Time is like your mother's nag—her voice still travels through time to hunt you.
No matter how far you run, it always finds you, echoing through the corners of your day.
And today, as the Los Angeles sun blazed down over the set of The Departed, Jihoon could almost hear that voice again: nagging, warning, reminding him that patience was a virtue—and that perfection always came at a cost.
After weeks of preparation, The Departed had finally entered production stage.
The crew buzzed like a restless hive, moving across the half-finished set—rigging lights, dragging cables, testing sound levels, adjusting props that refused to stay put.
Everyone was working enthusiastically, though "enthusiasm" sometimes meant tripping over your own ambition.
It wasn't that the crew wasn't trying. They were just… new.
Really new.
Most of them came from Jihoon's in-house team at JH Pictures, a company that had only recently started handling large-scale Hollywood productions.
Before this, their work had been modest—projects like HCU, tight-budget films that didn't demand the precision of a big studio system.
The leap from a $1 million indie film to a $200 million studio crime thriller was like jumping from a pond into the Pacific Ocean.
The waves were different here, and the sharks were bigger.
Jihoon glanced up at the sun. It was almost noon.
"Looks like we won't start before lunch," he muttered under his breath.
The art department was still refining the set design.
They'd been at it since dawn, trying to align every detail—the layout of the dingy apartment, the lighting angles, the camera pathways.
Each tweak demanded another adjustment.
The film's look depended on precision, but the process was crawling.
Jihoon wasn't angry, though. Frustrated, maybe. But not angry.
Because this—this chaos—was necessary.
He knew what it meant to build a team from scratch.
Fox Studios had handled his earlier blockbuster, Inception, and their crew was a machine—oiled by experience, run by decades of professional instinct.
You could hand them a script and a week later they'd give you a flawless set, perfect lighting, and a schedule tighter than a Swiss watch.
But JH Pictures?
They were still learning to hold the wrench.
Jihoon could've called in Fox's people again, and the production would've moved faster, smoother, safer.
But that wasn't how you built independence.
He'd already decided long ago that JH wouldn't live forever under another company's shadow.
If Fox ever turned hostile, or if their partnership soured, JH couldn't afford to be paralyzed waiting for someone else's crew to show up.
They needed their own backbone—directors of photography, line producers, costume designers, location scouts, lighting engineers—the full machinery of a real studio.
A healthy company wasn't just a brand. It was a living organism, and its survival depended on professional competence.
And professionals had to be made, not borrowed.
So Jihoon made The Departed their trial by fire—a sandbox for his team to play, learn, and fail if necessary.
He'd rather spend extra time and money now than risk chaos on a future project like Assassin's Creed Universe, the big-budget beast simmering in his pipeline.
Plans rarely go as expected, though.
And in film, "rarely" meant "never."
Unlike his previous projects, which were small and simple—often shot with improvised lighting and minimal setup—The Departed demanded precision.
The sets weren't just backdrops; they were living, breathing worlds that reflected the tension of the story.
Each scene had to feel authentic, from the police precinct's flickering fluorescent lights to the gritty, claustrophobic alleys of Compton's underworld.
For Jihoon, it was both a challenge and a memory.
His last real mid-budget production had been handled by Fox's veteran team.
Back then, everything ran like a silent symphony—he'd almost forgotten what it felt like to get his hands dirty.
This time, it was different. This time, he had to rebuild the rhythm himself, alongside a team still finding its beat.
And yet, Jihoon's learning curve was different from everyone else's.
His instincts, his speed—those came from somewhere deeper, from another lifetime of experience.
He didn't just know what to do; he remembered what to do. His understanding of production—camera movement, lighting logic, actor dynamics—was decades ahead of his team's comprehension.
But he didn't show off. He guided them quietly, adjusting a light here, re-blocking a scene there, letting them take the credit so they could grow.
Once The Departed wrapped, he knew they'd never stumble the same way again.
After that, JH Pictures would finally be ready to take on Hollywood's A-list scale—special effects blockbusters, full studio collaborations, and maybe even that futuristic assassin epic he'd been dreaming of.
That was how progress worked: step by step, budget by budget.
In film, hierarchy was law.
Bigger budgets meant more complex logistics, stricter schedules, higher stakes—and bigger paychecks.
