Early Morning, Late January 2007.
The biting chill of a late January morning wrapped around Seoul like a half-finished dream—cold, quiet, and tinted in gray.
But inside Jihoon's apartment, things had finally begun to settle.
The chaos that once hovered— those hidden agendas, underhanded motives, and subtle manipulations that had surrounded Jihoon for weeks—had faded into a distant murmur.
Life, for the first time in a long while, was starting to feel… normal.
And with that normalcy came the return of daily routines, and the minor, amusing irritations that defined them.
Jieun sat slouched at the dining table, her head resting on her folded arms, hair a fluffy mess from sleep, eyes barely half-open.
The air still smelled faintly of yesterday's excitement—the midnight gaming marathon they'd accidentally fallen into when Jihoon finally unboxed the brand-new PS3 console he had preordered months ago.
It had arrived just before Christmas, but they hadn't really gotten around to playing it until now.
For Jieun, raised in a house where video games were considered distractions and a pure luxury.
She hadn't realized how addictive it could be—just one more round, one more level, one more match.
Now, however, her body was demanding sleep, and neither her school nor Jihoon seemed ready to grant her that mercy.
From the open-plan kitchen, the sound of sizzling eggs and the warm scent of toast began to fill the apartment.
Jihoon stood by the stove, flipping a sunny-side-up egg with a precision that came from muscle memory, not enthusiasm.
He glanced at the toaster, waiting for it to pop, while a pan of hash browns crackled gently beside him.
Behind him, a groggy voice cut through the silence.
"Oppa… is there any coffee left? I think I need it," Jieun mumbled, not even lifting her head.
Jihoon peeked his head out from behind the fridge door, raising a brow. "Oh? Our Jieun's growing up now? Starting your day with coffee like a proper adult?"
He grinned, his tone playful and exaggerated, as if she'd just asked for a glass of whiskey instead.
Jieun groaned and lifted her face just enough to squint at him. "I'm too tired to deal with you right now. I need caffeine. Not your commentary."
"But you've never touched the real stuff," Jihoon teased. "You only drink those sugary dessert drinks from Starbucks. This is the real deal. Black. Bitter. Brutal."
"I don't care," she muttered, rubbing her eyes. "If it keeps me awake, pour it straight into my veins."
Jihoon chuckled and turned back to the stove. "Aigoo, our maknae really is trying to act like an adult. What's next, taxes?"
"Oppa, it is way too early for your nonsense so please don't start it."
He laughed again, clearly enjoying himself. "Alright, alright. I'll bring it out with breakfast. One bitter cup of character development, coming up."
Not long after, he placed two plates down on the table—crispy hash browns, golden toast, and perfectly cooked eggs, complete with a steaming mug of coffee beside Jieun's plate.
She stared at the cup like it was a potion that might either save or destroy her.
"Drink it while it's hot," Jihoon said, sliding into the seat across from her. "It will tastes like your adulthood, trust me."
They ate in a comfortable silence, with Jihoon doing most of the talking—sharing random updates about his day ahead, the office, and basically his entire schedule.
Meanwhile, Jieun, still half-asleep, responded only with the occasional nod or grunt, her mind far too foggy to offer anything coherent.
Breakfast ended without much ceremony.
Plates were cleared, mugs rinsed, and soon both of them were dressed—Jihoon in a crisp blazer and jeans, Jieun in her school uniform, scarf loosely wrapped around her neck.
One thing had changed recently: Jihoon had finally gotten his driver's license.
Thanks to a few quiet calls and some influential family strings being pulled, the process had been expedited.
But Jihoon didn't rely on favoritism alone. With memories from two lives stitched into one, he had more than enough experience behind the wheel.
Driving through Seoul's morning traffic felt less like a chore and more like a game he'd already mastered.
The car ride was quiet, but not awkward. The kind of silence that forms between people who no longer feel the need to fill every second with words.
Jihoon pulled up to the front gate of Jieun's high school, the morning traffic crawling like a sleepy centipede behind them.
As she reached for the door handle, still groggy from their late-night gaming marathon, he rolled down the window with a mischievous glint in his eye.
"Try not to fall asleep in class today," he said, casually drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
"If you get caught, just tell them you were up all night saving the world."
Jieun stepped out, slinging her backpack onto one shoulder. She leaned back in and gave him a flat, unimpressed look. "I'll tell them it was your fault for buying that stupid PS3."
"Even better," Jihoon replied with a devilish grin. "I'll let your friends know you still pee the bed when you dream too hard."
Jieun's jaw dropped. "Ya!" she yelled, as if she couldn't believe the sheer slander coming out of Jihoon's mouth.
But before she could fire back, Jihoon hit the gas and melted into the river of traffic, one arm out the window, waving dramatically like a prince in exile.
In his mind, he could already hear her shouting in disbelief, probably throwing invisible rocks at the back of his car.
He chuckled to himself. Totally worth it.
By 9 a.m., Jihoon was already seated in his office, high above the humming streets of Seoul.
Outside his window, the skyline stretched into a pale winter sky, the January chill visible only in the faint condensation clinging to the glass.
Inside, the room was warm, busy—but in that focused, measured way that spoke of a day already underway.
His shirt collar sat open at the neck, his blazer was slung over the back of his chair without a second thought, and a steaming mug of black coffee—his third of the morning—rested just to the right of his keyboard.
On the desk before him was a stack of paperwork so thick it could be weaponized—quarterly reports, investor updates, internal reviews, and the latest pitches from his ever-ambitious media team.
But Jihoon's eyes weren't skimming numbers or forecasts just yet.
