draft for the SAW sequel." Jim paused, choosing his words carefully. "Do you really think James can handle it? I'm not questioning you decision… but Fox has dollars in JH, and as chairman I need to ensure the HCU franchise isn't at risk."
He continued, gentle but firm:
"I'm not pressuring you. I just have to answer to the Fox board. So I need to know your reasoning. Something solid I can explain to them."
The air stilled.