Century City, Los Angeles — Fox Studio Lot
The sun had only just begun to rise over the glinting skyline of Century City, but the Fox Studio Lot was already awake, its gates buzzing with trailers, crew trucks, and the kind of quiet chaos that meant something big was being made.
This wasn't just any film studio—it was sacred ground.
From the hilarious halls of 'Modern Family' to the eerie cases of 'The X-Files', from the explosive towers of 'Die Hard' to the mutant battles of 'X-Men', this lot had seen it all.
Some of the most iconic moments in film and television history had been born right here. And soon, the next era of Marvel titles—including Deadpool—would call this place home, too.
But today, it wasn't aliens or superheroes on the schedule.
It was dreams.
Specifically, Inception's dream.
The scene that was about to be filmed was one of the most iconic in modern cinema—a reinterpretation of the mesmerizing opening of 'Inception'.
In the original, it was the moment when the dream begins to unravel: a wave of ocean water crashes into the frame, submerging the character into the subconscious abyss of "limbo"—a place beyond time, beyond logic, where the deep structure of consciousness begins to erode.
But this time, it wasn't Christopher Nolan behind the camera.
It was Jihoon.
And Jihoon wasn't simply replicating the scene—he was reshaping it.
This was no longer the dreamscape from his past life, where the setting had followed a traditional Japanese aesthetic.
That version had already been done, already etched into film history.
Jihoon was carving a new path—one that reflected his heritage, his taste, and his emotional truth.
The film set, now standing proudly on a soundstage at Fox Studios in Los Angeles, had been transformed into something strikingly different: a low-key, luxurious, and multifunctional Korean-style reception room.
The waves still came, of course—an enormous practical effects rig simulated the surreal deluge that would mark the collapse of the dream.
But what followed—the space the character would awaken into—was no longer a pagoda on a cliff.
It was a modern reinterpretation of a hanok, Korea's traditional architectural style, infused with symbolic elegance.
The props department had worked tirelessly to bring Jihoon's script revisions to life.
Every detail had been altered to suit the new cultural context—ceramic tea sets were replaced with celadon, intricate bonsai trees traded for traditional Korean bonsonghwa flower arrangements.
And just like that, Jihoon's day began—with a chaotic morning call that yanked him out of bed far too early.
Still groggy, he pulled himself together and made it to set before sunrise. There was no time to waste.
Today's shoot required his full attention—a key scene that could set the tone for the entire film. The crew was already setting up, waiting on his final approval.
Meanwhile, halfway across the world, Korea's media was in a frenzy.
Of course, Jihoon's official announcement about filming in Hollywood had already caught fire online, with headlines praising his bold creative leap.
But there was another piece of news riding its coattails—one that, unknowingly, had his name wrapped up in it as well.
It was late May 2007, and Boa's 19th Japanese single, "Stay By My Side," had just dropped.
Within days, it skyrocketed to No. 1 on the Oricon Singles Chart.
Even more impressively, it became the most downloaded digital ringtone in Japan that month. A massive hit.
Over at Avex, Boa's Japanese label, the executives were thrilled—but also puzzled.
There was something different about this release. "Stay By My Side" had struck a chord with fans in a way they hadn't fully anticipated.
Yes, Boa was already a star, but this single carried a certain weight—an emotional resonance that seemed to steer a trend, subtly shifting the mood of the public. It was the kind of song that lingered—not just in people's ears, but in their minds.
Back in Seoul, the folks at SM Entertainment were wondering the same thing. What made this track connect so deeply, so quickly?
Was it just Jihoon's composition—the subtle layering, the poignant lyrics?
Or had the song unknowingly caught the tailwind of something bigger—like the buzz surrounding Jihoon's upcoming Hollywood project?
Even more interestingly, one of the missed calls on Jihoon's phone that morning? It had come from Tokyo—from someone connected to the Avex team.
But Jihoon didn't know any of this. Not yet.
His mind was on camera angles and dream sequences, not chart positions or ringtone downloads.
There would be time for that later. For now, the dreamworld he'd written needed to come alive—and he was the only one who could bring it into focus.
Right now, the set was buzzing with quiet energy.
