Los Angeles, River House Condominiums — Leonardo DiCaprio's Bachelor Penthouse
The sun was sliding down over the Pacific, painting the Los Angeles skyline with strokes of orange and violet.
On the top floor of the River House Condominiums, Leonardo DiCaprio's penthouse terrace glowed in the dusk — a seamless blend of Hollywood luxury and quiet seclusion.
A small dining table was set near the glass railing, two plates of medium-well steak steaming under the amber light, and a bottle of Chateau Margaux breathing between them.
Jihoon sat across from Leo, fork in hand, watching the golden reflection of the city ripple in the wine glass.
The view was surreal — the kind of thing that made you wonder if success ever really felt real.
Tonight wasn't about celebration, though. It was business — the kind that required charm, strategy, and a little bit of risk.
He came to discuss the production schedule of The Departed — a film he'd been planning for months.
Initially, Jihoon didn't want to rearrange his project lineup.
His Horror Cinematic Universe (HCU) was running smoothly, profitable, and low-cost.
But The Departed was different.
It wasn't just another mid-budget genre flick; it was going to be a colossal project — a Hollywood crime epic.
According to his own calculations, the estimated budget would land somewhere between $190 million and $250 million.
That wasn't surprising.
Every actor on the cast list was A-lister, and with that came an A-list price tag.
But if it worked, it could become the kind of project that defined careers — and more importantly, bridged markets.
Jihoon cut into his steak, the scent of butter and rosemary drifting in the warm evening breeze.
He took a bite, swallowed, and looked across the table.
"Leo," he said, casually swirling the wine, "how's your schedule looking for the next few months?"
Leonardo wiped his mouth with a napkin and raised an eyebrow. "Why? You planning to start The Departed soon?"
Jihoon nodded. "Yeah. Things changed faster than I expected. JH is revising our entire production timeline."
Leo smiled. "Well, you're in luck. I just wrapped Revolutionary Road. So, I've got a window before I jump into anything else."
"That's good to hear," Jihoon said with a faint smile. "I'm still finalizing the shoot dates, but I'll let you know once the schedule's locked."
"Take your time," Leo said, sipping his wine. "I'll be in L.A. for a while anyway."
The conversation drifted into silence as they both focused on their food.
But Jihoon's mind wasn't at the table anymore — it was already somewhere else.
Technically speaking, The Departed wasn't an original film.
It was adapted from the Hong Kong crime classic film called Infernal Affairs, a story of double lives and moral decay that had already left its mark on Asian cinema.
Some directors might have dismissed the idea of redoing a film that had already achieved cult status.
But for Jihoon, that was exactly what made it perfect.
He wasn't just trying to remake a movie — he was building a bridge between East and West.
Adapting a proven Asian masterpiece into a Hollywood production meant something more strategic.
It wasn't just about storytelling; it was about cultural calibration.
If done right, The Departed could be the blueprint for global filmmaking — a film that satisfied both the emotional sensibilities of Eastern audiences and the cinematic appetite of Western viewers.
Jihoon understood this better than anyone.
Global blockbusters were hard to make because tastes weren't universal.
What one culture found thrilling, another might find strange or even distasteful.
Take the 2012 hit Ted for example.
In America, it was a comedy sensation — a foul-mouthed teddy bear, crude jokes, and all.
It grossed over $550 million worldwide, becoming one of the highest-grossing comedies of its time.
But in Asia? It bombed spectacularly.
China pulled in only $2.7 million, Japan $5.5 million, and South Korea just $7.7 million — a drop in the bucket compared to its U.S. gross of $218 million.
Why?
Because the very things that made Ted hilarious in the West — its vulgarity, its references to American pop culture, its irreverence toward childhood icons — clashed with Asian values.
In the East, a teddy bear wasn't a vessel for adult humor.
It was a symbol of innocence, nostalgia, and warmth.
Turning it into a profanity-spewing mascot didn't translate — not linguistically, not emotionally, not culturally.
Many of well-know director had learned that the hard way.
And this time, Jihoon wasn't going to repeat Hollywood's mistakes.
He leaned back in his chair, the city lights flickering in his eyes.
The Departed would be his test case — the first step in creating something much bigger than a film.
In his past life, the movie had already proven its power. Directed by Scorsese, it had grossed $132 million domestically on a $90 million budget, won four Academy Awards — Best Picture, Best Director, Best Adapted Screenplay, and Best Editing.
It wasn't just a success; it was validation that smart adaptations could transcend borders.
But this time, Jihoon was planning to take it even further.
The production would be grander, the scale bigger, and the tone more intricate. He wasn't aiming to simply remake The Departed — he wanted to reforge it into the cornerstone of a new cinematic world.
Something that could live beyond the film itself.
He called it ACU — the Assassin's Creed Cinematic Universe.
Yes, that's Assassin's Creed.
The game that, in his previous life, would go on to become one of the most iconic franchises in modern gaming.
But here — in this timeline — it didn't exist yet.
According to his memory, the first Assassin's Creed should have already been released on Xbox last year, with Ubisoft beginning development as early as 2004.
But when Jihoon checked the landscape of this world's gaming industry, there was no trace of it.
No whispers, no development news, nothing.
That was when he realized he had an opportunity — one that came once in a lifetime.
So he did what Jihoon always did best: he moved first.
Through JH Digital Arts, he formed a creative branch in Seoul, he began quietly developing Assassin's Creed way months ago.
He had already written the full narrative blueprint — the historical eras, the secret order of Assassins, the Animus concept, everything.
But he wasn't just making a game.
He was building a brand — one that would unite gaming and film under a single cinematic banner.
If done right, the ACU would be more than a crossover.
It would be a cultural phenomenon — merging narrative storytelling from film with the interactive immersion of gaming.
It would be, in his words, "the first living cinematic universe."
He thought back to Blizzard's Warcraft film in his past life, a project that tried and failed to connect both mediums.
But Jihoon had something Blizzard didn't: a plan, and the advantage of hindsight.
"Hey," Leonardo's voice snapped him out of thought. "You spaced out there for a second. Something on your mind?"
Jihoon smiled faintly, swirling his wine again. "Just… thinking about the next big step."
Leo smirked. "You mean The Departed?"
"Something beyond that," Jihoon replied. "Let's just say, I'm not just building a film. I'm building a world."
Leonardo laughed. "A world, huh? Sounds ambitious — even for you."
"Ambition is all I've got," Jihoon said, his eyes catching the dying light of the sunset. "And I plan to use it."
Leo raised his glass. "Then here's to that. To ambition — and to The Departed."
They clinked glasses, the crystal ringing like a quiet promise over the city below.