"Fuck!"
Someone in the audience cursed under their breath, popcorn spilling everywhere as the gruesome image splashed across the screen.
In the dark theater, gasps rippled like waves.
A few people even covered their mouths in horror.
On screen, Dr. Lawrence Gordon, drenched in sweat and shaking with agony, did the unthinkable.
With sheer desperation, he sawed through his own right foot.
The shrill metallic rasp of blade against bone echoed in the speakers, making the entire theater squirm.
Limping and pale as a ghost, Gordon dragged himself across the filthy bathroom floor, his blood smearing behind him.
He reached for the revolver clutched in the "corpse's" hand—the old man who had supposedly been dead all along—and fired at Adam.
The gunshot rang out, and Adam fell to the ground.
The theater was silent, almost suffocatingly so.
Among the critics in attendance, Roger Ebert leaned back slightly in his chair, his expression thoughtful.
After a moment, he gave a small nod.
"It's excellent," he later wrote in his review. "A film that captures the complexities and struggles of human nature, using ingenious, non-linear storytelling devices. No wonder Jihoon is already considered Oscar-worthy for screenwriting."
Ebert had been following Jihoon since 'GET OUT'. What intrigued him wasn't just the surface horror but the deeper commentary embedded beneath.
In 'GET OUT', it had been about race and identity.
Now, in 'SAW', he recognized Jihoon's exploration of morality, desperation, and the fragile boundaries of human decency when life itself was on the line.
To Ebert, watching Jihoon's films was like unfolding a puzzle.
They were terrifying, yes, but they also offered a rare chance to peek into the filmmaker's mind.
And 'SAW' was no exception.
Beyond the bathroom, the film unfolded a secondary storyline through flashbacks.
Detective David Tapp, played with gruff determination, was deep into the "Jigsaw" investigation after a string of gruesome murders tied to elaborate traps.
At one crime scene, he discovered Gordon's penlight—an ominous clue that led him to question the doctor.
Gordon's heart skipped, but his alibi held.
On the night of the murder, he had been at a hotel with a patient.
Still, Tapp's suspicions didn't fade.
He invited Gordon to observe the trial of another victim—the only survivor of Jigsaw's twisted games.
Her name was Amanda.
A trembling young drug addict, Amanda recalled waking up in a pitch-dark room, a massive bear trap device clamped around her head.
A ticking countdown warned her she had only moments to live.
The key? Hidden inside the stomach of the unconscious man lying in front of her.
Shaking, sobbing, Amanda made her choice. She sliced him open with a scalpel, her hands slick with blood, and pulled out the key just in time.
The trap snapped open harmlessly. Amanda collapsed in tears.
And then it appeared.
"Congratulations. You're still alive."
From the shadows, the iconic puppet rolled forward on its tricycle—its pale white face stretched into an inhuman grin, spirals painted in blood-red on its cheeks, eyes glowing like embers.
The sight alone made the audience shiver.
Amanda had survived Jigsaw's test. But survival didn't feel like salvation—it felt like a curse.
Meanwhile, Tapp and his partner followed the trail of clues straight to Jigsaw's lair.
But horror struck again: one misstep triggered a hidden trap, killing Tapp's partner instantly.
The shock rattled Tapp, but it also hardened his resolve.
Even when his department dismissed him for acting without a warrant—and for the death of a fellow officer—he refused to let the case go.
In Jihoon's rewritten version, Tapp wasn't just a failed detective chasing shadows.
Drawing from threads in later sequels, Jihoon gave him more depth and logic.
Tapp became not only an obsessed pursuer of Jigsaw but also a tragic figure blinded by justice, teetering on the edge of self-destruction.
This sleight of hand in narrative—borrowing from the future to reframe the past—was one of Jihoon's greatest strengths.
He honored the brutal core of 'SAW', but reshaped it into something tighter, sharper, and more meaningful than before.
"So… how is it?" Roger Ebert turned to the man sitting beside him, his voice carrying that familiar mix of curiosity and confidence.
The man was Robert McKee, a towering figure in the world of storytelling.
Known as one of the most influential lecturers on film and television writing, McKee's seminars had shaped the careers of countless Hollywood talents.
His students included Oscar and Emmy winners, and even Peter Jackson—the director who swept the Academy Awards with 'The Lord of the Rings'.
His books Story and Dialogue were treated like sacred texts by screenwriters around the globe.
In short, if anyone could judge the merits of a screenplay, it was Robert McKee.
Ebert had insisted on dragging him to the premiere of ''SAW.
McKee had only just returned from an overseas seminar the day before, but Ebert was eager to hear his opinion on this new generation of filmmakers—especially Jihoon, whose name was quickly gaining traction in Hollywood.
