After several days of well-earned rest and quiet recovery, Jihoon was back on the grind—his mind sharp, spirit recharged, and heart beating once again to the rhythm of cinema.
The post-production phase of 'Your Name' had begun in earnest, and Jihoon was now fully immersed in one of the most meticulous and demanding parts of filmmaking: editing.
Unlike his previous projects, this one had a special edge—a high-stakes collaboration with Framestore VFX's Seoul division, a globally renowned visual effects powerhouse.
The partnership wasn't just a casual agreement; it was born out of a strategic alliance between Jihoon's production company and Framestore, forged to elevate Jihoon's cinema to new heights.
The reason?
'Your Name' was not a typical romantic film—it carried within it the emotional weight of a coming-of-age story and the visual spectacle of a cosmic disaster.
The film's climactic meteorite sequence requires, a breathtaking fusion of fantasy and tragedy, demanded the kind of cinematic wizardry only a top-tier VFX studio could deliver.
Now, Jihoon sat deep within the production office of Framestore, the ambient hum of computers and whispered conversations filling the room like a steady heartbeat.
Large monitors displayed shot after shot of the meteorite scene—the destruction, the sky fracturing in slow motion, and the haunting beauty of that pivotal moment rendered in astonishing detail.
He'd been here since early morning—just like the last three days.
Barely sleeping, rarely leaving his chair, Jihoon had worked side by side with Framestore's crew, fine-tuning each frame, balancing color palettes, adjusting particle physics, and tweaking the emotional beats between cuts.
It was almost done. Just a few more touches.
But this session wasn't just any workday.
Today, important eyes were watching.
Lee Sooman, the legendary mogul of Korean entertainment, stood by the wall, arms folded, his sharp gaze flicking from the screen to Jihoon.
Sitting across the table was a senior executive from CJ ENM—the very people responsible for distributing the film across Korea and international markets.
And somewhere in the background of all this, like a shadow not present but still deeply felt, loomed the absence of Mikyeong, CJ's chairwoman.
She was supposed to be here too.
But everyone knew—especially Jihoon and Mikyeong—that sharing the same room these days wasn't just awkward.
It was dangerous. Not physically, but professionally. Emotionally.
Their last film together had sparked tension.
Mikyeong's aggressive promotion strategy—while effective in securing headlines and revenue—had left Jihoon feeling manipulated and sidelined.
The way she had used his name and creative vision as a PR tool had cut deep, leaving a scar on their working relationship.
So she'd made a quiet decision.
To step back.
Not out of spite, but out of strategic restraint.
They both knew that personal emotions had no place in this echelon of business.
Not when so many people, so much money, and the legacy of Korean cinema were on the line.
Yet beneath that cold professionalism was an unspoken truth: they needed each other.
Mikyeong with her global distribution reach and political finesse.
Jihoon with his raw talent and cultural momentum.
So, like seasoned professionals, they played the game of absence—respecting the invisible lines drawn between ego and necessity, emotion and ambition.
Now, as the final scene played out on the screen—one last explosion of cosmic wonder, ending in silence—everyone in the room leaned forward.
When the lights came up, silence lingered.
Then, a slow nod from the CJ executive. A small but approving smile from Lee Sooman. They didn't clap. They didn't need to. In this world, silence and subtle glances carried more weight than applause.
Jihoon exhaled.
Moments later, they all moved into the adjacent conference room, where water bottles, press kits, and early marketing drafts lay neatly arranged on the table.
Discussions began—festival submissions, premiere dates, overseas promotion strategies, and targeted social media rollouts.
Jihoon didn't speak much, but he listened carefully. Every word, every gesture from these industry titans could shape the fate of his film.
Somewhere, miles away in a different office tower, Mikyeong likely received a detailed report.
She would read it, line by line.
And she would know, without needing to see it in person, that Jihoon had delivered something extraordinary.
Their paths may not have crossed that day—but in the shared orbit of ambition, artistry, and silent acknowledgment, they were still dancing the same complicated dance.
And that was enough—for now.
As the team wrapped up the final touches on the film's promotion strategy, the mood in the room began to relax.
Papers shuffled, laptops snapped shut, and staff started trickling out. But Jihoon noticed Lee Sooman still seated, arms crossed and a thoughtful look etched on his face.