Every dollar added to a film's cost multiplied the responsibility.
Producers didn't just make movies; they managed chaos disguised as art.
"Boss," a voice interrupted his thoughts.
Jihoon turned. It was Adam, his assistant director.
Adam was only a few years older, an American with sun-streaked hair and an easy confidence.
Despite his casual tone, he was sharp, organized, and brutally efficient—a professional Jihoon had personally recruited through a headhunter company.
You needed people like him to balance the mix of veterans and rookies in the crew.
A production couldn't run on pure enthusiasm; it needed structure, someone who could turn creative mayhem into a functional schedule.
"What's wrong?" Jihoon asked.
Adam hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "Uh… there's someone outside asking for you."
"Who?" Jihoon didn't look up from the script in his hands. His eyes were scanning a dialogue rewrite for the next scene.
"Well, that's the thing…" Adam's tone dropped to a whisper, as if the set itself might eavesdrop.
"There's a bunch of girls outside. They say they're your friends—and apparently they booked an appointment to see you?"
Jihoon blinked. "Girls?"
"Yeah. Like, a group of them. They don't look like locals."
Adam leaned closer, lowering his voice even further. "Boss, this area isn't exactly… safe. I mean, we're in Compton."
Ah. That explained Adam's concern.
The production site today was on the south side of Los Angeles—specifically, that part of the city.
The one that had become infamous through songs, films, and headlines.
The kind of place where strangers didn't wander for sightseeing.
Even LA residents preferred to drive around it rather than through it.
The name Compton carried its own warning label.
Jihoon sighed. He already knew who they were.
"Let me guess—Taeyeon and the girls?"
Adam blinked. "You… know them?"
Jihoon smiled faintly. "Yeah. And no, I didn't invite them here. It was their idea."
He could already picture the scene outside: a bright yellow taxi pulling up in front of the grim industrial complex they were shooting in, and out stepped a cluster of impeccably styled Korean idols looking completely out of place among the cracked sidewalks and graffiti walls of Compton.
The thought almost made him laugh.
Only foreigner like them would decide to "drop by" a movie set in one of the most notorious neighborhoods in Los Angeles like it was a cafe meetup.
They hadn't seen each other in months.
The girls' schedules were packed with promotions and rehearsals, while Jihoon was buried in production work.
This spontaneous visit was squeezed between their engagements—a stolen hour to reconnect before their paths diverged again. It wasn't practical, but it was real. And he respected that.
"Did they come by car?" Jihoon asked.
"Taxi," Adam said. "The driver dropped them right at the gate. Security already checked them."
"Good." Jihoon nodded.
He was relieved.
The area wasn't safe for walking—especially not for a group of young teenage girl.
Fortunately, JH's security detail was already on-site.
All licensed guards, armed with permits for on-set firearm discharge in case of emergencies.
That was standard procedure when filming in volatile areas.
Still, Jihoon wasn't naive.
In Los Angeles, especially neighborhoods like this, you didn't just rely on official protection.
You relied on permission—the kind that came from the streets themselves.
Before the shoot began, JH had coordinated through Fox Studios' local liaison to negotiate with the neighborhood's underground figures—the so-called "rental fee."
It wasn't official, and it wasn't pretty, but it was how outdoor filming worked in high-risk districts.
You paid respect, paid the fee, and you got peace.
Skip that step, and your film would be interrupted by sudden "accidents"—a fight breaking out in the middle of your frame, a power generator mysteriously disappearing, or worse, your cameras getting stolen.
Jihoon had learned long ago: some rules weren't written in law, but in survival.
And when you were on someone else's turf, you didn't contradict—you complied.
Thankfully, the shoot on this street would only last two or three days.
He could afford to pay the extra cost.
The insurance alone was worth the peace of mind.
What mattered most was getting the footage they needed—fast, clean, and uninterrupted.
"Alright," Jihoon said finally, standing up. "Bring them in. But make sure security's tight."
Adam nodded, still looking half-bewildered. "Got it, boss."
As Jihoon walked toward the gate, the noise of the set faded behind him—hammers, shouts, the clatter of metal scaffolding blending into a rhythm that somehow mirrored his thoughts. Time was like his mother's voice indeed: persistent, impatient, echoing reminders of what still needed to be done.