Jihoon leaned back in his seat, watching the man across the table with quiet amusement. Jim Gianopulos—Hollywood titan, Fox chairman, and the kind of executive who could smell opportunity the way a bloodhound caught wind of a trail.
To most people in the business, Jim was a strategist first, a dealmaker second, and an artist's ally third.
But to directors—true directors—he was a rare breed. Someone who actually respected the art form.
He wasn't one of those cold, number-crunching suits who cared only about box office projections.
No, Jim had an instinct for talent. He understood that sometimes the biggest returns came from the least obvious investments.
That's what made him dangerous. And brilliant.
Jihoon knew this well—not from articles or industry gossip, but from another life entirely. He'd watched Jim shape careers, build empires, and maneuver through power plays like a seasoned chess master.
So when Jihoon dropped his earlier endorsement of Peli's film and future, it wasn't just flattery.
It was bait.
And Jim had bitten it—exactly as what he expected.
Now, the man sat in silence, hands steepled under his chin, his expression unreadable.
But Jihoon could already sense the gears turning. Jim wasn't just weighing Peli's pitch or Jihoon's words.
He was calculating leverage, thinking about how this whole thing could be spun to benefit not just Fox, but him.
Getting Nolan to owe him a favor? That alone was worth gold in this town.
And if Peli turned out to be the next genre-defining filmmaker—as Jihoon claimed—well, that would only sweeten the pot.
But of course, Jim wouldn't jump in headfirst. No. That wasn't his style.
He let the silence drag out just long enough to make Nolan and Peli fidget slightly, the tension in the room tightening like a violin string.
Jihoon, for his part, simply exhaled through his nose and rolled his eyes.
Here we go, he thought. Classic Jim.
He'd seen this act before.
Jim liked to create pressure before a decision, just enough to give himself the appearance of weight and authority—like the fate of cinema itself hung in the balance. Jihoon almost admired it. Almost.
Finally, Jim broke the silence with a polite, calculated cough.
"Cgh..." He shifted in his chair and turned his gaze to Peli. "I see the potential in you, Peli. Not just in this film, but in your instincts. The concept, the execution—it's sharp. Clever. I appreciate that."
He paused, giving Peli just enough praise to pull him closer.
"And I agree with Jihoon. There's something here. And I'm inclined to say yes—not just to the distribution deal, but to the larger proposal."
"Helping Jihoon build his U.S. production arm with a fresh voice like yours? That's a play I can get behind."
Nolan gave a small nod of appreciation. Peli looked like he was still trying to breathe steadily.
But Jim wasn't done. He leaned forward now, voice smooth but firm.
"However… when I take this to the board, I need more than vision. I need numbers. I need assurance. The kind of evidence that makes my finance team sit up straight instead of raising eyebrows."
He smiled, disarmingly.
"So, Nolan… Peli… if you want me to go all in—Fox backing, full rollout, and support for Jihoon's new banner—you're going to need to bring me a little more to work with. Something concrete. A hook. A proof of concept. Call it… insurance."
The room had gone quiet again.
The kind of silence that felt like it had weight.
Jihoon didn't even bother to react. He'd seen this coming from a mile away. Jim wasn't trying to shut them down—he was just raising the price. Testing how far they were willing to go.
And now, the ball was back in Nolan and Peli's court.
Jihoon shifted in his chair and glanced down the long, polished conference table.
His eyes settled on the pair at the other end—Nolan and Peli—both visibly processing the situation.
Nolan's expression was sharp, analytical. Peli, on the other hand, looked like someone who'd just been handed a Rubik's cube… blindfolded.
Nolan gave Peli a brief glance, then sighed subtly.
He got it. Peli was brilliant, yes. But he wasn't built for this kind of negotiation—not yet, at least.
A few years ago, the guy was a programmer in a cubicle, not pitching films to Hollywood executives. This wasn't his world—not entirely.
So Nolan stepped up.
"Jim," he said, calm and steady, his voice slicing through the tension like a warm knife. "You and I, we've known each other for years. I'm not the type to throw words around lightly, and you know that."
