No one—absolutely no one—could have predicted how excited Jim would be after hearing Jihoon's pitch for 'Ritualverse'.
It wasn't just a movie idea. It was a full-blown cinematic revolution.
The concept? Bold. The execution? Insane, but strangely plausible.
Jihoon's plan was to unite four completely different horror subgenres—demonic possession, alien terror, ancient cults, and shapeshifting cosmic evil—into one shared universe.
Jim leaned back, hands on his head, eyes wide like a kid on Christmas morning. "Wait—you're telling me you want to connect Paranormal Activity, Alien vs. Predator, It, and The Exorcist into one overarching storyline?"
Jihoon just grinned. "Maybe even more—as long as it's horror and fits our themes."
And just like that, Jim was hooked.
The brilliance of the idea wasn't just in its originality.
It was in how unexpected it was.
No one in Hollywood had dared to blend horror subgenres on this scale before.
Jihoon wasn't just thinking outside the box—he'd crushed the box, burned the pieces, and summoned an ancient cosmic demon to dance on its ashes.
Of course, Jihoon knew this wasn't entirely uncharted territory.
Thanks to the memories of his previous life, he was well aware that in 2008—just one year away—Marvel was about to launch its own ambitious project: the Marvel Cinematic Universe.
It would start with Iron Man, then slowly weave together dozens of superhero stories into one grand, interconnected saga.
It was bold, risky, and unlike anything the film industry had ever seen.
And it worked. At least, for a while.
Jihoon remembered it all vividly.
For over a decade, the MCU dominated screens across the globe.
It became a masterclass in long-form cinematic storytelling.
But he also remembered its slow decline. After Avengers: Endgame, something shifted.
The creative spark began to dim.
Phase 4—while filled with potential—felt more like a creative identity crisis than a cohesive continuation.
Too many projects, too little connective tissue.
"The problem," Jihoon had once told himself, "wasn't ambition. It was direction."
Jihoon remembered it all too clearly—Eternals had promised so much.
With its sweeping visuals and star-studded cast, it should've been a masterpiece.
But instead, it collapsed under its own weight.
Too many characters, not enough time to truly know them.
The nonlinear timeline, intended to be clever, only ended up confusing the audience.
And the pacing? It lagged when it should have soared.
And then there was Black Widow, Loki, She-Hulk—each had flashes of brilliance, yes.
A great scene here, a strong performance there.
But something was missing.
The narrative clarity, the emotional momentum, the unifying thread that had once made the Marvel Cinematic Universe so compelling—it was all unraveling.
It was a sobering reminder: even the mightiest cinematic empires can stumble if they lose sight of what made them special in the first place—tight storytelling, unforgettable characters, and a cohesive vision that guided everything.
And Jihoon? He was paying attention.
He thought back to a conversation he'd once had with Jim over coffee, back in his previous life.
"Marvel stumbled because they forgot their core," Jim had said, stirring his drink.
"Too much setup, not enough payoff. You can't build ten different roads and forget where they're supposed to lead."
Jihoon had nodded slowly, every word sinking in like gospel.
"That's why Ritualverse has to stay focused," he said now, more to himself than anyone else.
When Jihoon thought about how to stablize the cinematic experience—one name always stood out in his mind.
The disruptor. The rebel. The odd one out who didn't follow the rules of traditional cinema.
Netflix.
It hadn't started as a threat.
In fact, in the early days, Netflix seemed more like a quirky alternative—mailing DVDs to subscribers' homes while Blockbuster still ruled the rental market.
But what seemed like a novelty soon morphed into a revolution.
And with the rise of streaming, the entire landscape of the film industry began to shift beneath everyone's feet.
Streaming platforms didn't just offer a new way to watch movies.
They redefined the audience's expectations.
Suddenly, people didn't have to drive to the theater, buy a ticket, or settle for overpriced popcorn.
All they needed was an internet connection and a monthly subscription—cheaper than the cost of seeing just two movies in theaters.
For many, it wasn't even a question anymore.
Why go out when you could stream from your couch in pajamas, with your favorite takeout and no one telling you to silence your phone?
As streaming's popularity exploded, the giants of the film world took notice—and took action.
Disney, HBO, Fox, and nearly every major studio launched their own platforms, scrambling to keep up with the changing tides with their own film's inventory.
What once felt like a side project quickly became the center of their distribution strategies.
