After the pitch, one decision stood out—unanimous, inevitable, and ambitious.
"We need Stephen King," Jihoon had declared.
There was no argument. If the Ritualverse was going to exist—if it was going to be the dark, pulsing, interconnected cinematic world Jihoon envisioned—then it needed the grandmaster of modern horror himself.
Who better to orchestrate an ancient, dread-filled symphony than the man who made clowns, typewriters, and hotel hallways terrifying?
But there was a catch. Of course there was.
Stephen King was, well… Stephen King.
A living legend, yes, but also famously difficult. The industry had whispered stories for years—some funny, some frustrating.
He was a man of mood swings and unpredictable reactions—like a literary hurricane in a Red Sox cap he never took off.
Colleagues joked that working with him felt like tiptoeing through a haunted house: you never knew when something would jump out.
"He's brilliant, no question," Jim had said, "but he's also like... a grumpy cat with a Pulitzer."
Some described him as temperamental.
Others, especially his fans, called him passionate and generous.
It all depended on which version of King you met—the recluse, the joker, the genius, or the wildcard.
So when Jihoon floated the idea of meeting Stephen King in person, Jim didn't hesitate.
"Let's all go," he said, without missing a beat. "You, me, and Peli."
He turned to Jihoon with a grin. "You're the visionary behind the whole thing. If we're going to pitch the Ritualverse, it should come from the three of us—together."
Then he nodded toward Peli. "And if there's anyone else in this room who understands King's brand of horror, it's Peli. You two practically speak the same dark language."
Fortunately, Stephen happened to be in Los Angeles at the time—staying at one of his quieter West Coast residences, far from the icy grip of his hometown in Maine.
If he'd been back east, they might've had to postpone.
And with Jihoon already neck-deep in the final editing phase of 'Inception', timing was everything.
So, a few days later, the trio found themselves standing somewhat awkwardly on the front lawn of Stephen King's house.
It wasn't extravagant, but it had presence—a kind of quiet menace, like it knew things you didn't.
Jihoon took in the details: the tall black iron gate, the way the wind stirred the trees just enough to sound like whispers, and a mailbox that looked like it was silently judging them.
All of it felt… perfect.
"How'd you even get the address?" Jihoon had asked Jim on the drive up.
Jim just smiled. "Fox has its ways."
The three of them stood in silence as Jihoon rang the doorbell.
A faint echo bounced through the house then footsteps followed—slow, deliberate, like the beginning of a Stephen King story.
Then the door creaked open.
And there he was.
Stephen King.
He looked exactly like the memes: thin, sharp-faced, with a slightly suspicious glint in his eyes, like he was already writing you into his next novel as either a tortured artist or the second guy to die.
His gaze drifted across the trio like a scanner. Jihoon held his breath. Peli looked calm. Jim gave a little wave.
Stephen's eyes landed on Jim and stopped. Recognition clicked into place.
"Well I'll be damned," Stephen said, voice dry but amused. "Jim it's been a long time. What brings you to my doorstep? And who are the kids?"
He nodded toward Jihoon and Peli.
Jim laughed and stepped forward. "It's been too long, Step. You're looking good. Still keeping the nightmares alive?"
Stephen smirked. "Every damn day."
Then his eyes flicked back to Jihoon.
"And this one?" Stephen asked, squinting at Jihoon. "He looks like he hasn't slept since the Reagan era."
It wasn't entirely fair—just a case of bad timing. Jihoon had pulled an all-nighter in the editing room, trying to speed up the post-production on 'Inception'.
The dark circles under his eyes weren't a lifestyle; they were just the battle scars of a filmmaker chasing perfection.
Jihoon grinned. "I'm Jihoon. Director, writer, insomniac—take your pick."
Jim added with a chuckle, "And he's got a hell of a pitch for you."
Stephen leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
"Well," he said, "you've got about five minutes so make it count."
With that ominously casual blessing, the door creaked open wider, and the trio was ushered inside.
Stephen led them through a narrow hallway lined with dusty bookshelves, obscure movie posters, and enough odd trinkets to make a museum curator nervous.
Eventually, they landed in his study—a cozy room with a bay window, a massive oak desk, and the faint scent of old paper and strong espresso hanging in the air.
Stephen gestured toward the leather armchairs around a low coffee table.
"Sit," he said, pouring three steaming cups from a french press that looked like it had seen war.
He took the main chair for himself, fingers steepled, watching them like a cat sizing up three mice who'd wandered into his den voluntarily.
Jihoon glanced at Jim and gave a subtle nod.
In his mind, this wasn't the moment for introductions—it was strategy.
Let the pitch hook Stephen first, pull him in, then hit him with the big ask.
Jim caught the signal immediately and chuckled softly to himself. He knew exactly what Jihoon was doing: bait the hook, reel him in slowly.
Jim leaned forward and flashed a grin. "Step... we've got a wild idea. And it starts with this..."
He launched into the pitch with the charisma of a seasoned studio executive and the flair of a storyteller.
He talked about Paranormal Activity, how it redefined horror on a shoestring budget, how audiences craved fear that felt real.
