Inside JH's meeting room, Jihoon stepped in and immediately froze.
Sitting there was the last person he expected — someone he hadn't seen in months, not since he arrived in LA… and someone whose relationship with him had taken a nosedive the moment he left Seoul last year.
Lee Sooman.
Founder of SM Entertainment.
Current creative director.
And formerly, the "uncle" figure Jihoon once respected.
When we say "bad terms," we're not talking about shouting matches or flipping tables.
It was more subtle — the kind of silent fracture that cracks a relationship clean down the spine.
Ever since their last meeting, Jihoon and Sooman had drifted to opposite ends of the moral universe.
Not because they were similar… but because they were too similar in all the wrong ways.
Both were self-centered, yes.
But Jihoon's self-interest had always been clean: he got what he wanted without harming others.
Sooman's version, however, came dipped in oil, sharpened at the edges — nothing and no one could stand between him and his benefit.
Friends, family, protégés… they were all just pawns in the game he played for power and cash.
If sacrificing someone bought him an inch of influence, he'd do it with a smile. That was the difference.
And that was the point Jihoon realized that the man he once admired wasn't someone you "befriend."
He was someone you survive.
And honestly, to an outsider, their fallout might look ridiculous.
Like it was like Bro, how does asking Jihoon to join a TV program turn you from friends into strangers?
But that's because they didn't know the deeper layer behind Sooman's actions.
Back then, Jihoon didn't understand the web of Korean showbiz.
He didn't know who was the shadow hand behind all the calculated motive placed on him — the silent strings, the puppeteers, the clans behind the curtains.
But after months in LA, in a place where the sun is bright and the snakes are obvious, Jihoon finally saw the truth: That request wasn't Sooman's idea, because he was just a lackey of theirs.
It was an order.
From the real spider in the center of the Korean entertainment web — CJ ENM.
The biggest force in the entire industry.
The one holding the broadcasting channels like Mnet, tvN, and OCN. The one with CGV cinemas scattered across Korea, China, the U.S., and by 2024 over 550 theaters stretching into Southeast Asia, Turkey, Myanmar, and beyond.
Music, drama, TV programs, news, movies — if it existed in the entertainment sphere, CJ ENM had fingerprints on it. Not even fingerprints — full palm prints.
They even invested heavily in SM, YG, JYP. Big or small, any entertainment-adjacent company had a bit of CJ in it, like MSG sprinkled over a nation's economy.
So when Jihoon's JH Corps started making a name back in 2007, the situation shifted. The moment his films began landing on the radar, the entire entertainment industry felt the tremor.
And CJ ENM — the ruler of that industry, the godfather of Korea's showbiz ecosystem — definitely wasn't about to let someone like Jihoon walk around without a leash.
Especially someone well-known for making money. Dangerous money.
Because even before his trip to LA, JH's produced films had already earned 242 million USD net profit in just two years. People might shrug at that number if they think in Hollywood terms — in America, pulling that amount over two years is impressive but believable.
But this wasn't America. This was Korea in 2006–2007, where the entire domestic film landscape was tiny. In those two years, only 220 films were released. And the total box office revenue — the combined earnings of the entire Korean film industry — was just 1.086 billion USD.
Which meant Jihoon's five little films, generating 242 million by themselves, accounted for 22.28% of the whole market.
A single director-producer accounting for a quarter of the entire nation's box office presence? That wasn't success. That was threat-level red.
Now, if you were a decent businessman with decent business knowledge, and if you also had the kind of power CJ ENM had — power that could reshape careers, topple companies, raise idols, bury scandals — would you let someone like Jihoon slide away from your plate?
Of course not.
That was exactly why they tried to put a chain on him, something firm enough to anchor him to the nest they wanted him to lay golden eggs in.
Every move they made was calculated with cold precision. The arrangement of Jieun staying with him wasn't an accident. The request last year for him to attend MBC's TV program wasn't a casual suggestion.
These were strategic plays — a soft cage disguised as kindness.
Emotionally, they pushed Jieun into his life to form a family-like bond.
Someone to make him feel grounded, responsible, tied to the soil of Korea in a way that money and fame couldn't undo.
Publicly, they wanted the TV program to function as a leash, a spotlight where the nation could monitor and supervise him.
Because once Jihoon stepped into mainstream public consciousness, his life wouldn't be just his own anymore. He'd have to maintain a spotless reputation, behave within their boundaries, and dance according to their rhythm.
And as he grew more popular, the constraints would only tighten. Public impression is the easiest thing for media giants like CJ ENM to manipulate.
A scandal here, a whisper of corruption there — anything that could stain Jihoon's name was a tool waiting to be used.
Not to destroy him, of course. No, destroying him would be wasteful.
They wanted him useful.
Obedient.
A good puppy.
A golden-egg machine that never strayed too far from their fence.
That was the ill motive beneath all their polite smiles and "opportunities."
And that was why Jihoon could never afford to let his guard down.
Fortunately, Jihoon jumped out of that shadowy web before it was fully laid upon him. The timing was lucky — almost miraculous — because if he had stayed even a little longer, the chance of escaping would have become nearly impossible.
Just like a black widow, CJ wouldn't pounce immediately.
They would start with soft silk-like traps in the beginning, subtle strings meant to guide him. Then they would restrict his options, narrow his movement, isolate him, and when the moment was right, they would strike — not to kill him, but to feast on him like a delicious dessert.
And not to mention, Jihoon was a Lee.
Although the families were distant, blood was still blood.
He came from the Samseong Lee branch, and they came from the CJ Lee branch. For decades, both families had been locked in a quiet but vicious inheritance feud ever since Jihoon's great-grandfather passed away.
And Jihoon — a neutral party who owed neither side anything — became the sweetest prize of all. Every achievement he earned came from his own hands, untouched by either family's business empire, which only made him more delicious in their eyes.
Especially now, when he had built a foothold in Hollywood this year.
He was like a buffer state just like Switzerland during World War II. Between the Nazi aggression and the Allied pressure, Switzerland survived through neutrality and sharp instincts.
Jihoon was the same. He wanted to survive on his own terms.
On one side stood Samseong — a giant in electronics, a behemoth powerful enough to overturn national policy without counting the cost. Being born into that Lee bloodline meant Jihoon was naturally positioned within their sphere.
On the other side was the South-East Asian media magnet, CJ Group — a powerhouse capable of bending public narrative however they wished. And their Lee family branch carried a long-held grudge against his.
And today, with Lee Sooman coming to his door on behalf of CJ, Jihoon knew exactly what that meant.
He was being pulled back toward the web he had barely escaped — dragged not by his choices, but by blood that he never asked to share.