Even the release models were evolving.
The old-school idea of a three-month theatrical run was beginning to fade.
In its place, a hybrid model emerged: films would premiere in theaters for a few weeks—enough to generate buzz and critical reviews—then quickly transition to streaming.
For studios, it meant double revenue: a theatrical window to attract traditional audiences, followed by a second life online where the film could reach millions more.
Of course, for that to work, a movie had to have demand.
Streaming platforms didn't buy just anything—they wanted content with proven traction, strong reviews, or a passionate fanbase.
In those cases, filmmakers could negotiate either a profit-sharing deal or an outright buyout, depending on the exposure and projected viewership.
Jihoon had been studying all of this carefully.
He didn't just want to create films—he wanted to build a sustainable ecosystem for his stories.
A place where quality storytelling wasn't buried by corporate politics or lost in the noise of overproduced blockbusters.
And in Korea, that was easier said than done.
The country's distribution landscape was heavily dominated by two major players: CJ Entertainment and Lotte Cinema.
Even the government's media policy was often influenced—if not outright controlled—by the powerful chaebol families behind those conglomerates.
Independent creators had to fight for screen time, let alone profit.
That's why streaming wasn't just a business opportunity for Jihoon—it was a potential escape route.
If he could strike a deal with Disney or its subsidiaries, find a way to collaborate with Netflix before it went fully global in 2010.
He could establish a reliable, independent distribution channel.
One that wouldn't be at the mercy of Korean chaebols or political strings.
But he knew better than to rush on it.
Netflix wouldn't truly dominate international markets for another three years.
That gave him time.
Time to plan.
Time to build.
Time to earn that seat at the table.
In the meantime, he would focus on making each of his films count.
Story by story, brick by brick, he would lay the foundation of something enduring.
Something that could thrive both on the big screen and in the hands of audiences at home.
Because to Jihoon, cinema wasn't just about lights, camera, action.
It was about freedom.
And in this new era of digital storytelling, freedom meant having control not just over the story—but over where, how, and to whom it was told.
Back in the meeting room, Jihoon stood over a table scattered with Ritualverse concept art and script notes. Jim and Peli were flipping through pages.
"Every story, every character, every nightmare—it all has to feed the bigger picture," Jihoon said, pointing to a web of story arcs drawn on the whiteboard.
"We're not just making scary movies. We're crafting a mythology."
Jim raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "And what if people say it's too ambitious?"
Jihoon grinned. "Good. That means we're aiming high enough."
Marvel could keep launching iron suits and cosmic heroes into the stratosphere.
Jihoon was headed in the opposite direction—downward, inward.
He was laying the groundwork for something darker.
Older.
Something that didn't dazzle—it disturbed.
Something that crawled under your skin and lingered long after the credits rolled.
The Ritualverse wasn't just a brand.
It was a promise—that horror could be intelligent, interconnected, and full of mystery.
Because in Jihoon's vision, this wasn't about capes or catchphrases.
It was about folklore and forgotten gods, blood rites and bone-deep fear.
From Mayan sacrificial altars to the ancient enigma of Stonehenge—these weren't just artifacts tucked away in museums.
In Jihoon's mind, they were breadcrumbs—hints left behind by a history darker than textbooks ever admitted.
Because the Ritualverse, for all its supernatural chaos, would still be rooted in a grounded, archaeologist's logic—a blend of speculative science and real-world myth.
The characters who survived the first brush with the unknown wouldn't just be running—they'd be searching.
Hunting for the truth buried in ruins, scriptures, and forgotten legends.
To Jihoon, these pieces weren't just cool set pieces—they were narrative fuel.
Each relic, each mystery, a thread in a sprawling mythos just waiting to be pulled.
And as for the final boss in this twisted universe?
Well… Jihoon figured that was Stephen King's job to figure out.
He leaned back in his chair with a playful smirk.
"All this sounds epic, right? But we need someone with the right expertise to actually bring it to life."
Jim glanced at him, intrigued. "Oh yeah? Who are you thinking?"
Jihoon's eyes lit up. "We need Stephen King. And Fox needs to buy the rights to those other two films."
Jim let out a laugh, shaking his head. "You really don't think small, do you?"
Jihoon grinned. "Never have. Never will."
[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe, JiangXiu, KLENN_JOHN_ACDOG and Daoistadj for bestowing the power stone!]