Ever since "GET OUT" won the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay, Fox had doubled down on the project.
The studio announced its nationwide release for late March, and this time, they weren't holding back.
Marketing budgets had ballooned, billboards were going up in major cities, and every corner of social media was being primed with trailers and teasers.
For Fox, this was no longer just another film—it was their golden ticket to riding the post-Oscar wave.
Jihoon, of course, was paying close attention.
As the screenwriter, he wasn't just attached to the project in name—he had a contract that entitled him to 2% of the box office gross. On paper, 2% didn't sound like much compared to the profits JH would make through its production stake.
But Jihoon wasn't about to shrug it off either.
"Even a peanut is still a nut," he muttered more than once.
Easy money was easy money, and he wasn't the kind of man to let it slip by.
That was why JH's team had also been putting in extra effort to quietly promote "GET OUT".
Every little push could mean a few more million at the box office—and a few more million meant his 2% became a lot more attractive.
Still, success brought its own set of headaches.
"Ugh, freaking annoying! Why another invitation?" Jihoon groaned, scratching his head in frustration as he tossed aside yet another gilded envelope.
Ever since the Oscars, his inbox had been overflowing.
Studios, producers, and executives he'd never even met before were suddenly begging him to write scripts.
Every day, another "exciting opportunity" showed up at his door.
To Hollywood, Jihoon had become the hot new screenwriting prodigy.
But to Jihoon himself? Scriptwriting was just a side hustle.
His real passion was directing. That was where he wanted to build his legacy. "Why don't they get it?" he muttered. "I'm not here to write scripts for them."
Mara, who had been silently filing contracts nearby, gave a small laugh. "It's because they think you're the next golden goose. Winning an Oscar turns you into everyone's favorite meal ticket."
Jihoon let out a tired sigh. "Maybe after "BURIED" comes out, things will calm down a little."
"BURIED" was considered Jihoon's first hollywood film.
While "INCEPTION" had been his breakout in Hollywood, its massive production scale meant it was still tied up in endless post-production and financial balancing.
"BUIRED", however, was the opposite: small, stripped down, and razor-sharp.
The entire production had cost barely $2 million.
Mara had just given him the marketing and promotion breakdown earlier that morning—another $1 to $2 million.
Jason from Fox estimated that distribution would add "a few million more, give or take," depending on audience reactions once the film actually hit theaters.
The beauty of "BUIRED" was in its simplicity.
A single coffin, a pile of dirt, one desperate man on screen.
No sprawling sets, no expensive CGI, no A-list ensemble cast.
Just pure tension and storytelling. That kind of setup meant the ROI potential was staggering.
If the film managed even a decent box office run, the returns could multiply far beyond its modest investment. And that was without considering the festival circuit.
If it gotten an nomination from the Cannes—and better yet, if it won—the prestige would send the film's box office soaring even higher.
And there was one more card up his sleeve: "BUIRED" wasn't just a standalone film.
It was part of the Horror Cinematic Universe Jihoon had been building. When "GET OUT" screened soon, it would establish itself as the first entry, and audiences would start connecting the dots.
Once people realized "BURIED" belonged to the same universe, the hype would only grow stronger.
Jihoon shook his head and refocused on the pages in front of him.
The pen scratched across paper as he continued refining his scripts. Stories he planned to register with the U.S. Copyright Office as quickly as possible.
It was 2008, and Hollywood was at a crossroads.
Jihoon had a sharp sense of the industry's direction: the golden age of mid-budget, original films was fading, and the future was shifting toward franchises and tentpole blockbusters.
The looming financial crisis only amplified the trend.
Studios, wary of risks, doubled down on adaptations from comic books, bestselling novels, and other established intellectual properties.
Audiences, too, were flocking toward spectacle—big-budget productions that promised value for the ticket price.
For independent screenwriters, it was a grim reality.
With studios prioritizing recognizable IPs over fresh, untested scripts, the chances of selling an original screenplay were shrinking fast.
But Jihoon was different.
He wasn't just a writer—he was also a film director.
That dual role gave him leverage.
Even if Hollywood turned its back on unknown scripts, Jihoon could still push his own projects forward.
Still, he wasn't about to take chances.
He worked quickly, filing copyright claims on promising ideas, making sure his name was attached before anyone else could capitalize on them.
