Jihoon thought about "BURIED", and even now, the final product far exceeded his own expectations.
The film had been a gamble from the start.
A single actor, a single location, and nothing but darkness, sand, and the suffocating walls of a coffin.
It sounded almost impossible to sustain for ninety minutes, yet Ryan Reynolds's performance carried it with such intensity that it became mesmerizing.
His acting was so raw and gripping that several editors of the film confessed to Jihoon that they felt deeply unsettled, almost depressed even just watching the rough cut.
That was exactly the reaction Jihoon had aimed for.
From the beginning, he had designed the camera work to heighten the claustrophobia, trapping the audience in that coffin alongside Reynolds.
Every shot emphasized confinement, every flicker of light and shadow pulled the viewer deeper into the tension.
Once the film began, there was no escape—just as if the audience themselves were buried alive too.
What made "BURIED" even more remarkable was its singularity.
It wasn't just a thriller—it was a one-of-a-kind cinematic experiment.
A film set entirely in one space, with no other actors, no cutaway relief, no escape.
Nothing like it had ever been attempted on this scale in film history.
And beneath the nail-biting suspense, Jihoon had layered something more: anti-war themes, subtle but powerful, giving the story not only commercial appeal but also undeniable artistic weight.
Of course, he knew the risks.
In his previous life, the New York Times had dismissed the film as "chaotic," a critique aimed at its disjointed pacing and abrupt editing.
This time around, Jihoon had addressed those flaws meticulously. He refined the shot design, balanced the rhythm of the story, and pushed Ryan to fully inhabit the role without losing narrative cohesion.
But that came at a cost.
Ryan's immersion into the role was so complete that, after the final scene, he struggled to separate himself from the character.
The despair, the suffocation, the hopelessness—it clung to him like a second skin. Jihoon had seen it coming, which was why he had arranged for a psychiatrist to be on standby. It wasn't a luxury; it was a necessity.
Actors who lose themselves too deeply in their roles often pay a heavy price.
Jihoon had seen it before, both on-screen and off.
Take Joaquin Phoenix, for instance, in "JOKER" (2019).
His portrayal of Arthur Fleck was nothing short of haunting.
The world watched as Phoenix disappeared into the role, embodying every ounce of Arthur's depression and unraveling mind.
He lost 52 pounds, isolated himself, and confessed later to living with constant fear and discomfort during the filming process.
Even months after production wrapped, Phoenix admitted he struggled to shake off the role, suffering from insomnia, anxiety, and emotional exhaustion.
People whispered that he had brushed against the edge of true madness just to bring Arthur Fleck to life.
And then there was Heath Ledger.
The memory of his tragic death was still fresh—January 22, 2008, barely months ago.
The world mourned the young actor who had delivered an unforgettable performance as the Joker in "THE DARK KNIGHT".
Official reports called it an accidental overdose of prescription medication, but rumors spread quickly.
Many believed the role had consumed him, that the darkness of the character had seeped too deeply into his own mind.
Jihoon couldn't help but think about that when he think of Ryan.
The thought weighed heavier than he cared to admit.
In his past life, he had seen what happened to actors who dove too deep into a role—some never found their way back.
The brilliance of a performance was never worth the price of a broken mind.
To Jihoon, directing wasn't just about shaping a story; it was about protecting the people who carried it on screen.
Responsibility wasn't optional—it was ethical. Asking an actor to sacrifice their sanity for art would be nothing short of betrayal.
Yes, he wanted brilliance. He wanted that raw, unforgettable performance critics and audiences would never forget. But never at the cost of an actor's well-being. That line, he believed, must never be crossed.
That was why he had taken extra measures to safeguard Ryan. No award, no glowing review, no festival acclaim was worth breaking someone's spirit.
And as Jihoon thought about "BURIED" now, he knew he had created something rare. Something daring. Something that could shake the industry if placed in the right spotlight.
"POP!"
The next morning at the LA branch office Jihoon had just rented, he was greeted by a shower of confetti.
Colorful ribbons burst into the air as party cannons went off, covering him from head to toe.
Mara, his assistant, clapped her hands with a bright grin. "Surprise! Welcome our Oscar-winning screenwriter!"
The rest of the small crew cheered along, clearly excited to welcome him back.
Jihoon couldn't help but laugh, brushing the ribbons from his shoulders. "Thank you, guys!"
He reached into his backpack and pulled out a neat, freshly bound film copy track.
Mara tilted her head curiously. "What's that?"
"The next project for the LA branch," Jihoon said, holding it up like a prized treasure.
Her brows furrowed. "Wait, the company already has a copy of "SAW". Why bring another one?"
Jihoon smirked. "This isn't "SAW"."
"Then… what is it?" Mara asked, blinking.
Before he could answer, she suddenly remembered something. Just two weeks ago, Jihoon had casually mentioned starting his second Hollywood film.
Her eyes widened. "Don't tell me… you already finished it?"
Jihoon nodded with a calm smile. "This is "BURIED."
"So fast!" Mara gasped. She had assumed nothing would begin until after the Oscars, yet here he was, script in hand.
Jihoon chuckled. "When inspiration hits, you don't wait. You move."
Mara shook her head in disbelief. "I didn't expect you to be such a… quick-shooter."
The words slipped out, and the office burst into laughter. Mostly from the male staff of JH.
Jihoon froze, his expression darkening as he slowly turned to her. "Quick-shooter? What kind of description is that? Don't go around saying things like that about men, alright?!!!"
Mara blinked innocently. "Huh? What's wrong with it? I meant you finish things fast."
Jihoon sighed dramatically, pressing a hand to his forehead. "Mara, words matter. Someday you'll understand."
The rest of the team chuckled again, clearly enjoying Jihoon's flustered reaction.
Mara simply shrugged, giving him a puzzled look. "Boss, sometimes you talk so strangely. I don't understand you at all."
Jihoon shook his head with a wry smile. "That makes two of us."
Jihoon looked at her rosy, childlike face, and the thought that crossed his mind felt almost like a death sentence.
Although Mara was of legal age and had already completed her university studies, when he looked closer, he noticed things that didn't quite seem to belong on someone who still carried such a youthful aura.
If pressed to describe it, he'd say her body was maturing in all the right ways—a paradox of sorts: short in stature, yet surprisingly voluptuous. A legal-age Lolita.
More than once, Jihoon found himself wanting to ask, "What did you eat growing up?"
But he quickly shook off the thought. "Never mind, forget it." He forced himself to stop there, because lingering on it felt wrong. It always gave him the unsettling sense that he was tricking a little girl into taking a lollipop.