Rising Attention

With the rising attention on Jihoon, his life was no longer his own.

Privacy, once taken for granted, became a fleeting luxury. Reporters lurked around campus, cameras flashing whenever he stepped outside. Media outlets flooded him with interview requests, eager to capitalize on his growing fame.

What was once a peaceful routine had turned into a chaotic spectacle. Simple walks through campus transformed into impromptu press conferences.

Grabbing a coffee meant being stopped by strangers, some offering praise, others masking jealousy behind polite smiles. He felt their stares—some filled with admiration, others laced with envy.

His film had cemented his status as a promising filmmaker, but his age became an easy target. The older, more seasoned directors scoffed at his success, their years of struggle making it unbearable to watch someone so young achieve what they had yet to grasp.

They whispered in the shadows of the industry, discrediting his talent, attributing his accomplishments to sheer luck or nepotism.

Online, rumors spread like wildfire—claims that Jihoon had been handed everything on a silver platter, that he lacked the depth or experience to truly understand the craft.

The pressure to maintain a pristine public image was suffocating. Every word he spoke in interviews was dissected.

His every action was scrutinized, twisted into something it wasn't. The carefree moments of his youth slipped through his fingers, replaced by a relentless awareness that every move he made could become tomorrow's headline.

But Jihoon wasn't naive. He knew that not all of this was organic. Someone was pulling strings behind the scenes, orchestrating this smear campaign against him.

Resentment in the industry was nothing new, but the intensity of these attacks suggested something more—a personal grudge, a competitor who saw him as a threat.

Yet, none of these attempts to tarnish his name gained traction.

Kim Mikyeong ensured that. As a powerhouse in the industry, she understood the stakes. Jihoon wasn't just another rising star—he was a brand, a symbol of Korean cinema's potential on the international stage.

She moved swiftly, leveraging her influence to silence the rumors before they could take root. Articles were taken down before they could gain momentum, reporters were redirected toward more favorable narratives, and the industry was quietly reminded of the consequences of stepping out of line.

When Jihoon learned of Mikyeong's intervention, he wasn't surprised. He had never mistaken her support for familial kindness.

She wasn't protecting him out of sentiment—he was an investment, a carefully curated image that she had no intention of allowing to be stained.

Jihoon didn't resent her for it. He understood the nature of the game. In this industry, power dictated survival, and at this moment, she held more of it than he did.

For now, the wisest choice was to disappear from the public eye. Let the storm pass. He couldn't fight battles he wasn't prepared for. If he wanted to truly establish himself, he needed to bide his time, focus on his craft, and grow beyond being just a promising talent.

Jihoon knew that the only way to shift public attention away from himself was to create something bigger than gossip—something so compelling that it would drown out the whispers and speculation entirely.

Scandals were fleeting, but films? Films had the power to define an era. They could captivate, inspire, and most importantly, make people forget.

And he had just the right script to do it.

This time, however, he wouldn't be the one sitting in the director's chair. He had a vision, yes—but this film needed a different touch, someone who could bring out the raw, unfiltered energy it demanded.

In his past life, this movie had been a game-changer, a box office phenomenon that grossed over $42 million domestically. It wasn't an art-house masterpiece, nor did it sweep international awards, but it had carved out a place in the hearts of millions, becoming a beloved cultural staple.

Now, Jihoon had the chance to bring it back. And this time, he would do it even better.

With the script polished and finalized, Jihoon wasted no time. He picked up his phone and made the call.

"Hyung, come to my office. I have something for you."

An hour later, Yoon Jongbin walked in, his expression composed but curious. He had only recently begun making a name for himself—his directorial work had shown promise, even earning him recognition at Cannes, but he was still an outsider in Korea's fiercely competitive film industry. The weight of his potential was heavy, but he lacked the power to truly capitalize on it.

He took a seat across from Jihoon, his sharp gaze scanning the office before settling on him.

"Boss, you wanted to see me?"

Jihoon barely reacted to the title. Whether it was "Boss," "Director Lee," or just Jihoon, he didn't care. Formalities were a waste of time—what mattered were results.

Instead of responding immediately, Jihoon reached for the stack of papers on his desk and slid it across to Jongbin.

"Hyung, I have a script for you," he said, his tone steady, his confidence unwavering. "I want you to direct it."

Jongbin raised an eyebrow before picking up the script. The title—"200 Pounds Beauty"—was printed boldly on the cover. He thumbed through the first few pages, skimming the dialogue, the scene descriptions, the pacing. His brows knit together slightly.

Jihoon leaned back in his chair, watching him closely. Then, he spoke again.

