Jihoon stood by the tall glass window, watching as Stan Lee and Kevin Feige climbed into the waiting car.
They noticed him lingering there and gave a small wave, to which he raised his hand in return.
For a moment, he lingered, his gaze following the car as it pulled away.
When he turned back to the table, his eyes fell on the thick folder that lay open before him—the outline of Marvel's ten-year cinematic project.
The so-called "MCU master plan."
He traced a finger along the neat rows of names and dates, feeling the weight of what it represented.
Directing something of this scale? It was nearly impossible, at least for him.
It wasn't just about talent or vision. Jihoon already held the reins of the HCU project, a rising cinematic universe of his own design, and no industry would ever allow one man to monopolize two golden geese at the same time.
If he were to claim both, it would be like holding the entire film industry hostage in the palm of his hand. The backlash would be swift, merciless, and unavoidable.
Hollywood would sooner burn itself to the ground than let one director, especially an outsider, hold both crowns.
And Jihoon knew this wasn't exaggeration.
Even if by some miracle he were chosen to direct Marvel's grand project, it would never function like the HCU, where every creative decision ultimately fell under his command.
But Hollywood didn't work that way.
And Jihoon was just fortunate enough to hold the kind of authority he did with the HCU, but that power had only been possible because he built it from the ground up.
As the initiator, no one understood the project better than him.
Every character, every arc, every connection existed first in his mind before being transferred onto the screen.
That was why Fox, despite owning some distribution rights and putting up the money, had largely stepped back.
They knew he was not only the architect of the entire cinematic universe but also the one turning it into a money-printing machine.
Because financial reports spoke louder than boardroom politics.
Each film under the HCU banner exceeded expectations, filling Fox's pockets with returns they hadn't dreamed of before Jihoon's arrival.
Even though some executives gritted their teeth at not being able to wrest creative control away from him, they had no real choice but to play along.
At the end of the day, the profits silenced their frustrations.
But Marvel was a different beast.
In Hollywood's traditional structure, power was never meant to rest in the hands of a single individual.
It was fragmented, divided, and heavily guarded.
The system was designed to prevent exactly the kind of dominance Jihoon represented.
Normally, the first in command on a film set wasn't the director—it was the producer, specifically the head producer.
The director managed the creative process on set: actors, shots, scenes, tone.
Meanwhile, the producer managed resources, schedules, and budgets, keeping everything aligned with the studio's interests.
It was a system of checks and balances, one ensuring that no single voice could overwhelm the others.
If Jihoon were to step into the MCU, both Marvel and Fox knew what would happen.
He would try to impose the same model he had with the HCU—one where he sat at the very top, not the producer.
One where the final say on both creative and strategic directions belonged to him.
That meant no compromises, no diluted visions, no balancing act between art and commerce.
And while such control had produced miracles in the HCU, to Hollywood it was a terrifying prospect.
A director with too much power wasn't just a creative risk; he was a structural threat.
Studios feared that giving Jihoon the reins of the MCU would upset the delicate balance they had maintained for decades.
It would mean allowing one man to blur the lines between director and producer, between creativity and authority.
To them, Jihoon wasn't simply talented. He was dangerous. Too potent. Someone who didn't just direct films but rewrote the very rules of how films were made.
For Jihoon, however, the thought of resistance wasn't enough to stop him from dreaming.
If he could ever reach the level of James Cameron, then the old chains of Hollywood politics would shatter on their own.
Cameron had earned a position no one dared question, not because of his personality but because of his box office dominance.
Since the 90s, he alone had managed to place three films among the top-grossing movies in history—a feat that no other director had ever matched.
To rival that kind of record would be a herculean task, a mountain no one in Jihoon's previous life had ever climbed.
Yet that was the bar he knew he would have to meet if he wanted to bend Hollywood to his will.
And beyond politics, there was another obstacle: nationality.
Jihoon was Korean.
The MCU was an American cultural icon.
That alone was enough to spark endless debate.
