Leonardo suddenly remembered something.
In 'GET OUT', the post-credits Easter egg didn't appear until after the entire crew list had finished scrolling.
The screen went black, the audience thought it was over, and then—bam—the surprise scene kicked in.
Which meant…
There had to be two Easter eggs in 'SAW'.
"I knew it! I knew it!" Jordan Peele practically jumped out of his seat, his excitement impossible to contain.
Michael leaned forward, just as eager. "It has to be the organization! The SCP Foundation hasn't even shown up yet. There has to be a second Easter egg!"
Both of them weren't just guessing.
They had already seen the so-called "leaked classified files" floating around the SCP Foundation's site.
To them, it was clear: 'SAW' and 'GET OUT' were part of the same cinematic universe.
And both films were tied together by one thing—containment objects.
That meant 'SAW' had to be hiding one of its own.
But what was it?
The audience inside the packed theater was split.
Reporters, critics, cultural figures, and Hollywood elites sat side by side with die-hard 'GET OUT' fans, all of them straining to piece the puzzle together.
Yet even after sitting through every twist and turn of the movie, no one had cracked the mystery.
Theories bounced around in whispers.
Was the containment object the rusty hand saw?
The cassette tape that carried Jigsaw's message?
Or maybe the .38 revolver abandoned on the floor?
Each guess felt too ordinary, too mundane to match the otherworldly weight of a "containment object."
No one could be certain.
Jihoon noticed the split in the theater.
Some faces were blank, still trying to piece together what they had just seen, while others glowed with excitement, leaning forward in their seats, waiting for more.
That spark of curiosity made him smile.
This was exactly what he wanted—the magic of hiding unrevealed content inside a film.
It wasn't just about surprising the audience; it was about planting a seed of obsession.
People would leave with questions, and that itch would drive them back for a second ticket, maybe even a third, just to catch the details they'd missed.
Curiosity wasn't just good storytelling—it was good box office.
His mind wandered briefly to his past life, to the rise of Marvel Studios.
They had become legends for their double, sometimes triple post-credit scenes, teasing what was to come.
Fans would clip those scenes, edit them together, and turn them into little "mini-movies," keeping the conversation alive long after the credits rolled.
But tonight was different.
Tonight, he was the one making history.
This wasn't Marvel's world anymore.
This was the birth of something new—the world's first true cinematic universe.
And he was going to beat Marvel to the punch.
As the last names of the crew faded into darkness, the screen went completely black.
For a long, silent moment, the theater held its breath.
Then—suddenly—the screen flickered to life again, and a brand-new image appeared.
The audience gasped.
In the corner of the theater, hidden beneath a plain cap and a face mask, sat none other than Stan Lee, the 'Father of Marvel.'
Few people noticed him. To most, he was just another elderly guest.
But Stan hadn't come here for the spectacle or the red carpet—he had come out of pure curiosity.
He had heard whispers that this new HCU—the Horror Cinematic Universe—was using strategies eerily similar to those Marvel had been quietly developing for years.
Easter eggs, interconnected storylines, hidden teases of future films.
For Marvel, this was supposed to be their big gamble with 'Iron Man,' set to release in just a few months.
But would Jihoon's experiment steal their thunder?
That was the question gnawing at Stan Lee.
Marvel had invested an enormous amount of resources into the MCU. It was an ambitious plan—one that many had doubted from the very beginning.
Turning beloved comic book characters into a shared cinematic world was risky, especially after the crushing disappointment of Hulk.
Yes, technically that movie had been produced by Universal, but the public didn't care about studio contracts. To fans, the Hulk was Marvel.
And the film's failure was, in their eyes, Marvel's failure. Too dark, too heavy, too far removed from the charm that defined Marvel's comics—it had shaken confidence in whether superheroes could even work on the big screen.
Now the future of 'Iron Man' hung in the balance.
The early buzz wasn't encouraging; audiences weren't sure if they wanted another superhero experiment. Which is why tonight mattered to Stan.
If Jihoon's HCU stumbled, Marvel could learn from its mistakes.
But if it soared—if audiences truly embraced this concept of a cinematic universe—then it could mean that Marvel's gamble wasn't just viable, but destined to succeed.
For Stan, this premiere wasn't just a movie night. It was market research. A rare chance to see, firsthand, how the crowd would react.
And now, back to the screen.
The second Easter egg began to unfold.
