To the rest of Hollywood, Jim Gianopulos was a machine—one of those studio-bred titans who could glance at a script, grunt once, and decide whether a hundred million dollars project lived or died.
He didn't just approve movies; he shepherded franchises like X-Men and Avatar.
Even the future Kingsman and The Planet of the Apes remake.
Jim's career path was paved with explosions, VFX budgets the size of small nations, and directors who whispered his name like a prayer or a threat.
He was the kind of man whose "No" could erase three years of someone's life.
And whose "Yes" could turn a pitch into a global phenomenon.
But right now?
Right now, this Hollywood juggernaut was arguing like a cranky ahjumma at a flea market over a sack of discounted napa cabbage.
And the worst part?
It was over a 50 million dollar budget request.
Which, to Jim, was basically pocket lint.
In the kingdom of blockbusters he'd ruled for years, fifty million barely covered the CGI fur on the lead ape's left eyebrow.
So watching him right now nickel-and-dime like this… it honestly felt surreal.
But Jihoon understood why.
Because HCU wasn't some planetary-scale blockbuster.
It wasn't even a mid-tier studio romantic comedy.
It was a low-budget project, humble and grounded, the kind of film where ten million dollars was considered "comfortable."
Comparing Jim's usual playground to HCU was like comparing a nuclear submarine to a fishing boat in Busan harbor.
A different league, a different philosophy. A different battlefield.
So yes, Jim had every right to be picky—because if anyone in Hollywood understood production ecosystems, it was him.
He knew how to separate costs, what deserved investment, what deserved restraint, and what absolutely needed a tight grip to maximize profit.
And right now, while Jihoon was finishing the last scene of his screenplay, Jim was still sitting in the room with that familiar look—the one that meant he wasn't here just for one talk.
Jihoon capped his pen.
"You need something?"
Jim didn't answer immediately. He closed the door behind him, leaned his back against it, exhaled deeply, and said,
"Besides the James situation… there's something you need to know."
Jihoon arched a brow.
"Oh? What now?"
"It's about Buried." Jim crossed his arms, expression tightening. "The film's daily box office is fluctuating more than usual."
That alone wasn't alarming.
Films moved up and down.
But the way Jim's jaw clenched told Jihoon there was more.
"And now," Jim continued, "a lot of people online are saying Ryan doesn't deserve Cannes. That Buried doesn't deserve the Best Actor title."
Jihoon paused mid-breath.
"…Oh?"
"Yeah." Jim nodded grimly. "It's spreading fast."
Jihoon leaned back, pen tapping slowly on the table.
The timing was suspicious. Too suspicious.
Because if anyone understood how online smear cycles worked, it was Jihoon—the man who'd lived through the peak era of digital warfare in entertainment.
Even though it was only 2008 in this timeline, the early cracks of the internet age were already forming.
Facebook had spread like wildfire.
Blogs had become mini media outlets.
And although social networks hadn't yet figured out the billion-dollar money machine they would someday become, they still had one income source: Smear campaigns.
Dirty, profitable, and always in demand.
Politicians used them.
Entertainment companies used them.
Hell, even C-list celebrities' managers used them to sabotage rivals.
Smearing someone online was cheap, easy, and fast.
And with the right push, it could snowball into a full-blown public storm.
Jihoon had seen this play from the future: like the absurd fake news about Diddy suddenly fucking half the Hollywood celebrity pool—including, somehow, BLACKPINK.
Anyone who'd used Facebook during that scandal era remembered the ridiculousness.
So hearing Buried was being attacked?
Yeah. It smelled like a textbook hit job.
Jihoon lowered his pen.
"Did you dig into it? How did it go viral?"
Jim rubbed his chin. "You and your damn vocabulary, Lee. 'Viral'… what a funny word. But yeah. I looked."
Jihoon didn't smile. He waited.
"Internet still confuses me," Jim admitted, "but I asked the team at Fox to trace it."
"And?"
Jim tilted his head, eyes glinting with mischief.
"Guess what we found."
Jihoon stared blankly.
"Just tell me."
Jim let the suspense hang for half a second—just long enough to annoy him—before finally saying:
"Hahah—relax. It's Miramax."
He straightened, face turning serious again.
"Which means Harvey Weinstein is behind it."
The room fell still.
Jihoon didn't gasp. Didn't curse.
He simply… exhaled slowly, like someone who'd been expecting bad weather and finally saw the first rain drop.
Of course it was Harvey.
The man was practically a human embodiment of dirty playbooks.
The fight they'd had at Cannes was still fresh.
And Jihoon wasn't naive.
Retaliation was inevitable.
Still, he asked,
"Miramax releasing a film this month?"
Jim nodded. "Yep. The same film that submitted at this year Cannes Death Proof."
Jihoon's brows lowered.
Now it made sense. Harvey wouldn't waste money smearing a rival film without a reason.
But smear Jihoon's film to create noise for Miramax's release?
That was absolutely in his nature.
"So he's trying to drag us down so the audience will look at his movie instead." Jihoon summarized.
Jim pointed at him. "Exactly."
Jihoon leaned back, arms crossing as he pieced the last parts together.
Harvey was still Harvey—predictable, ego-driven, obsessed with control.
And Buried, being a critical darling with Ryan's Cannes momentum, was a threat to Miramax's upcoming release.
"So the smear campaign focuses on Ryan's acting?" Jihoon asked.
"Mostly," Jim confirmed. "People are arguing he didn't deserve the award. That the film is overrated. Some even claim the story is unrealistic."
Jihoon snorted.
"Right. A man trapped in a box is unrealistic, but a girl falling from space into a magical wardrobe is cinema."
Jim cracked a tired smile.
Then Jihoon's expression hardened, thinking deeper.
Harvey wasn't just targeting Ryan.
He was targeting Jihoon's rising influence.
Because for the first time, Jihoon was no longer just "the kid who writes scripts."
He'd won Cannes.
He had weight.
He had pull.
He had Fox executives and A-list actors actually listening.
And Harvey hated rising stars he couldn't control, especially one that he have bad blood with.
Jim stepped closer. "So, what do you want to do about it?"
Jihoon rubbed his temple, letting out a long breath.
"Nothing," he said finally.
Jim blinked. "Nothing?"
"Yeah." Jihoon shrugged. "Let him play his dirty games. The audience isn't stupid. The more he smears us, the hungrier people get to see why we're being targeted."
Jim stared for a second… then laughed.
"God, I love that attitude."
But Jihoon wasn't done.
"Besides," he added quietly, "Harvey's already digging his own grave."
Jim frowned. "What do you mean?"
Jihoon didn't answer.
Not yet.
Not until the future inevitably caught up.
For now, he picked up his pen again, turning the page of his screenplay to the final scene—the one he'd been polishing before Jim walked in.
"Let him talk," Jihoon said. "We'll answer with the work."
Jim nodded, stepping back toward the door.
"Alright. Just wanted you to know."
"Thanks," Jihoon murmured.
Then he lowered his head, pen moving again.