The next few weeks flew by in a blur of camera setups, script notes, and late-night edits.
Jihoon had completely thrown himself into the filming of 'Inception', laser-focused on every frame, every emotion, every beat.
There were barely any breaks in between, but he didn't mind—it was what he lived for.
Filming continued steadily at the Fox Lot studio in Los Angeles, where most of the dreamworld scenes were being shot.
Inside one of the intricately designed studio sets—this one meant to mimic a lavish European penthouse—Marion sat quietly in a chair, draped in an elegant evening gown.
Across from her, Leonardo crouched beside the chair, tying a rope around one of the legs with calm precision.
Marion tilted her head, her voice soft but full of haunting curiosity. "Tell me… do the children miss me?"
There was a moment of pause.
Leo glanced at her with a flicker of sadness in his eyes, then answered slowly, "They miss you more than you can imagine."
He stood up, following the line of rope to the nearby window.
Marion's voice followed him. "What are you going to do?"
Without looking back, Leo opened the window and tossed the rope over the ledge. "Go out and get some fresh air. Sit tight and don't move, Mel."
With that, he grabbed the rope and leapt out the window.
From behind the monitor, Jihoon leaned forward.
"Cut!" he called, his voice clear but calm.
Jihoon immediately motioned to the script supervisor and playback technician, eyes glued to the monitor as the scene replayed.
For a moment, no one spoke—everyone waited. Then Jihoon leaned back, nodding with a satisfied exhale.
"Perfect. Alright, ten-minute break, everyone! Stay nearby—we're resetting for the next shot."
Crew members scattered for coffee and breathers. Jihoon, however, remained right where he was, flipping through the next scene's breakdown and quietly chatting with his cinematographer and assistant director about the upcoming setup.
Ten minutes later, everyone was back in position. The next scene was one of the most challenging sequences: the dreamworld beginning to collapse while Leo's character rushes to escape.
Leo sprinted through a crumbling corridor—actually a stable set enhanced by practical camera shakes and smart visual cues.
There were no digital effects here yet, just precision timing, shaking rigs, and a camera operator who had practically memorized Leo's every step.
Once they nailed the corridor collapse, the team moved on to the finale of the day: the dream-flood sequence.
This was where the crew pulled out all the stops.
To create the overwhelming sensation of a dream breaking apart, the special effects team had rigged an elaborate water system.
At Jihoon's signal, over 5,000 gallons of water surged onto the set from three angles, slamming into the carefully prepared walls and props.
The thunderous roar of the water filled the studio, and everyone held their breath as the actors stayed locked into their performances amidst the chaos.
When Jihoon finally yelled "Cut!" again, a spontaneous round of applause echoed through the studio.
They had done it—nailed the most physically intense sequence of the film in just three takes.
That scene also marked a major milestone: studio filming was officially complete.
With the indoor portion of production wrapped, Jihoon gave the crew a well-earned day off.
But rest wasn't on his mind just yet.
Instead, he huddled with the heads of each department—set designers, costume, lighting, effects, camera—to go over the next phase: outdoor shoots across several international locations.
He knew things would only get more challenging from here, but also more exciting. There were mountains to climb literally, streets to shut down, and time-bending action scenes that would test every ounce of his creativity.
But Jihoon was ready. After all, this wasn't just about making a movie—it was about crafting a world that audiences could fall into, question, and dream within.
And for that, no detail was too small, and no effort too much.
As Jihoon reviewed the footage from the latest scene, his eyes were locked on the monitor.
He was completely immersed, scrutinizing every detail—each line, each angle, each flicker of emotion on screen.
This film, 'Inception', wasn't just another project.
It was the project—his great escape, his shot at artistic freedom beyond the iron grip of his chaebol heritage.
The world might see this as just a movie, but to Jihoon, it was redemption—his own inception.
Just then, his assistant, a sharp, no-nonsense guy he brought from Korea specifically to manage his chaotic daily schedule, approached him with a quiet urgency.
"Boss, Mr. Jim is here. And he brought a guest. They're waiting for you in the meeting room," he said.
Jihoon looked up from the screen, blinking as if snapping out of a trance.
For weeks, nothing outside the frame had mattered—no calls, no emails, no headlines.
He had been laser-focused, so much so that even his phone had been completely managed by his assistant.
His world had narrowed down to camera lenses, light rigs, scripts, and the ticking of the production schedule.
"Did Jim say who it was?" Jihoon asked, brows furrowing.
He shook his head. "Not exactly. Just said it was 'worth your time.'"
Jihoon paused, that vague phrase lingering in his mind. Jim didn't throw around compliments or dramatics. If he said it was worth meeting, then… maybe it truly was.