"This isn't an award film. It's a commercial film. But I guarantee you, it'll be one of the top three highest-grossing films in Korea this year."

Jongbin remained silent, his fingers tracing the edges of the script. Jihoon could already sense the hesitation bubbling beneath his composed exterior.

Jongbin wasn't just a director—he was an artist.

A purist.

He had spent years refining his craft, immersing himself in the language of cinema, studying the greats, and dissecting the nuances of storytelling.

To him, films were more than entertainment; they were statements. They were meant to evoke, to challenge, to mean something.

And commercial films? They weren't part of his vision.

He had built his career believing that success wasn't measured in ticket sales but in impact—the kind that lingers, that shapes conversations long after the credits roll. His aspirations weren't tied to box office numbers but to festivals, critical acclaim, and the kind of recognition that couldn't be bought.

Jihoon knew all of this. He had seen that fire in Jongbin's eyes long before he sat across from him now, hesitating with the script in his hands.

And that hesitation was exactly why Jihoon leaned forward, his voice calm but edged with quiet authority.

"Hyung," he began, his gaze steady, unreadable. "I know what you're thinking."

The room was silent except for the faint rustle of pages as Jongbin's fingers traced over the script. Jihoon continued, his words deliberate.

"You want to make something meaningful."

"Something that will be remembered." He let the words settle, watching as Jongbin's expression flickered with doubt, conflict.

"But trust me—this is exactly what you need right now."

He let that last word land with weight.

"This film will establish you in the industry."

"Not just as a recognizable name, but as a director whose voice carries weight—and for that, you need a box office hit."

"It will give you leverage, influence—the kind that matters."

"And when you have that, when you're not just a promising director but a proven one, then you can make the films you really want to make."

"No compromises. No limitations."

Jongbin inhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

He knew Jihoon wasn't wrong.

Talent alone wasn't enough.

He had seen brilliant directors get buried under the industry machine, their potential wasted because they lacked the power to dictate their own projects.

And right now, he didn't have that power.

Jihoon could see the internal battle playing out in Jongbin's head. So, he went for the final push—the deal Jongbin couldn't ignore.

"Hyung," Jihoon said, voice softer now, but unwavering. "Once this film succeeds, I'll give you another script."

"One that will win you an award."

A long silence stretched between them. The weight of Jihoon's words settled over Jongbin like a slow, inevitable realization.

He exhaled through his nose, his grip tightening around the script. Jihoon didn't make empty promises. If he said this film would be a hit, it would be a hit.

Finally, Jongbin nodded. Slowly at first, then with more certainty.

"I understand," he murmured, his voice quieter now, more introspective. "I need to establish myself first."

He glanced down at the script again, his fingers tracing its edges before adding, "But I still need to study more about it before I give you an answer."

Jihoon smirked, leaning back in his chair, folding his arms with easy confidence.

"Of course. Take your time, hyung." He tilted his head slightly, the certainty in his voice unmistakable. "But I already know what your answer will be."

Jongbin scoffed, shaking his head—but he didn't argue.

Something about Jihoon's confidence was infectious.

Jihoon's decision to have Jongbin direct this film wasn't just about launching a successful project—it was about proving a point.

The rumors weren't random whispers in the industry; they were calculated attempts to undermine him, spread by directors who refused to acknowledge his talent.

They wanted to paint him as an outsider, a fluke, someone who got lucky.

But Jihoon had no interest in petty rivalries.

He wasn't here to make enemies—he was here to reshape the industry on his own terms.

And what better way to do that than by creating another powerhouse director?

If Jongbin succeeded, Jihoon's influence would be undeniable.

It wouldn't just be his name headlining success stories—it would be his vision, his script, his backing that turned another filmmaker into a household name.

His doubters would be forced to confront the truth: Jihoon wasn't just a fleeting sensation.

He was a force in the industry.

But beyond that, Jihoon understood how the game worked.

Public perception mattered.

If this film became a blockbuster, the attention wouldn't be solely on him—it would be split.

Jongbin would share the spotlight, absorbing part of the scrutiny that would otherwise be aimed entirely at Jihoon.

And in doing so, it would cement Jihoon's position not as an anomaly, but as a fixture in the industry.

He wouldn't be standing alone in the storm—he'd have Jongbin right there beside him.

As for the other directors?

If they were smart, they'd read between the lines.

This wasn't luck. Jihoon could keep producing success.

He could deliver, again and again.

And when they realized that, they wouldn't waste their energy trying to tear him down. They'd do the only logical thing left—they'd come to him for partnerships.

Because Jihoon didn't believe in making unnecessary enemies. Given the choice, he'd always rather have allies.

[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe for bestowing the power stone!]