At the same time, in the darkened auditorium of the Bruin Theatre, Jihoon sat with Mara at his side.
The premiere of "GET OUT" had just begun, and the room was charged with that particular kind of silence only a movie theater can hold—the silence of a hundred people leaning forward in unison, eyes fixed on the glowing screen.
Mara shifted in her seat, resting her chin on her hand as she glanced around.
Everyone else looked utterly absorbed.
She, however, seemed less impressed.
Tilting her head closer, she whispered, barely audible over the hum of the projector, "Boss, is this movie really that good? Why do I feel… kinda bored?"
Jihoon turned his head slowly, giving her a long look.
Her whisper hadn't been malicious, just too honest—typical Mara.
Lately, she'd grown more comfortable around him—comfortable enough to toss out comments without much of a filter. Her mouth often moved faster than her brain could catch up. It was endearing and exhausting in equal measure for Jihoon.
With a sigh, Jihoon murmured back, "Then what kind of movies do you like?"
Mara's lips curved into a mischievous smile.
She propped her cheeks in her palms, her big round eyes blinking like a curious child. "I like movies where two people are trapped in an endless, messy entangled together."
Jihoon froze for half a second. His mind immediately leapt in the wrong direction.
What does she mean by 'messy entangled'?
The way she said it—so casual, so innocent—made it sound less like cinema and more like… something you'd have to search for on certain corners of the internet.
He cleared his throat, whispering, "Who taught you to say things like that?"
Mara blinked in confusion but reply it either way. "My mom used to take me to watch them when I was little."
Jihoon nearly choked on air. A shiver shot down his spine.
What kind of childhood is that?
Watching—those kinds of films—with her mother?
His brain spun in disbelief. This country really was something else. Truly free. Too free.
Mara tilted her head, noticing his stunned expression. "Why? Don't you like movies like that?" she asked, her voice guileless, her wide eyes shining with curiosity.
Jihoon raised his hands slightly, as if fending off the weight of her question. "Ahem… of course I've seen some," he admitted reluctantly.
"I mean, I, uh, prefer the Japanese ones. Not so much the American ones. The Japanese one carry more heartfelt emotion during their act.."
Mara furrowed her brow. "Japanese ones? I don't get it. I usually watch local romances—like Roman Holiday, The Bridges of Madison County, or Ghost. I love those!"
Jihoon blinked. "…Wait. You're talking about that kind of romance?"
"Well, yeah. What else could it be?"
Jihoon wanted to sink into his seat. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, whispering quickly, "I thought you meant… you know… the kind with action. Like romance-action film. Or action movies with a bit of romance in them."
His voice dropped further, practically pleading with fate not to expose his earlier misunderstanding.
Mara's frown deepened. "Oh. Well, I'm not really into action movies. Too noisy. I like stories about that express emotion more."
Jihoon forced a nod, eager to change the subject before he embarrassed himself further. "Right. Let's… let's just watch the movie. Don't disturb the others."
"Fine, fine," Mara muttered, leaning back. A moment later, she stifled a yawn, her boredom resurfacing despite the tense opening scene onscreen.
Jihoon wiped invisible sweat from his brow, heart still pounding.
Close call. Way too close. How did he even manage to twist her words like that?
He cast a sidelong glance at Mara, who now looked completely absorbed in her own thoughts, as if she hadn't noticed the minefield he'd just stepped through.
For someone who looked so innocent, she really had a knack for driving his imagination into dangerous territory.
With a deep breath, Jihoon forced himself to focus back on the glowing screen, where GET OUT's tension was beginning to build.
He'd made some tweaks here and there—subtle changes to the original plotline he remembered from his previous life.
Nothing too drastic; the bones of the story remained intact.
Chris was still Chris, the quiet but perceptive Black photographer invited to his white girlfriend Rose's family estate for the weekend.
But Jihoon had carefully laid down small adjustments—tiny brushstrokes—that would give this version of the film a stronger foundation for the larger Horror Cinematic Universe he was building.
The setup unfolded as expected: Chris arriving at the sprawling, eerily perfect suburban home; the unsettlingly polite family; the Black groundskeeper and housemaid whose behavior was just slightly… wrong.
Then came Rose's mother, calm and poised, stirring her teacup with an almost ritualistic rhythm.
