The report was surprisingly easy to digest.
After spending nearly half an hour listening to Han Sanping's long-winded, roundabout nonsense over the phone—where the man somehow managed to talk about everything except the actual numbers—Jihoon finally hung up.
He massaged the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly.
Now that the call was over, he could actually look at the paper in peace.
This particular report focused on the film's global opening week performance—but with one intentional exclusion.
China's numbers were not included.
The buy-out deal they signed earlier meant China's revenue was a one-time, flat-rate purchase, no matter how well the film performed there.
Because of that, the China box office was treated as extra income and left out of this performance analysis.
So this report only calculated the film's results from America, Europe, and the rest of the international markets.
The first page laid out the essentials in clean blocks of text:
[GLOBAL OPENING WEEK GROSS: $98.2 MILLION]
[Weekend (Fri–Sun): $76.6M — 78% of weekly total]
[Weekday (Mon–Thu): $21.6M — 22% of weekly total]
Below that were projections:
[Domestic Final Gross (Projected): ~$185M]
[International Final Gross (Projected): ~$140M]
[Projected Global Gross: ~$325M after full cycle]
And then the reception metrics:
[Audience Score: 94% (Verified Polling)]
[Critics' Consensus: "A masterclass in tension—proof that a simple premise, when executed with visionary direction and a powerhouse performance, can captivate the globe."]
[Social Media Buzz: #BuriedFilm trended in 12 countries, generating 1.2 BILLION impressions on opening weekend]
Jihoon tapped the edge of the paper, absorbing the results.
Typically, an average film leaned heavily on domestic revenue—about 50–60% of total box office.
And indeed, America was the home ground for the HCU series.
Promotion was easiest there; the cultural language aligned perfectly with the American audience, so strong domestic numbers were expected.
But the international side was also performing well.
JH Pictures and Fox had strategically targeted mature film markets—UK, South Korea, France—audiences who appreciated tense thrillers and grounded storytelling.
And of course, last month's Cannes award had stirred up massive interest.
The timing of that win couldn't have been more perfect.
The publicity was still fresh, providing the film with a long-lasting tailwind that extended its cultural footprint far beyond its opening weekend.
Jihoon couldn't help the smirk tugging at his lips.
Because when he explained all of this to Han Sanping earlier, the man's cheerful tone turned visibly sour through the phone.
China was developing fast, yes, but its film market still lagged behind the West.
Han had called eagerly, wanting to share the local success—and instead he got dunked head-first into a cold bucket of reality: Jihoon's film was performing even better everywhere else.
The contrast was too comical.
This was the full report, the official projection analysis for Buried.
And when compared to Saw, the improvement was significant.
Saw had earned $250 million worldwide.
As for Buried was projected at $325 million—a 30% increase compared to the previous.
Exactly as Jihoon had predicted before the film even hit theaters.
With a production budget of $8 million, Buried was set to gross $325 million, excluding China's separate buy-out agreement, so the $25.5 million won't be included in this report.
After the theatrical cuts and the promised 55% sharing to theaters, distributors, and necessary fees, JH and Fox stood to receive $138.2 million.
Jihoon did a quick mental calculation.
That meant the film's ROI—return on investment—was an insane 1,728%.
The highest in his entire production history.
For comparison:
Get Out (HCU #1): 350% ROI
Saw (HCU #2): 1,025% ROI
And now Buried, breaking every previous record.
Just three films into the HCU series, and the IP had already generated $293 million in net profit.
It wasn't even the end of the fiscal year—hell, it wasn't even halfway through.
It was barely early May.
And next month, another film was coming.
JH Pictures was effectively releasing one production per month since the Oscars in February.
The upcoming one wasn't HCU-style low-budget; it was a massive project—Inception.
The film had been shot last year and then spent months in the SFX pipeline.
Big productions came with big headaches
. Every detail demanded precision; one mistake and the entire film could collapse under its own ambition.
JH Pictures itself had grown like wildfire in the past three months.
Once just a tiny studio working on passion and adrenaline, it now employed over fifty people, spread across multiple departments like, marketing, distribution, screenwriting and many other behind-the-scenes technical work
A small company—but fully functional.
A proper framework.
Once the structure existed, the rest was simply money.
And JH Pictures had money—lots of it.
Hollywood screenwriters worked like specialists: some did dialogue, some excelled at drama, others at action.
This was the industrialization of cinema.
Any studio that wanted to rise had to build a competent, diverse team.
And Jihoon was doing exactly that.
Flush with cash and ambition, he wasn't afraid to spend.
You needed money to make money—that principle had never been truer than now.
Three HCU films, $33 million total cost including marketing and distribution, and the company had made $293.2 million in pure net profit.
A miracle for a brand-new studio.
Hollywood was losing its mind.
A newcomer—barely legal to buy a Bud Light—had produced three consecutive low-budget hits with ridiculous returns.
It was the modern-day gold rush.
And Jihoon wasn't just panning for gold; he was practically digging up entire mines by himself.
Entertainment reporters wanted him nonstop.
Time Magazine wanted him on the cover.
He had become the symbol of the modern American dream—a living reincarnation of the story immigrants once chased: coming to America, finding opportunity, and striking gold.
Except Jihoon couldn't care less.
Those interviews weren't going to put money in his pocket.
What mattered was the next film.
He entered the meeting room where his screenwriters had been waiting.
The moment he stepped in, all conversation stopped.
They straightened in their chairs.
Jihoon rested his hands on the table.
"You guys are the best scriptwriters in the market. That's why we hired you," he began, tone calm but firm. "But that doesn't mean you automatically meet my standard."
Several writers swallowed nervously.
"So here's your first real test," Jihoon continued. "Write the next HCU film."
He paced slowly across the room.
"If you've watched our previous work, you'll know the HCU emphasizes setting over story. But that doesn't mean you can ignore plot. You need to grasp the essence of HCU. The atmosphere. The tension. The rules."
He stopped and faced them.
"So I'll put it simply: whoever writes the winning script for our next HCU film Silent Hill—gets a $100,000 cash prize."
The room exploded into murmurs of excitement.
A hundred thousand dollars was enough for a new car, maybe even the down payment on a newly developed condo.
It was a career-changing reward.
The writers practically vibrated with motivation.
Jihoon adjourned the meeting.
The screenwriters immediately rushed out, each determined to win that prize—ready to pour their best, craziest ideas onto paper.
And so the HCU machine kept moving forward.