Instead, his attention lingered on one specific file—the performance report of his film 'Your Name'.
He leaned back, the chair creaking slightly, and tapped a pen thoughtfully against his lips.
In Korea, the box office numbers sat around $11 million.
Almost terrible, far from what he expected.
It stung a little, he had to admit. After all the long nights, the heated debates in editing rooms, the heart poured into every frame—was this really all the domestic market had to give in return?
Then again, he had never expected the road to be easy. Not after the scandal.
The swirling storm of accusations, faceless online attacks, and tabloid headlines that turned his name from a rising star to a cautionary tale—it hadn't sunk the film, but it had definitely left bruises.
Not just on the project, but on Jihoon himself.
Each headline had chipped away at trust, especially among the older, more conservative crowd.
And yet... not everyone turned away.
Thankfully, the younger audience didn't seem to care much about internet gossip or corporate politics.
They saw the story instead, not the scandal. And that, in itself, meant something to him.
Still, Jihoon knew better than to hang everything on Korea's response. He flipped the page in the report—and there it was.
Japan: $137 million.
In just seven weeks.
He exhaled quietly, a half-laugh escaping his lips. A cultural phenomenon—that was the only way to describe it.
No Korean film had ever come close to those numbers in the history of filmmaking—let alone one directed by a newcomer still dragging the chains of controversy.
He could already imagine tomorrow being a field day for entertainment reporters.
According to projections from his distribution team, the film was tracking toward $300 million worldwide. Some even whispered about awards potential.
But Jihoon didn't need to hope. He knew. He had seen this play out before—in another life, in another timeline. These weren't dreams; they were memories.
Back then, 'Your Name' had closed with a global gross of $357 million.
If the math was right—and it usually was—he'd be looking at a 30% net return after production, marketing, and distribution expenses.
That meant a staggering $107 million in pure profit.
As for SM Entertainment, who had taken a calculated 20% stake in the film's investment...
They'd walk away with $21 million. Nearly triple what they earned on their last collaboration, 'Secret'.
Jihoon could already picture Lee Sooman's smug, with satisfied smile, when he saw the numbers.
Jihoon chuckled softly.
The man hadn't exactly rushed to his defense when the scandal broke.
But Jihoon didn't hold it against him.
Everyone had their priorities, and loyalty was a rare currency in this industry.
Still, the next time they negotiated a project, the terms would be different.
Jihoon had brought far more to the table than SM all this while—and the balance needed correcting.
He glanced down at the budget breakdown—$8 million in total production cost, with nearly 75% allocated to the stunning visual effects and animation that had become the film's signature.
The cast?
Mostly up-and-coming names, still hungry, still grateful.
His so called mother, veteran actress Kim Haesook, had taken the highest fee—just $50,000. A gift, really, given her stature. But with this success, Jihoon didnt mind to give them a bonus, like what he does on his previous film.
Now with financial stability finally in place, he could now breathe—and look forward.
There were plans waiting for his greenlight: the land acquisition in Mapo District, overseas studio expansions, and the strategic reserves he was quietly building for the looming 2008 financial crisis.
Everything was lined up like chess pieces.
All that remained was for Jaehyun, his sharp and unshakable right-hand man, to make the next move.
Another page turned—this time, a report on Director Yoon Jongbin.
'Shoplifters'—their next film. A gritty, deeply human story they both believed in, and Jongbin's award-winning piece at Cannes this year.
It's casting phase had been... rocky.
The lingering aftertaste of Jihoon's scandal still scared off many of Korea's top-tier actors.
Some declined politely, others were just stopped answering his calls.
But as the tide began to turn—as audiences and critics alike began recognizing Jihoon's talent beyond the noise—those same names started circling back.
But Jongbin wasn't interested after that.
Jongbin—the Jongbin Jihoon knew—wasn't just an ordinary director.
He was an idealist to his core.
A man who refused to compromise for the sake of convenience or commercial appeal.
That stubborn integrity was what had drawn Jihoon to him in the first place.
He didn't care for red carpets or box office projections. He cared about truth. About storytelling that mattered.
So when the backlash from Jihoon's scandal sent shockwaves through the industry and made A-list actors skittish, Jongbin didn't flinch.
What he did was cross every name off the original casting list—names that agents had fought tooth and nail to include, names that would've guaranteed headlines and ticket sales.
He wanted a clean slate. No big stars. No safe bets. No polished PR plays.
Just their talent, their souls, and their ability to embody the pain, joy, and complexity of both the characters on screen—and in real life.
For Jongbin, loyalty mattered just as much as it did for Jihoon. If you couldn't stand by them during the hard times, then you had no place celebrating with them in the good.
So when he brought the idea to Jihoon, there was hesitation in his voice.
Not doubt—just awareness.
Starting over meant delays. It meant the budget would stretch.
The timelines would move. Investors like SM might get nervous.
But Jihoon didn't even blink. Instead, he told him,
"Hyung," he said, his voice steady, "do what you believe in. I've got your back."
And that was all Jongbin needed to hear.
With Jihoon's backing, Jongbin threw open the casting doors again—this time hunting for raw, undiscovered talent. People who could breathe truth into the roles.
Jihoon smiled faintly as he read through the list of new names being considered, and Changwook's name was listed too. It seemed like loyalty was being displayed in another way.
The pen stopped tapping, signaling that Jihoon's attention had shifted away from the report. His coffee was still warm, and his office was as quiet as it always was.
Yes, normalcy had returned.
But Jihoon knew his world too well.
In his world, normal never lasted.
[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe for bestowing the power stone!]