A single tap, another, then another—until Chris's eyelids fluttered and his body sank into the hypnotic abyss.
His consciousness spiraled downward into the "Sunken Place," his screams echoing unheard, trapped inside himself.
The audience shifted uneasily in their seats. Jihoon could feel it—the collective discomfort, the creeping dread.
That was the power of GET OUT: horror that was as psychological as it was visceral.
And then came the party. The smiling guests. The backhanded compliments.
The way Chris's every movement was observed as though he were a product on display.
When Chris recognized Andre—his old friend, the very man who had been snatched off the street in the film's opening sequence—the tension snapped into focus.
But Andre was no longer Andre he know.
His words were stilted, his manner foreign, as though he were a puppet being tugged by unseen strings.
When Chris accidentally triggered the camera flash, the theater jumped as Andre's facade cracked.
A nosebleed. A sudden scream. "Get Out!" The warning hung in the air like a gunshot. The audience held their breath.
Jihoon leaned back slightly, watching.
Even here, even now, he was still analyzing, still refining.
The original film had two alternate endings, both powerful in their own right—one where Chris was saved, the other where he was condemned.
But Jihoon had never been satisfied with either. Too clean, too restrained.
So in his version, he gave the story teeth.
The climax hit like a storm.
Chris, bound and hypnotized, had outsmarted them—stuffing cotton into his ears, blocking out the trigger of Rose's mother's teacup.
He broke free, fought tooth and nail, bloodied his hands, and one by one dismantled the twisted family who had planned to auction off his very body.
And then came the final confrontation.
Onscreen, Rose appeared in the distance, clutching a shotgun, her face twisted in that same chilling smile—the smile of someone who had lured countless victims to their doom.
Chris, tackled to the ground by the gardener, Roman Armitage in Walter's stolen body, struggled beneath the man's weight.
Gasps rippled through the audience as Chris lifted his phone, the flashlight flicking on.
For the briefest second, Walter's true self broke through the possession.
He wrenched the gun from Rose, shot her in the stomach, and then—without hesitation—turned the barrel on himself.
The sound of the gunshot echoed in the theater.
Mara jumped beside Jihoon, clutching the armrest, a sharp "Ah!" escaping her lips.
She wasn't the only one; the whole room seemed to gasp as one.
And then came Jihoon's final divergence.
Chris staggered to his feet, his body trembling with adrenaline.
Rose writhed on the ground, still alive, her eyes searching for his with a mixture of pleading and defiance.
In the original cut, Chris had hesitated.
Some part of him—some remnant of love, or pity, or simple exhaustion—had kept him from finishing her.
But Jihoon's Chris didn't hesitate.
He reached down, his hands closing around her throat, and squeezed.
Slowly. Relentlessly. Until her struggling stopped.
No forgiveness. No mercy. No loose ends.
This was the horror Jihoon believed in.
Brutal. Uncompromising. Revenge delivered with cold precision.
If John Wick could shoot his way through an empire for a dog, then Chris Washington sure as hell could strangle the last breath from the woman who betrayed him.
Just as everyone thought the film had come to the end and Chris was about to leave the Armitage estate, he was surprised to see a black car approaching from a distance and slow but carry a certain weight to chris and the audience who is watching it.
The car rolled down the empty road, its engine humming low, deliberate, almost predatory.
It came to a slow stop in front of him, the silence that followed heavier than the gunshots and screams he'd just escaped.
The driver's door opened with a mechanical click, and out stepped a tall man dressed in a dark gray uniform.
His presence was chilling, his movements precise, controlled, as if rehearsed.
He carried no weapon in hand, yet the authority in his stance was enough to make Chris freeze.
Pinned to the man's left-hand side chest was a silver badge, dulled with age yet unmistakably official.
Its trefoil design was forged from three black arrows, sharp and pointed inward, surrounding Latin words etched around the rim: "Secure. Control. Protect."
The camera lingered on the badge, the metallic surface catching the faintest glint of moonlight.
Its edges were scratched and worn, suggesting history, secrecy, and something larger than the Armitage family's twisted operation.
Chris's eyes darted from the badge to the man's face, searching for answers but finding only a cold, unreadable stare.
The frame tightened, zooming in on the badge one last time, letting the audience know—this wasn't over.
Then, without warning, the screen cut to black.