The setting did not change—the same abandoned factory stretched across the screen, its walls swallowed by shadows, its silence almost suffocating.
Detective Tapp's body lay motionless on the cold concrete floor, the camera lingering on his unconscious frame as if daring the audience to breathe.
For a few seconds, nothing moved. Nothing stirred.
Then—creak…
A faint metallic sound cut through the stillness.
From the darkness, a tricycle rolled forward, its wheels grinding against the concrete with an eerie rhythm.
Seated on it was the puppet—white face, painted red spirals on its cheeks, and unblinking, glassy eyes that gleamed faintly under the flickering light.
The doll's slow circle around Tapp echoed like a death knell in the empty factory.
Da… da… da…
The wheels squeaked with each turn. The audience leaned in, tension winding tighter.
Suddenly—footsteps.
Firm. Unhurried. Confident.
A low voice echoed in the dark:
"What? You lured me here, but you're afraid to meet me personally? Don't you know what SCP really mean?"
The camera shifted, pulling focus from the puppet to a man walking into frame.
He emerged from the shadows with an unsettling composure—short, messy dark brown hair curling slightly at the ends, a faint scar running across his forehead like a permanent mark of defiance.
His sharp gaze swept the room with arrogance, a hint of mockery flickering in his eyes.
He stopped beside Detective Tapp, glanced down at the still-breathing man, and smirked.
Turning his attention back to the puppet, he said, voice dripping with sarcasm:
"It's useless to capture my brother. He's just an ordinary man. But since you've shown at least a shred of restraint, I'll show you some mercy in return… I'll grant you a D-Class position."
The puppet halted. Its head tilted, and then—at last—it spoke.
A low, raspy voice scraped through the silence:
"You call yourselves saviors. But do you truly understand the meaning of redemption?"
The man scoffed, chuckling under his breath.
"Hah. John Kramer… I've studied your this little crusade...."
"You pretend all of this is about morality, about teaching lessons, but it's nothing more than a game to you."
"And I should inform you—the game ended the moment we discovered you."
With that, he pressed his fingers against the scar on his forehead, as though grounding himself.
His tone hardened, laced with disdain.
"I don't know where you found this doll."
"A new containment object, perhaps?"
"Maybe it have ability that warps others' minds and pushes people into madness?"
"Yes… the victims you claim to 'test' were likely just puppets under its influence."
"But here's where you miscalculated."
"We're not like the LAPD. We have procedures, systems, entire foundations built to secure, contain, and protect anomalies like this."
He stepped closer to the puppet, glaring into its crimson eyes with pure contempt.
"No object like this should exist in this world. This is the reason why there is suffering. The reason there is loss. The reason conflict thrives."
And then—with sudden, violent force—he drove his fist into the puppet.
The sound of splintering wood echoed sharply through the factory, a crack so loud it seemed to tear through the silence itself. The puppet's body broke apart, fragments scattering across the cold floor.
The man froze. His breath caught in his throat.
For a long moment, he simply stared at the broken remains, his mind racing.
This shouldn't have been possible.
Containment objects were indestructible.
That was the first and most sacred truth he had learned upon joining the SCP Foundation.
No matter how much power, no matter what method, no one—not even the Foundation itself—had ever destroyed one.
They could only be contained.
That was the very reason the SCP existed: Secure, Contain, Protect.
Protect anomalies from falling into the wrong hands. Protect the world from people like John Kramer.
And yet, here lay the evidence at his feet.
The truth was, his punch hadn't been meant to destroy—it had been a calculated bluff.
A threat.
His real intention was to force John who is behind these twisted games into the open.
He knew full well that the mere sight of him "attacking" what looked like a containment object would be enough to rattle anyone watching it.
After all, only a handful of people in the entire world knew the rule: anomalies cannot be destroyed.
But now… this?
Among the splintered remains, something rolled to his feet.
A small tape recorder clattered against the floor, its metallic echo cutting through his thoughts.
The man's eyes widened in realization.
This wasn't a containment object at all.
Before he could move, a distorted, chilling voice erupted from the recorder—John Kramer's unmistakable rasp.
"I want to play a game with you. Now… the real game begins."
The sound crawled through the speakers, sending a ripple of unease through the theater audience.
And then—cut.
The screen plunged into blackness.
Silence hung for a beat before the theater lights slowly flickered back on, signaling the true end of the film.