Then came the question, casually spoken but deliberate.
"Jihoon-ah," Lee Sooman said, leaning slightly forward, "don't you think the promotion's missing something?"
Jihoon paused mid-stretch and turned to him, raising a brow. "Missing what, Uncle Lee?"
Lee Sooman tapped his fingers on the table, eyes narrowing with a hint of that trademark producer instinct.
"Hmm… 'Your Name' isn't like 'Secret'. That film rode the wave all the way to the Cannes Grand Prix."
"This one—it's different. More emotional, but less prestige-driven."
"Don't you think it needs something extra? Like… maybe another OST?"
The moment the words left his mouth, Jihoon already knew exactly where this was going.
It wasn't just about adding a song—it was about tying in SM artists, building momentum, and repeating the magic formula.
A grin tugged at Jihoon's lips as he leaned back in his chair. "So that's what this is about."
It wasn't an unreasonable request.
After all, the OST Taeyeon had sung for 'Secret' had exploded—far beyond anyone's expectations.
The same happened with '200 Pound Beauty', where the haunting main track—still cloaked in mystery over the true vocalist—continued to make waves online months after the film's release.
Even BoA's position in the industry began to rise, eventually elevating her to the status of Korea's K-pop princess—and it was all connected to Jihoon's OST projects.
And then there was still Princess Hours.
The drama hadn't aired yet, but the buzz around the theme song—sung by Jihoon and Jessica—was already high.
Industry insiders had begun to whisper that Jihoon's music was turning into a secret weapon—every track he composed seemed destined to top the charts and dominate the internet.
But Jihoon had other plans.
"I honestly don't think we need it this time, Uncle," Jihoon said, flicking an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve like he was brushing off the suggestion itself.
Lee Sooman raised a brow. "No OST? Are you really saying that to me right now?"
Jihoon leaned back in his chair, smirking. "Come on. The fan-shot footage from Jeju is already blowing up online."
"People are obsessed. It's trending on every platform, and we haven't even released a single official poster."
"So you're banking on shaky cam and beach sunsets?" Lee Sooman crossed his arms, unimpressed. "Where's the soul? Where's the signature Jihoon magic?"
"The soul is in the story," Jihoon replied smoothly. "And the magic? That's already in the can."
Lee Sooman leaned in, his voice playful but pointed. "You're getting cocky."
Jihoon grinned. "No, I'm getting accurate."
"Still…" Lee Sooman dragged out the word like he was baiting a fish.
"Don't you think it's a little dull to just ride the wave of internet leaks?
"People want something… special."
"Something they can hum on the way home."
Jihoon sighed, mock dramatic. "You really won't quit, will you?"
"You know me," Lee Sooman said, eyes twinkling. "I'm the king of persistent suggestions."
"Alright, alright," Jihoon said, throwing up his hands.
"Here's the deal—we take the most gut-punching, heart-wrenching scenes, layer them with a chilling score, and cut a trailer so emotional it makes people tear up just watching it."
"No full OST,
Lee Sooman didn't respond right away.
His silence wasn't disappointment—it was acceptance.
He could tell Jihoon had already made up his mind about the OST, but the compromise on the trailer was good enough for now.
Little did either of them expect what would happen next.
The trailer dropped online a week later.
It was more than just a trailer—it was a two-minute cinematic masterpiece.
Dreamlike visuals of meteor showers streaked across the night skies above Jeju's breathtaking coastline.
Waves crashed in rhythmic harmony with a sweeping orchestral score, while heart-wrenching dialogue snippets flickered between scenes like fragile memories.
Each cast member was framed in stunning, painterly portraits—faces etched with longing, hope, and secrets untold.
Every frame felt intentional, every moment pulsed with emotion.
Within hours of its release, the trailer trended worldwide.
Hashtags exploded across social platforms.
Fan-made edits flooded the internet—montages, remixes, theories, even original art.
Viewers across the globe couldn't stop talking about it. People weren't just watching—they were feeling.
But then something unexpected happened.
The buzz wasn't just about the film.
Somehow, something else entirely had stolen the spotlight.
A fleeting five-second shot—Yoona and Changwook, eyes locked, standing beneath the falling meteor light—became the eye of the storm.
And just like that, the real frenzy began.
[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe for bestowing the power stone!]