On Stage 12 of the Fox Studio lot, under the warm Los Angeles sun filtered through industrial skylights, cameras were rolling and actors were already in costume, prepping for one of the key scenes of Inception.
Leonardo DiCaprio, Cillian Murphy, Hyun Bin, and the rest of the cast stood around the sleek, dimly lit set—a luxurious yet low-key reception room.
Today's shoot was the "planning scene"—the pivotal moment when the dream thieves first hatch their scheme.
Beneath the table, the sound engineer crouched low, adjusting cables and whispering updates through his headset.
His entire body curved to avoid disrupting the shot.
Camera director Wally Pfister paced around the perimeter of the set, checking angles and lens transitions.
He stopped next to Jihoon, who stood near the monitors with a quiet intensity.
After a quick exchange, Wally gave him a thumbs-up, confirming that the color transitions and contrast had been calibrated exactly to Jihoon's preferred cinematic tone—muted shadows and soft highlights, just like his previous indie films.
Jihoon nodded, satisfied, and Wally returned to the A-cam, raising his hand to form an "OK" signal to the crew.
Today, Leo looked completely transformed. Gone was the clean-shaven movie star.
In his place stood a hardened professional thief, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit with a narrow black tie.
His slicked-back hair and trimmed beard—carefully grown out over the last month—added just the right amount of grit.
Jihoon had personally insisted on the beard. "You need the wear of time on your face," he had told Leo during prep.
Despite his veteran experience, today's scene was a true challenge for Leo.
The pacing was tricky—it wasn't just about delivering lines. He had to control the rhythm of the conversation, the timing between bites of food and knowing glances, and—most crucially—he had to react to Hyun Bin and Cillian with an intuitive subtlety.
For Jihoon, this was the most exhausting but rewarding part of directing.
He needed the actors to feel the moment, not just act it. Emotions had to be real, dialogue authentic, and the tone consistent with the dream-within-a-dream world he had imagined.
"Cut!" Jihoon called, stepping into the scene.
Hyun Bin looked up from the table, slightly unsure. Jihoon gave him a kind but focused nod.
"Hyung," Jihoon said, walking over with his hands tucked into his hoodie pocket, "you need to be a little more relaxed with your tone. Like... you've done this a hundred times."
"This isn't a first meeting—it's routine for your character. And when you talk while eating, make sure to control your rhythm."
"You already know why Leo's character is here, so don't give that away in your eyes too early. You're holding the cards."
Hyun Bin nodded thoughtfully, rolling his shoulders to loosen up.
Then Jihoon turned to Leo. Though there wasn't much to correct—after all, Leo's instincts were sharp—Jihoon's perfectionism caught a small detail.
"You're doing great," Jihoon said, gently tapping Leo on the shoulder, "but in the third line, just before you lean forward—there's a slight disconnect in your focus."
"Your eyes drift a second too soon. Try to let the tension build longer before you break the gaze. It'll hit harder that way."
Leo nodded with a grin. "Got it. You've got an eye like a sniper, man."
The whole crew chuckled, breaking the tension for a moment.
But it wasn't just the actors who noticed Jihoon's brilliance. Around the set, quiet murmurs rippled through the crew.
It was dawning on them—this wasn't just some lucky young director riding on hype. Jihoon had command, vision, and the ability to bring out the best in even the most seasoned talents.
Wally leaned over to one of the assistant DPs and whispered, "He's not even over eighteen, right?"
The assistant nodded.
"Incredible," Wally said. "He directs like someone who's been in the game for thirty years."
No one said it out loud, but everyone on set could feel it—Jihoon wasn't just another young talent; he was the real deal.
His work on Inception wasn't just directing—it was sculpting emotion, rhythm, and meaning into every frame. This wasn't just filmmaking; it was art in motion.
And with that kind of vision, one thing was certain: directing at this level didn't just demand everything—it earned everything.
Awards, acclaim, legacy—they weren't distant dreams, they were inevitable.
Because for someone like Jihoon, the price of art wasn't sacrifice—it was mastery. And the prize? It was history.
[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe, JiangXiu, Daoistadj and OS_PARCEIROS for bestowing the power stone!]