McKee leaned back in his seat, his expression unreadable. "It's… okay," he said after a pause, his tone clipped and reserved.
Ebert chuckled. "That's high praise coming from you."
"Don't forget, this is only his breakout in Hollywood. If he's already earning a passable review from Robert McKee, I'd say Jihoon's future works are worth keeping an eye on."
McKee didn't reply immediately.
He wasn't one for empty compliments.
To him, 'SAW' certainly offered some innovations in the horror genre.
It wasn't just gore—it had structure, themes, and a unique voice.
But still, he felt it hadn't yet reached the level of truly profound storytelling.
Unless Jihoon's later works deepened the thematic conflicts and sharpened the narrative stakes, McKee wasn't ready to declare him a master just yet.
Before Ebert could press him further, the theater was filled with a sudden, ominous hum—the eerie electronic sound cue that signaled the film's climax. The audience collectively tensed.
Onscreen, the bathroom game neared its conclusion.
Dr. Gordon, pale and desperate after sawing through his own foot, had just shot Adam.
Blood sprayed, and Adam collapsed to the filthy tile floor.
The door creaked open.
Zepp, the orderly from Gordon's hospital, entered the room.
His gun was raised, his face twisted with the cold resolve of someone forced into a nightmare.
He moved toward Gordon, ready to execute the final stage of his orders.
But Adam wasn't dead.
With a sudden burst of energy, he lunged forward and smashed Zepp's skull with a heavy porcelain toilet lid.
The sound of bone cracking echoed, making several viewers in the theater flinch.
The audience gasped.
Onscreen, Zepp fell lifeless.
Gordon, delirious with pain and desperation, promised Adam he would return with help.
Then, dragging himself across the bathroom floor with his single remaining foot, he crawled out into the darkness, leaving Adam behind.
But the horror wasn't over. Adam, shaking and terrified, searched Zepp's body.
He found another cassette tape in the pocket of Zepp's jacket.
With trembling hands, Adam played it.
The distorted voice of Jigsaw filled the room:
"Hello, Mr. Hindle. You've been poisoned. The only way to obtain the antidote was to follow my instructions and ensure the game was carried out."
Adam's eyes widened. The truth hit like a thunderclap.
Zepp hadn't been the mastermind.
He wasn't the villain at all—just another pawn in Jigsaw's twisted game.
The realization sent chills through the theater.
Ebert leaned forward, eyes wide. Even McKee, stoic as ever, narrowed his gaze.
For all his reservations about the film, even he had to admit—this was clever.
The audience had barely processed the shocking revelation on screen when the camera cut sharply to Adam's stunned face, his eyes wide with disbelief.
The room fell silent, anticipation tightening the air like a drawn bowstring.
Then it began.
The soundtrack "Hello Zepp" swelled into the theater, a sinister yet oddly elegant composition Jihoon had crafted specifically for this moment.
Sharp strings cut through the silence, layered with metallic percussion that rattled like the inner workings of a cruel machine.
The music didn't just accompany the scene—it seized it, embedding itself into the viewer's memory.
Jihoon understood something that few directors mastered: a film's identity often lived or died by its soundtrack.
Think of John Barry's bold brass in the "James Bond Theme"—the instant it played, you knew exactly what world you had stepped into.
Or John Williams' soaring "Hedwig's Theme" from Harry Potter, which could transport audiences to Hogwarts with a single note.
Even Hans Zimmer's "He's a Pirate" from Pirates of the Caribbean carried the swagger of Jack Sparrow into popular culture for decades.
These weren't just background scores.
They became inseparable from the films themselves, musical signatures that burned into memory and lingered across generations.
Jihoon, whether from instinct or the foresight of his unique life experience, applied the same philosophy here.
"Hello Zepp" wasn't just a track—it was a statement, a brand, the heartbeat of Saw and also the fundation to be a classical movie.
And the proof was immediate.
As the first sharp notes sliced through the speakers, a ripple of chills passed through the audience.
People felt their hair stand on end, as if an unseen presence had leaned close and whispered something dreadful into their ears.
The music was cold, deliberate, mechanical—pulling everyone deeper into the dread, locking them in the trap alongside the characters.
Then, as the strings climbed higher, the camera shifted.
The old man, the supposed corpse lying in the middle of the grimy bathroom floor, twitched.
Slowly, impossibly, he began to rise.
His bloodied skin peeled away as he tore off the disguise, revealing not a victim but the orchestrator—the true Jigsaw himself.
Gasps erupted through the theater.
The music soared, cementing the reveal in cinematic history.
From that moment forward, anyone who heard "Hello Zepp" would be instantly transported back to this scene, to this film, to the unforgettable moment when the dead man stood up and horror itself was redefined.