August 7, 2007.
The day 'Inception' officially wrapped filming.
It had taken them just under three months to complete principal photography—only 80 days from first shot to final take.
The core filming lasted a focused 8 weeks, but it was intense, masterfully executed, and ahead of schedule, all thanks to Jihoon's laser-sharp planning and a production team that ran like a well-oiled machine.
Of course, that didn't include post-production—the editing, sound design, and, most importantly, the visual effects, which were about to enter their own battleground.
That's where things got complicated.
The visual effects work, arguably one of the most important aspects of a mind-bending film like 'Inception', was slated to go to Framestore VFX, the renowned British-based company known for their work like Harry Potter, and more recently, Jihoon's own breakout hit 'Your Name'.
Framestore had a working relationship with Jihoon's company, JH Pictures, and naturally, Jihoon wanted to continue that partnership.
But not everyone agreed.
Fox, the studio backing the project, had its own internal politics.
Several board members were pushing to award the contract to Pixel, a local VFX house with strong ties to Hollywood.
To them, keeping the work domestic was more than business—it was personal, patriotic even.
Plus, there were commissions involved. Backdoor incentives.
Relationships to maintain. It wasn't just about the art; it was about economics, influence, and corporate loyalty.
Jihoon, however, wasn't having it.
At the next board meeting, instead of arguing or pleading, he simply came prepared.
He played a sizzle reel—a behind-the-scenes breakdown of Framestore's work on 'Your Name'.
The screen came alive with seamless transitions, layered dreamscapes, and lighting that made reality feel elastic.
Jihoon didn't say much; he simply let the footage speak for itself.
Although the board members weren't visual effects experts, their eyes could still recognize quality that transcended debate—some things didn't need explaining.
Then he explained the numbers.
"Commissions are nice," he said steadily, "but we're not just making a film—we're building something that needs to resonate globally."
"And for that, we need more than competence; we need excellence backed by results."
"Framestore's work on Your Name wasn't just visually stunning—it played a critical role in pushing the film past $300 million worldwide."
"So why dont you ask yourself: would you rather have 100% of a modest return, or a smaller slice of something that breaks records?"
"Because in this business, quality isn't an expense—it's an investment that pays itself back many times over."
Silence.
The board watched. Then nodded.
The math made sense, but so did the man.
Jihoon wasn't just a director anymore.
He was a brand, altough is still growing, but he is still a walking case study in precision and vision, all his works show it all.
And sometimes in business, it's not just about charts or past performance—it's about trust in the person.
Like how you'd bet on Steve Jobs even if you didn't understand the product yet.
Or how Michael Jordan didn't just win games—he inspired people to believe they could too.
In short, Jihoon had that intangible quality. Charisma. Aura. Presence.
Whatever you want to call it, it closed the deal.
So in the end, the board didn't just choose Framestore for their track record.
They chose them because Jihoon did.
Back on set, despite the actors having signed three-month contracts to allow for possible delays or reshoots, everything wrapped smoothly—well within the original production schedule.
That alone was impressive. It also meant something rare in Hollywood: a budget surplus.
The leftover funds came from things like food, equipment rentals, and location fees—all of which had been booked with longer timelines in mind.
But thanks to Jihoon's experience and tight planning, the shoot progressed more efficiently than anyone on the board had anticipated.
On the final day of filming, Jihoon did what he always did: he thanked his team the best way he knew how—with a warm meal and generous bonuses.
But this wasn't Seoul. This was Hollywood. The stakes were higher, and so were the expectations.
Still, Jihoon adapted.
Within industry norms, it's common practice for directors to have discretion over the leftover production budget.
Some keep it, others redistribute it to the team.
The unspoken rule? You earn what you can, as long as you play within the boundaries of the system.
And while some might ask why the production company doesn't reclaim the unused funds, the reality is more complex.
This particular "slice of cake" is shared among those who make the magic happen—the director, key crew, producers.
To challenge that norm would be to go against an entire industry's quiet understanding of how things work.
Jihoon never saw the surplus as his to hoard.
Instead, he saw it as an opportunity to honor the people who made the film possible.
He personally made sure that every crew member and actor received a meaningful bonus—one that reflected not just compensation, but appreciation.
So with that, tonight, everyone weren't just celebrating the end of production—they were celebrating something far more personal.
The wrap party was alive with music, laughter, and clinking glasses.
The entire crew had just received their bonuses, and while it might not have made headlines, it certainly made hearts lighter.
The leftover 8% from the production budget—excluding post-production costs like VFX—had been redistributed, and that chunk alone was roughly equal to a month's salary for many on the team.
For the crew, it was a gesture that spoke volumes.
In a town where people often got thanked with a nod and a credit roll, Jihoon had gone the extra mile.
"It's not about the amount," one of the gaffers said, nursing a beer. "It's the fact that he thought of us. That he sees us."
Of course, for someone like Leo, it was all pocket change.
His bonus was calculated differently—based on negotiated percentages and contract clauses that came with his A-list status.
Let's just say his "thank you" envelope could easily buy a Rolex.
Maybe he'd need to add a little more to land a Daytona, but a couple of Oyster Perpetual? That's well within reach.
Of course, compared to his multi-million dollar paycheck for the role, the bonus was more of a thoughtful gesture than a life-changing sum. But still—it spoke volumes.
But for Hyunbin, things were different.
He was the newcomer in this Hollywood circle.
Though already a household name back in Korea, this was his first major international gig.
The bonus, combined with his base pay, was already equivalent to a year's worth of work back home.
But money wasn't what lit up his face that night.
Across the room, Jihoon spotted him deep in conversation, laughing over drinks with some of the crew members and actors he'd grown close to during the past three months.
It wasn't about fame, or paychecks, or even the movie anymore.
It was about connection. The kind that only happens after long days under hot lights, late nights rewriting scenes, and shared coffee runs at 5 a.m.
Jihoon smiled to himself. That, right there—that was what mattered.
Because the real reward of a film isn't always in the box office numbers or glowing reviews.
Sometimes, it's in the friendships forged behind the scenes.
And tonight, as people clinked their glasses over cheap champagne and half-eaten cake, as someone tried to teach the camera assistant how to salsa, that feeling of shared purpose lingered in the air like warmth from a fire. Jihoon didn't need to say a word—he just breathed it in.
Of course, he knew the work wasn't over. Far from it.
The cameras might've stopped rolling, but the real magic was just beginning.
The editing room waited, dark and demanding.
The VFX team had already begun their early passes, but it was Jihoon—and only Jihoon—who truly understood how each visual effect needed to sync with a character's breath, a blink, a subtle gesture.
He'd have to sit with them. Frame by frame. Scene by scene. No shortcuts.
Because this wasn't just a film.
It was his film.
But all of that—that obsessive precision, that perfectionism, that storm of creative fire—could wait until tomorrow.
Tonight, he allowed himself a moment of stillness.
[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe, JiangXiu, Daoistadj, Daoist098135 and John_4476 for bestowing the power stone!]