" When I say Peli's the real deal, I mean it. He's not just some new kid with a cool pitch. He's your key—Fox's key—to unlocking the horror genre in a way you haven't touched yet."
Jim leaned back slightly, nodding as if weighing Nolan's words like gold on a scale. "I respect that. I really do," he said. "And I trust your instincts."
Then, a pause.
"But trust alone doesn't move boardrooms. Numbers do. Strategy does." He paused again, letting the silence creep in. Then, he smiled—polite on the surface, cunning underneath. "So, Nolan… why don't you come with him? Join us on this."
Jihoon sat up straighter. Ah. There it was. The classic Gianopulos hook. Smooth. Calculated. Dangerous.
Jim continued, "You said it yourself—the collaboration between Fox and Jihoon's company offers directors real creative freedom. The essence of cinema, right?" He glanced between the three of them. "So, why not you, too?"
Nolan's brow furrowed. The meaning was clear as daylight.
Jim wasn't just asking for support. He was tying Nolan to the deal—trying to wrap a bow around the whole package with a shiny, Oscar-nominated director at the center.
"Jim…" Nolan said slowly, carefully choosing his words, "that doesn't make sense, and you know it. I'm under an exclusive ten-film contract with Warner Bros. I've only finished three so far."
Jim shrugged. "We can talk to them. Fox can handle the negotiations for you. If you're willing, we'll make it work."
Nolan shook his head, almost with a chuckle. "Do you even know what the penalty for breaking that contract is?"
Jim blinked, slightly caught off guard.
"Ten million dollars," Nolan said flatly. "And neither Fox nor I are paying that just to make a point."
Jim leaned back. For the first time in the conversation, he didn't have an answer. He was calculating again, reassessing. The room felt colder now, the tension reversing direction.
Jihoon glanced around. He could feel it—that sense of a stalled engine. Someone needed to kickstart this again.
So he did.
With a small, knowing smile, Jihoon leaned forward and said casually, "Jim, why don't I give you that insurance instead?"
All three men turned to him in unison.
Even Jim's eyes widened. "Come again?"
"I'll give you what you need to take to the board," Jihoon said, voice calm, almost playful. "An add-on to the wager agreement we signed earlier."
Peli's mouth parted slightly. Nolan blinked in disbelief.
"You want to… what?" Jim asked, confused.
"I'm proposing we include Peli's film in that deal," Jihoon said, folding his hands on the table. "You get your proof of commitment. Your leverage. And he gets his shot. Everybody wins."
"But why?" Jim asked, genuinely bewildered now. "What's in it for you?"
Jihoon glanced at Peli—who, to be honest, looked a little out of his depth. Not that Jihoon blamed him. He wasn't about to explain that this seemingly low-budget horror flick was going to become a massive blockbuster. And even if he did, he doubted Jim would fully believe it—or understand how Jihoon could know.
"Well… let's just say I believe in him," Jihoon replied with a small smile.
The room went still.
It wasn't just the words. It was the way Jihoon said them—grounded, confident, with no drama or embellishment. Just belief.
For a moment, even Jim didn't have anything to say.
Across the table, Peli's eyes were wide, his chest rising slowly with a silent breath. Gratitude surged through him like a silent wave. A man he had met only hours earlier had not only understood his vision but was now betting real chips—his own chips—on that vision.
And for the first time, Peli felt like maybe… he really belonged in this room.
Jihoon leaned back, the corners of his mouth tugging up ever so slightly. He knew this was the moment that would tip the scales.
Now the silence wasn't tense. It was hopeful.
And Jim? Jim Gianopulos, ever the strategist, was finally left without a move—because sometimes, conviction beats calculation.
He looked at Jihoon.
Then at Peli.
Then back at Jihoon.
"Well…" Jim finally said, rubbing his chin with a half-laugh, "you do know how to keep things interesting."
Jihoon smirked. "That's what I'm here for."
[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe, Daoistadj JiangXiu and OS_PARCEIROS for bestowing the power stone!]