Then he shifted gears, laying out the larger blueprint—the Ritualverse.
A cinematic horror universe not based on superheroes or multiverses, but something older.
Stranger. Rooted in global folklore, ancient myths, forgotten rituals.
They wanted to tie together existing horror franchises—yes, even IT and The Exorcist—into a shared mythos.
A dark epic where surviving one haunting was only the beginning.
As the pitch heated up, Peli opened his laptop and spun it toward Stephen. Sketches. Concept art. Mood boards.
Notes scribbled in the margins of ancient texts.
There were diagrams of Mayan altars, timelines of ritual events, and even a demonic possession flowchart.
The screen flickered through images of eerie symbols and shadowed figures.
Stephen's eyes stayed fixed on it. Exactly what Jihoon had hoped for.
At first, the legendary author wore the expression of a man politely indulging an overconfident pitch.
But minute by minute, his face changed. His brow furrowed in concentration.
His lips pressed tighter. Then twitched. Curiosity morphed into intrigue. Intrigue into delight.
Jihoon could almost hear the gears turning in his mind.
Now was the moment.
He leaned forward, voice calm but charged with conviction.
"Stephen, what we're building isn't just a connected horror IP franchise."
"It's a mythology. Something that feels buried in human history—almost too close for comfort."
"A world where surviving one evil just puts you closer to the next."
Stephen was already smiling.
But then, he surprised them.
"Jihoon—is that your name?" he asked suddenly.
Jihoon nodded, caught off guard by the shift in tone.
Stephen didn't wait. "This is... one of the most fascinating concepts I've heard in my entire life. Genuinely. But—"
He held up a finger.
"There's a problem. A storytelling gap, maybe..."
"From what I'm seeing, your universe is built on conflict."
"Pennywise feeds on fear. The Exorcist confronts possession. The aliens in Predator hunt humans for sport."
"It's all undoubtfully beautifully dark… but where's the counterbalance?"
"The hope?"
"I don't mean superheroes or comic relief—I mean salvation."
"A believable, grounded force that stands against this encroaching doom."
"Right now, the Ritualverse is a problem without a solution."
Jihoon grinned. That was the opening he'd been waiting for.
"That's exactly where The Exorcist comes in," he said, his voice steady and confident.
"The exorcist isn't just a man fighting demons—he's a symbol of a tradition passed down through history."
"They're flawed, vulnerable humans standing between pure evil and the rest of us. And our ancestors wouldn't have devoted their lives to this profession for nothing, right?"
"Take a Vatican priest or a cloistered nun, chanting from a medieval Bible—now imagine those verses inked in sacrificial blood. They weren't written as spells. They were codified rituals—designed to bind and constrain evil through repetition, belief, and psychological precision."
He let that sink in, then continued.
"Or a Taoist monk wielding talismans forged from the bones of demons once defeated by his ancestors. Not magical amulets—but primal relics. Objects steeped in generational memory and symbolic dominance. The kind of artifact you'd expect to find behind museum glass, humming with history."
His hands moved as he spoke, the energy building.
"Picture a Korean shaman pounding ritual drums, chanting ancient incantations—not to cast spells, but to overwhelm, confuse, and trap entities using rhythm, vibration, and sensory overload. A kind of weaponized neuroscience disguised as ceremony."
He paused, letting the idea land.
"These all aren't spells. They're just ancient systems of survival. Back than our ancestors didn't call it science—but that's what it was: biology, psychology, and sociology… wrapped in myth."
He looked at Stephen, his voice lowering but intensifying.
"It was all just ancient rules. Laws of nature that even darkness must obey. Just like how shadows retreat under the influence of distant heat and light, so too does darkness yield to the natural forces that expose it."
Stephen was nodding now, eyes sharp, his interest clearly piqued.
"So what I'm trying to say is.. we don't want capes or lasers," Jihoon continued.
"We want mysterious history, that date back to the origin of mankind."
"We want audiences to walk out of the theater wondering, what if this was real?"
"What if the rituals we dismiss today were once necessary for survival?"
"Why did those traditions exist in the first place?"
He smiled, locking eyes with Stephen.
"And if it stirs up a few conspiracy theories or historical rabbit holes—good. That means we did our job right."
He leaned back.
"That will be our salvation—no divine miracles, just humanity's own way of resisting."
A long silence followed.
The only sound was the faint hiss of the espresso machine cooling down in the next room.
Not only Stephen was intrigued by the pitch, but Jim and Peli were too.
The whole idea—and especially the vision of the finale—was settling in their minds.
Jihoon was essentially re-educating them on the cultural existence of human belief and religion, not as myth or magic, but through a scientific lens.
Though it seemed outrageous, but the dots of history are seem to be connecting, and sent a chill down their spines just listening to the theory.
Stephen slowly leaned back in his chair, letting the pitch settle over him like a dense fog.
Then, after a moment, he laughed—deep and clear.
"You sons of bitches," he said, grinning. "You might just pull this off."
[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe, JiangXiu, Daoistadj and Daoist098135 for bestowing the power stone!]