Some might call it cunning, even opportunistic, but Jihoon saw it as survival.
In this industry—and in life—those who hesitated were left behind.
Having been given a second chance at life, he had no intention of playing fair if it meant losing.
The bigger picture in Hollywood was clear: studios like Disney and Warner Brother were already steering away from mid-budget films, pouring their resources instead into massive tentpole franchises.
Original scripts, unless tied to a guaranteed moneymaker, were sliding to the bottom of priority lists.
For Jihoon and Fox, however, the equation was different.
The Horror Cinematic Universe they were shaping didn't rely on massive budgets or flashy spectacle.
Horror, at its core, thrived on restraint—tight settings, a handful of actors, and the kind of practical effects that could make audiences squirm without burning through millions.
Spending big on horror wasn't just unnecessary; it was often counterproductive. A niche genre didn't need explosions or A-list salaries to turn a profit—it needed atmosphere, tension, and timing.
The financial logic was simple: a smaller investment, if done right, could yield a massive return. To anyone with basic math skills, the appeal was obvious.
Think of it this way: spend one dollar and make back a thousand in just a month, versus spending hundred of thousand to earn a million over the course of two years or more.
Both are profits, yes, but which is truly more efficient?
Low-budget films also came with shorter production schedules, meaning less risk and faster turnaround.
You didn't really need to be a rocket scientist to see how the numbers lined up.
Of course, nobody could deny that big productions could yield staggering revenue when they worked.
Take, for instance, Marvel's Spider-Man series under MCU's Phase Four.
With an estimated production cost of $380 million, the global box office gross reached $1.9 billion.
Even after factoring in the theatrical rental fees—where the studio typically keeps around 30-40% of ticket sales—Marvel retained roughly $698 million in revenue.
That translated into a staggering ROI of nearly 800%, the highest in the franchise's history. A runaway success by any measure.
But that was the optimistic side of the ledger.
For every success, there were also disappointments.
Captain Marvel, Eternals, Black Widow, and even Captain America: Brave New World were all fell short of expectations.
Industry fundamentals dictated that a film needed to at least double its production cost in box office sales to truly break even once marketing, promotion, and distribution expenses were accounted for.
By that metric, many of these productions were financial failures.
Consider Black Widow.
Its production budget was around $200 million, with marketing and promotion adding another $140 million, bringing the total cost to $340 million.
For the film to break even on production costs, it needed at least $600 million in global box office gross. Anything beyond that would be considered a moderate success.
But the actual global box office gross, however, reached only $379.8 million.
Making it far below the breakeven point.
The film's saving grace came later through Disney+ Premier Access, which brought in an additional $125 million.
But streaming revenue, unlike theatrical revenue, trickled in slowly over time and operated under a completely different set of financial rules.
It plugged the losses, yes, but it wasn't the same as a box office victory.
And when it came to streaming platforms, something else was stirring that year. It was something the major studios had yet to fully grasp at this point of time.
A storm was forming, one that would rewrite distribution, reshape audience habits, and ultimately threaten the very foundation of Hollywood's old guard.
Streaming.
In 2008, Netflix had just begun shifting from a DVD rental service to a streaming platform.
At the time, Hollywood saw it as little more than a secondary buyer, a company willing to pay for licenses to stream their old studio films online.
The major players weren't worried; theatrical releases were still the crown jewel of the business now.
But Jihoon, however, knew better.
He could see where the tide was heading.
Netflix's transition signaled a revolution—one that, within a few years, would completely reshape how audiences consumed entertainment.
By the time studios like Warner Brothers and HBO launched their own streaming platform in 2015, the battle would already be lost.
Netflix would already dominate the market by then, having captured a massive audience long before the studios reacted.
That foresight gave Jihoon an opening.
Now was the perfect time to get in, while Netflix was still growing and desperate for partnerships.
He had already moved quickly, hiring a team of elite lawyers that was introduced by Brian Kim—to begin buying shares in the company.
But he didn't stop there.
To sweeten the deal, Jihoon offered himself as part of the package: an Oscar-winning screenwriter who would develop an original series exclusively for Netflix.
He knew it was exactly what they would want.
Streaming licensed content could only carry them so far; to build loyalty, Netflix would eventually need originals that audiences couldn't find anywhere else.
Jihoon intended to give them just that—before anyone else in Hollywood realized the true value of such a partnership.