No Asian director had ever been entrusted with shaping the identity of characters so deeply tied to American imagination.
Well, almost none.
There had been one attempt—Ang Lee, the famous Taiwanese director, had helmed Hulk back in 2003.
The result?
A commercial disappointment, remembered more for its failure than its ambition.
That single precedent had already painted a cautionary tale across Hollywood boardrooms.
To many in the industry, if the idea of a Korean director leading Marvel would felt unnatural.
It wasn't even always about racism in its rawest form—it was about cultural ownership.
Asking Jihoon to take the reins of Captain America, Iron Man, or Thor was like asking a Western actor to portray Bruce Lee, or casting James Bond as an Asian man with a heavy British accent.
People would reject it not because the performer or director lacked skill, but because the cultural DNA felt mismatched.
Comics, Jihoon understood, were more than entertainment.
They were identity.
They were the stories people grew up with, etched into childhood memories, shaping how audiences imagined their heroes.
To hand those icons to someone who had grown up outside that very culture is like risking on creating something alien.
A film filtered through a different cultural lens could look strange, offbeat, or even unfaithful to the image fans held in their hearts.
That was the true wall he faced—not just industry politics, not just envy or power struggles, but the invisible barrier of cultural perception.
And in a business built on how people feel, perception was everything.
With that sobering thought, Jihoon closed the file, slipped it into the drawer, and locked it.
He exhaled slowly, sinking into his chair, his focus shifting back to the script draft on his desk.
Whatever temptation the MCU held, his priority was clear—his own story, his own next project.
.....
Time passed quickly. Ten days later, the box office report for "SAW" landed in his hands, and the numbers spoke louder than any fantasy of Marvel domination.
The breakdown was meticulous:
Day 4 (Mon): Domestic $5.4M, International $2.3M → Global $7.7M
Day 5 (Tue): Domestic $5.1M, International $2.2M → Global $7.3M
Day 6 (Wed): Domestic $4.6M, International $2.0M → Global $6.6M
Day 7 (Thu): Domestic $4.2M, International $1.8M → Global $6.0M
Day 8 (Fri): Domestic $7.0M, International $3.0M → Global $10.0M
Day 9 (Sat): Domestic $8.8M, International $3.8M → Global $12.6M
Day 10 (Sun): Domestic $5.3M, International $2.3M → Global $7.6M
Day 11 (Mon): Domestic $2.7M, International $1.2M → Global $3.9M
Day 12 (Tue): Domestic $2.4M, International $1.0M → Global $3.4M
Day 13 (Wed): Domestic $2.2M, International $0.9M → Global $3.1M
Ten days in, the numbers stacked up impressively: Domestic $107.7M, International $47.5M, Global $155.2M.
Add the $87M earned during the first three days after premiere, and the grand total stood at $242.2M within just thirteen days.
The report also highlighted weekday vs. weekend patterns.
Jihoon noted the obvious trend—strong weekends, sharp weekday drops.
The analyst's chart confirmed it: sales tapered each day, with a second-week decline of around 65%. But Jihoon knew the genre's rules well.
Horror films always bled momentum after the initial frenzy, and a 60–70% falloff was textbook.
The important part was that "SAW" remained healthy. The analysts projected a final global haul of around $280M.
With seventeen days left in its theatrical run, the math was straightforward: averaging just $2.2M daily would be enough to hit the target.
Even if the numbers softened further, $250M remained well within reach.
Jihoon leaned back in his chair, tapping the report thoughtfully.
Spending more on promotion wasn't necessary.
They had already invested $1M in marketing, and by now, the horror market had been thoroughly tapped.
Pushing harder wouldn't expand the audience—it would only burn money.
The film had already overperformed beyond any reasonable expectation, especially considering its modest budget.
Greed, Jihoon knew, was the enemy of longevity.
He closed the folder, content with the victory "SAW" had already claimed.
It was time to redirect his energy—not into milking the success of the present, but into shaping the next story, the next project that would carry his vision forward.