The audience, still buzzing from the film's ending, began to stir in their seats.
Some rose halfway, ready to leave, but their conversations lingered in the air, thick with speculation.
Voices overlapped in the dim glow of the theater lights—questions about the mysterious man who appeared in the final scene flew back and forth.
Was he a police officer?
A shadowy figure from some other organization?
No one could say for certain.
What they did know was that filmmakers often left such dangling threads, little promises of a sequel waiting somewhere down the line.
But that had been the norm in years past, before 2008.
This year felt different—especially this year.
Post-credit scenes weren't yet an established trend; Marvel's Iron Man had yet to introduce the idea to the world.
Which meant Jihoon's "GET OUT" was breaking new ground, planting the first real seed of what would later become an industry-wide phenomenon.
Mara, just like another ordinary moviegoer swept along by the crowd, stretched her arms and prepared to stand.
Her knees had barely straightened when Jihoon leaned over with a faint smile.
"No rush," he said softly. "There's still something after the credits. An Easter egg."
"Easter egg?" Mara blinked, curiosity knitting her brows as she sank back into her seat.
At the time, the phrase was unfamiliar, almost foreign to most people in a theater.
Post-credit surprises were rare, scattered experiments at best.
It wasn't until months later, when Marvel perfected the art of weaving them into a larger universe, that audiences came to expect—no, demand—these hidden gems. But that was before Jihoon.
Onscreen, the Easter egg flickered to life.
Jihoon didn't need to watch the scene; his eyes were on the crowd.
Excitement played across their faces in different shades—some leaned forward in curiosity, others frowned in confusion, while a few simply lit up with wonder.
Yet, no matter how they reacted, one thing was clear: the birth of his HCU—his Horror Cinematic Universe—was already in motion.
The next morning, sunlight spilled into JH Pictures' office.
Jihoon sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, carefully organizing the stack of materials for his next film.
The theater's energy from the night before still lingered in his mind, fueling him with a quiet, confident fire.
Mara kept passing him, back and forth.
Until she silently drifted past him again.
"Don't you have work to do? Compiling box office numbers takes time. Instead of standing here pestering me, why don't you focus on that?" Jihoon said, trying to sound patient, though the edge in his voice betrayed him.
Mara crossed her arms and leaned closer, not the least bit intimidated. "Please. That won't take long at all. We have better things to focus on right now. Tell me—have you heard anything about the sales yet?"
In truth, "GET OUT" had very little to do with her.
On paper, it wasn't even her project.
But "SAW" was lined up to take over the release schedule soon, and both films belonged to JH.
That meant whether or not her name was in the credits, her paycheck would still feel the ripple.
That was the reason behind her sudden obsession—she was more attentive than even some of the people directly involved in the film.
Still, it wasn't until Jihoon let her watch the post-credit scene the night before, hinting at a subtle tie-in with "SAW", that she became downright restless.
From that moment on, the box office results suddenly felt like they were her business.
"You—" Jihoon began, exhaling as though preparing to scold her again. But before he could get the words out, his phone buzzed on the desk.
He picked it up, answering with the calm tone of someone who had lived through dozens of first-day openings.
His expression remained unreadable as he listened, offering only a quiet, "Okay. I understand. Thanks for your hard work."
The moment he hung up, Mara swooped in, eyes wide, words firing out like a machine gun. "Well? Well? How did it go? Did they report the first-day revenue yet?"
Jihoon chuckled softly, almost enjoying her impatience. "$18.7 million dollars on opening day."
Mara gasped. "And?"
"Number one single-day box office of the month," he added with a grin.
"Wow!"
She jumped up in excitement, clapping her hands together like a kid who'd just won a prize. Jihoon couldn't help shaking his head at her antics, laughter slipping out despite himself.
Jihoon shook his head with a quiet laugh before flipping open his laptop. He typed in the film's title and began scrolling through the major review sites, eager to see how audiences and critics had responded.
IMDb: 8.2.
Metacritic: 93.
Rotten Tomatoes: 99%.
The numbers glowed on his screen like trophies.
For Jihoon, it was confirmation that the gamble he had taken—the unusual direction in both production and promotion—was the right one.
To say the promotion of the film was unorthodox would be an understatement.
Instead of relying solely on traditional marketing, the release had ridden the momentum of the presidential campaign currently sweeping across the nation.
