The theater lights came on, washing the room in a soft amber glow.
For a moment, no one moved.
Everyone just sat there, staring at the completely blacked-out screen, as if waiting for something else to appear.
The sense of lingering unease was thick—like the air hadn't yet decided whether the film was truly over.
It felt abrupt, almost surgical in its ending.
Just when the tension reached its peak, everything was cut off, leaving nothing but silence.
Some people whispered; others stared, wide-eyed, unsure whether to clap or question what they had just seen.
To be honest, the HCU post-credit scenes had long become a genre of their own—short, sharp, and provocative.
They didn't need to drag on.
They were designed to haunt you after the movie ended, the kind of tease that kept fans awake at night scrolling through theories online.
Compared to the previous two films in the Horror Cinematic Universe, Buried revealed far more information—too much, some argued.
It connected dots that fans didn't even know existed, and then, just as answers seemed within reach, it snatched them away again.
A few seats down, a group of audience broke the silence.
"So Paul is Subject 9527?" one of them whispered.
"I doubt it," another replied. "He seems more like he was infected from the beginning. The rescue was probably a setup—a trap to lure the SCP in."
"What's his power then? Controlling oxygen or something?"
"Maybe," said a third voice. "But I guess we'll only know when the SCP website updates."
"Ugh, it's so annoying! Why didn't Lee just pull up the containment data on screen? Now we've gotta go dig through the website for clues again."
"Obviously it's for promotion, dude," someone said with a laugh.
"Don't forget—Lee's not just a director. Fox and JH are still companies. They don't just make films; they build ecosystems. The more you click, the more they earn. Every ad view, every theory thread—that's marketing gold."
Their chatter filled the room like radio noise.
Jihoon leaned back in his seat, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
He had organized this private viewing for his close circle, HCU's fans and a few industry insiders, but sometimes he regretted his generosity.
The excitement was flattering, sure—but the noise was unbearable.
He smiled politely anyway. It was part of the act.
A good filmmaker knew how to let mystery breathe.
If he explained everything, the HCU would lose its magic.
The whole franchise thrived on secrecy—each Easter egg leading to another riddle, each SCP entry fueling the next movie's anticipation.
Jihoon understood that suspense wasn't just a storytelling device; it was a marketing strategy.
The mystery was the brand.
So he stayed quiet.
If they wanted answers, they'd have to buy tickets for the next film—or, more likely, spend their night decoding encrypted files on the SCP Foundation website.
That was the beauty of cinematic universes.
Once you got people hooked, they couldn't escape.
Even if they weren't interested in the next movie, curiosity would pull them back. It was an infinite marketing loop—self-sustaining, addictive, profitable.
When a new HCU film dropped, even casual moviegoers found themselves checking out the trailer.
Curiosity alone could move millions. Jihoon didn't need to rely on traditional marketing anymore.
The universe sold itself.
"Alright, alright," Jihoon finally said, raising his hand to quiet the group. "If you all really want to know the answers, check the SCP site. Every time the box office passes one million, a portion of the data unlocks. That's how we keep the suspense alive."
Groans and laughter erupted instantly.
One fan threw him a dramatic side-eye. "You're impossible, Lee. You hook us with your film, then send us on a scavenger hunt like it's some pay-to-win game."
Another joked, "Yeah, man, you're like a dealer. Give us a taste, then charge us for the next fix."
The crowd burst into laughter.
Jihoon could only grin, unbothered. T
hey weren't entirely wrong.
The analogy was crude but fitting—his films gave audiences an emotional high, and when it was over, they craved more.
It wasn't arrogance; it was architecture.
Every HCU installment was built like a puzzle box—part story, part viral campaign.
And people loved being part of the chase.
As the audience filed out, Jihoon caught fragments of conversations—fans debating theories, speculating about timelines, or ranting about hidden codes embedded in the credits.
A few were already typing on their phones, probably posting first impressions online.
Good. That was the ripple effect he wanted.
A movie ends, but the conversation continues—and that conversation sells the next ticket.
By the time the theater emptied, Jihoon felt the fatigue settle in. The excitement was rewarding, but the noise still rang in his ears.
He adjusted his jacket, preparing to leave, when Leonardo DiCaprio caught up to him near the exit.
Leo had been uncharacteristically quiet during the viewing, sitting in the back with his cap pulled low, observing everything—the movie, the audience, and Jihoon himself.
"Lee," Leo said, walking alongside him toward the parking lot, "mind elaborating on that project you mentioned earlier?"
Jihoon glanced at him. "You mean the one I mention previously?"
Leo nodded.
His tone was casual, but his eyes betrayed something else—a hunger, a spark.
It wasn't about money.
For someone of Leo's stature, that part had long stopped mattering.
What still mattered—what still haunted him—was the chase for legacy.
The one thing he had wanted all his life: the Best Actor title that had somehow eluded him for years.
And worse, Ryan Reynolds had gotten there first.
Ryan's Cannes win for Buried had been a sting Leo couldn't shake.
Sure, he'd laughed about it earlierjust now, joking about how "the wrong Ryan" had won—but underneath the humor was a flicker of envy.
Leo had been in Hollywood longer, carried more classics, survived more nominations, and yet… the statue went to someone else.
That was why he was asking now. He wanted in—on whatever Jihoon was planning next.
Jihoon started the car and leaned back, eyes on the road but a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Like I said earlier—it's a new attempt. A film that uses famous painting as a medium to translate mental illness and time travel. Still part of the HCU series."
He paused, glancing sideways at Leo. "You sure you want to know more?"
"Mental illness, painting, and time travel?" Leo repeated slowly, as if tasting the words. "That's… quite a mix."
Anyone with experience in film genres could see how strange that combination sounded.
Time travel screamed science fiction; mental illness leaned toward psychological drama; and painting implied something introspective, even biographical.
Individually, they were strong.
Combined, they made no sense.
Leo frowned slightly.
He had worked with eccentric directors before, but this sounded like a recipe for chaos.
Still, he had learned one thing in his decades-long career: sometimes, the projects that sounded the strangest ended up defining cinema.
And Jihoon was no ordinary director.
Ever since his arrival in Hollywood, the man had rewritten the rules of modern filmmaking.
From Get Out to Buried, each project seemed impossible on paper—but Jihoon turned impossibility into art.
He didn't just make films; he constructed worlds.
Worlds that breathed, haunted, and whispered to you long after the credits rolled.
No one underestimated him anymore.
Leo sat quietly for a moment, thinking.
Hesitation could be a virus.
In this business, playing safe was sometimes the most dangerous move of all.
A good actor could dodge bad scripts, sure—but sometimes, in dodging one, you missed the masterpiece.