From the large window of a nearby production office overlooking the downtown Los Angeles set, Jim and Martin stood side by side, sipping coffee and watching the chaos unfold below.
The street outside the 'Inception' shoot looked less like a film set and more like a media circus.
Paparazzi pressed against the barricades, entertainment reporters shouted into cameras, and fans waved signs, hoping to catch even a glimpse of their favorite celebrities like Leo or Tom Hardy—names they'd seen plastered across tabloids after ruthless paparazzi reports revealed their roles in the upcoming film.
But this wasn't just the usual Hollywood buzz.
A surprising number of Asian faces filled the sidewalks—journalists from Korea who had flown in specifically for this moment.
Microphones emblazoned with Korean network logos bobbed in the chaotic sea of cameras.
Jim raised his eyebrows, genuinely stunned. "I gotta say, I knew Jihoon was a big deal in Korea… but this?"
"This feels like Beatlemania. And it's happening here, in L.A. The American media's eating it up too."
Martin chuckled, arms crossed as he leaned against the glass. "Jim, you're the one who ran the evaluation, remember? Don't act surprised now."
He gestured out the window at the frenzy below, grinning. "Look at this—this is free marketing!"
"We're getting a full-scale media campaign without spending a single cent. It's not even premiere week and the hype machine's already on overdrive."
Jim let out a laugh. "Hah! When you put it like that… yeah, it's a hell of an opportunity."
"I'll admit it, I underestimated the kid. He's not just talented, he's… something else."
He turned, more thoughtful now. "You know, he's got this habit—before a film comes out, he always drops a song."
"An OST that ends up going viral and builds momentum for the release."
"Did you know that? The guy's not just a filmmaker—he's a damn good songwriter too."
Martin nodded. "Oh, I noticed. Even though it's in Korean, the sensation it caused across Asia—and even here in the States—is pretty wild."
"My daughter's obsessed with one of the current hit OSTs."
"If I'm not mistaken, it's from a drama called Princess Hours. Jihoon wrote it. This guy really knows how to tug on heartstrings, whether it's with a camera or a guitar."
Jim scratched his head, grinning. "Have you asked him if he's planning one for Inception?"
Martin shrugged and raised his hands casually. "Not yet. He's got enough on his plate right now—rewrites, rehearsals, effects meetings."
"No need to throw another log on the fire. Let's give it some time. The movie's still months from release."
Jim chuckled again. "Fair enough. But when the time's right, let's give him a little nudge."
"If he drops even one English track… we won't just save on marketing—we might blow the roof off on opening weekend."
They both turned back to the window, watching the growing crowd as another wave of reporters surged forward at the sight of Leonardo and Jihoon stepping out of his trailer.
Cameras clicked. Fans screamed. And somewhere in the chaos, the beginnings of a Hollywood legend were quietly taking shape.
Jihoon, meanwhile, had barely taken two steps out before flinching under the storm of flashing lights.
Though he had grown somewhat accustomed to the media circus, this level of frenzy—especially from the international press—still made him uneasy.
He was never the type who enjoyed being in the spotlight.
That's precisely why he chose a behind-the-scenes job like directing.
Sure, the job naturally attracted some public attention, but to Jihoon, filmmaking wasn't about fame—it was his hobby, his passion.
Still, he would've preferred to be anywhere else but here.
Shielding his eyes from the blinding flashes, he gave Leo a brief nod before quietly slipping away toward the set.
Leo chuckled as Jihoon made his escape and turned to wave at the crowd, only to be grabbed by his assistant before he could enjoy the moment.
"Alright, showtime," she said briskly, pulling him toward the set.
"They're all waiting."
"There'll be time for this next time, Leo."
Inside, the atmosphere shifted from chaos to focus.
The crew stood ready. The cameras were in position.
And Jihoon, now composed, was back behind the monitor, already communicating with his cinematographer.
This was it—the final scene.
According to the script, everyone in the thief team was supposed to awaken on the plane, disoriented and quiet, the atmosphere heavy with unspoken questions.
It was a close-up shot of Leo's character—hence why Jihoon had personally walked him through the scene just moments ago inside the trailer. After all, Leo was the centerpiece of this final moment.
Although it was his key scene, he had no lines. Just a single look—one that needed to carry the weight of everything: doubt, relief, confusion, and that delicate boundary between dream and reality.
In the original script, it was subtle—silent and introspective. But Jihoon wanted more.
He didn't change the dialogue. He didn't rewrite the scene.
Instead, he reshaped the emotional temperature using what he knew best: light and shadow.
Where most directors might have asked for more expression, Jihoon asked for less—but lit it to say more.
A downward key light cast a soft shadow over Leo's eyes, letting just enough glint through to suggest uncertainty.
The window behind him overexposed slightly, blurring the edge between the real and the surreal.
Behind Hyunbin, seated just across the aisle, a faint flicker of pulsing light moved like a heartbeat—subtle, but intentional.
Jihoon's intention wasn't to explain the ending. It was to make the audience feel the question.
Was this reality, or just another layer of the dream? Had they truly escaped limbo—or had they simply looped back to another illusion?
He wasn't interested in spelling out answers. That, he believed, cheapened the story.
Instead, he wanted the viewer to walk out of the theater uncertain, unsettled—and deeply moved.
"Classic films," he had once said in an interview in his previous life, "aren't remembered for their answers. They're remembered for how they make you feel... and how long that feeling stays with you."
This was his goal—not just to remake a film, but to elevate it into an experience.
To craft a moment that would etch itself into the minds of viewers.
Something people would talk about not just on opening weekend, but ten years later.
The kind of ending that would pop back into someone's head in the most unexpected moments—while looking out an airplane window, while staring at a spinning top, or while waking from a particularly vivid dream.
That was Jihoon's mark. Not just to direct a movie, but to haunt the audience gently, beautifully—and forever.
And as Leo settled into his seat, the camera rolled, the lights dimmed just right, and the final scene began—not just the end of a story, but the birth of a cinematic classic.
[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe, JiangXiu, John_4476, OS_PARCEIROS, Daoistadj and Daoist098135 for bestowing the power stone!]