"Alright," Jihoon finally nodded. "Tell them I'll be there shortly. I just need to wrap up a few things here."
He spent the next ten minutes delegating notes to the assistant director and ensuring the plan for tomorrow's shoot was airtight.
He didn't like being pulled away mid-session—but something about this felt different.
When Jihoon finally stepped into the meeting room, the door swung open with a quiet creak.
And that's when he saw him.
Sitting calmly, hands folded on the table, was Christopher Nolan.
Jihoon froze.
For a moment, it felt like the air had thickened, like the room itself was giving gravity to the moment.
There he was—the Christopher Nolan.
The man who redefined modern cinematic storytelling, who made Gotham a symbol, who turned comic book films into Shakespearean tragedies.
The man who, in Jihoon's previous life, was the name every aspiring director bowed to.
Jihoon's gut twisted with an odd cocktail of guilt and awe.
This was the original mind behind 'Inception'. The mastermind he had unknowingly replaced in this strange rerun of life. Nolan should've been filming 'The Dark Knight' sequel right now, a project that would cement his place in film history.
And yet—here he was. Calm. Composed. Watching Jihoon with quiet curiosity.
Jim stood up, smiling. "Jihoon, you may not know who this is—"
But Jihoon cut him off with a soft smile and extended his hand. "Christopher Nolan," he said. "Director of the Dark Knight series. It's an honor."
Nolan stood, his expression unreadable for a split second—then he smiled and shook Jihoon's hand.
"Nice to meet you, Jihoon. I've heard a lot about you lately."
Jihoon chuckled lightly, masking the nervous flutter in his chest. "I hope only the good parts."
Jim chuckled too. "You two are more alike than you think—obsessed with details, married to your scripts, and both accused of being perfectionists."
They all sat, and for a moment, no one spoke. It wasn't awkward—it was respectful, like the quiet between chess masters before a match.
Jihoon studied Nolan carefully. This wasn't a man who was here for ego. He was here out of curiosity, maybe even admiration.
Jihoon quickly gathered his thoughts, brushing aside the lingering guilt. There was no use holding onto it anymore.
After all, if fate hadn't shifted, Christopher Nolan would still be deep into the production of the second installment of his Dark Knight trilogy—his magnum opus following the success of Batman Begins.
It was the era when Nolan's name truly resonated across Hollywood, and his signature style—a dark, cerebral interpretation of heroism—began to redefine not only superhero cinema but the artistic direction of DC's future under Warner Bros.
But after Nolan stepped away from the DC franchise, the helm passed to a directors who couldn't quite capture the same intensity, depth, or vision.
As a result, the DC cinematic universe struggled to remain a true competitor to Marvel's ever-expanding empire.
And in hindsight, it does made sense.
Cause not every director could handle the psychological weight and thriller-like structure of Nolan's storytelling.
His version of Gotham wasn't just about capes and villains—it was a study of fear, chaos, and moral ambiguity.
Marvel, on the other hand, had the upper hand in the box office war.
Their content was accessible, fun, and most importantly—family-friendly.
From a marketing perspective, it was genius.
Every child going to see 'Iron Man' or 'The Avengers' usually brought one or two parents along.
It was practically a buy-one-get-three ticket situation.
Meanwhile, DC's darker themes naturally filtered their audience into older demographics, requiring parental guidance, and limiting their reach in the broader commercial race.
Yet none of that took away from the fact that Nolan's Dark Knight trilogy was a masterpiece in its own right.
Each frame, each flicker of light and shadow, was deliberate.
It wasn't just a superhero movie—it was art.
But such depth often required a matured audience to fully grasp. Where Marvel thrived with visual simplicity and crowd-pleasing wit, Nolan's work demanded attention and interpretation.
Still, regardless of ticket sales or franchise wars, Jihoon couldn't help but admire Nolan's genius.
No one else he knew could breathe life into a story the way Nolan did—blending action with philosophical weight, spectacle with introspection.
Now, sitting across from him, Jihoon felt no guilt—only reverence.
He saw not a rival, but a master of the craft.
The room seemed to pause, as if time itself wanted to capture this moment.
It was a quiet, almost fated collision.
Two visionary directors meeting at the crossroads of cinematic history.
One, a master of darkness and existential depth, saw film as a descent into the subconscious, where silence screamed and shadows told stories.
The other, Jihoon, painted his world with light—drawing emotion from every flicker, weaving rhythm into every frame.
They approached cinema from opposite ends of the spectrum, yet both understood the sacred language of lighting.
In their own ways, they bent light to speak truths words never could.
[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe and Jiangxiu for bestowing the power stone!]