It was a strange strategy, perhaps even risky, but one that played directly into the cultural mood of the time.
When Jihoon compared his film's performance to other big-budget releases, the results were staggering. "10,000 B.C." had opened with $16.4 million, while last year's "I AM LEGEND" had launched at $30.1 million.
Those were massive studio productions with deep pockets and international marketing machines behind them.
Jihoon's "GET OUT", on the other hand, had cost him only $15 million from start to finish—production and promotion combined.
And now, with box office numbers rolling in and the film officially generating profit, the victory tasted even sweeter.
The most significant factor, however, wasn't just careful budgeting.
A huge portion of the promotional burden had been lifted by the Oscars themselves.
Winning Best Screenplay brought a tidal wave of free publicity.
Every headline about an "Asian filmmaker breaking barriers at the Academy Awards" became another spotlight shining on his movie, another reminder for audiences to buy a ticket.
But Jihoon knew the biggest variable—the one that truly pushed the film into cultural history—was how it tapped into the nation's political climate. T
he story of a Black man trapped in surreal horror while visiting his white girlfriend's family resonated explosively during the Democratic primary season, where Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton were battling it out.
Race dominated the national conversation, and suddenly "GET OUT" wasn't just a movie—it was the movie of the moment.
The media did the rest. Talk shows debated its themes. News outlets drew parallels between the film and the election.
Political commentators couldn't stop referencing it. Each mention was millions of dollars in free advertising, and it kept the movie lodged in the center of public discourse.
And that kind of visibility created urgency.
People didn't want to miss out on the cultural conversation.
They felt they had to see the film—not next week, not when it came to DVD, but right away.
The result was massive opening-day numbers and a momentum that carried into the following weeks.
By Jihoon's estimation, this kind of cultural alignment could boost viewership by at least 25–40% compared to a traditional release.
It was a perfect storm, the kind of success that every studio dreams of but almost no one can manufacture.
For Jihoon, it was possible only because he had lived a life before this one—he knew what was coming, when the political tides would shift, and how to ride the wave before anyone else saw it.
And that was the truth he kept to himself: no one else could replicate it.
Not unless they, too, had the impossible advantage of living twice.
He scrolled slowly through the comments section, letting his eyes skim over the chatter until one post in particular caught his attention. The most-liked review carried the name of a legend—Roger Ebert.
["Get Out deftly blends elements of suspense, horror, thriller, and social satire, successfully breaking the mold of traditional thriller and horror films."]
Jihoon leaned closer, reading on.
["Rather than leaning on gore or cheap jump scares, 'Get Out' thrives on psychological tension. It twists everyday situations into something deeply unsettling—like the hidden conspiracy behind the 'warmth' of a white family. It's a film that unsettles you not because of blood, but because of what lurks beneath politeness."]
["Perhaps its most commendable quality is how it unmasks the so-called post-racial era. Behind the facade of political correctness, the film exposes the unspoken, lingering discrimination against Black people."]
["The grotesque idea of white elites enslaving Black bodies through brain transplants is not just science fiction—it echoes the historic objectification and exploitation of Black people. It's a sharp metaphor for how society still sees them as commodities."]
Ebert hadn't missed the details either.
["The deer struck by Chris's girlfriend is not just roadkill—it's symbolic. The cotton Chris uses to block his ears during hypnosis isn't a coincidence either. Every frame, every detail ties back to America's unfair treatment of the Black community."]
Jihoon sat back in his chair, eyebrows raised.
Black people. Cotton.
These were not words filmmakers could toss around lightly nowadays—they carried centuries of pain.
Yet, Ebert had pulled the threads together with clarity, making sense of the choices in ways Jihoon hadn't even considered.
For a moment, he felt a flicker of admiration. This critic had seen not just the story, but the meaning beneath the story.
Still, something nagged at him. Jihoon muttered under his breath, "But why hasn't anyone mentioned the post-credits scene?"
He scrolled on, irritation prickling the edge of his thoughts.
Then, buried a little deeper, he finally found it—a lone comment, half-buried under jokes and throwaway reactions.
Someone else had noticed. The commenter was practically shouting in excitement, begging others to talk about that post-credits moment, desperate to share in the discovery.
Jihoon's lips curled into a faint smile. Finally, he thought. At least one person had been paying attention.