Dinner with Jim

To Jihoon, this wager with Fox wasn't just a bold gamble— it was the only real move left on the board.

Is it risky? Absolutely.

But in the world he was navigating, a world where every piece was manipulated by unseen hands, boldness wasn't optional.

It was survival.

The deal might raise eyebrows, but for Jihoon, it made perfect sense.

He understood all too well the forces that operated behind closed doors — the chaebols, the silent elite, the invisible hands that tugged at the strings of everything from media conglomerates to politics to start-up financing.

In Korea, doing business wasn't just about having a great idea — it was about learning to breathe in a room already filled with smoke and mirrors.

He knew the truth most refused to say aloud: in his country, power didn't just accumulate — it compounded.

The rich didn't just stay rich — they built fortresses around their wealth, passed down through generations, guarded by layers of connections, laws, and legacy.

The poor?

They either got poorer or stayed exactly where they were.

The so-called middle class?

Mostly just future employees, suppliers, or acquisitions.

If you built something good, they'd buy you out.

If you refused, they'd either box you in or squeeze you out.

And if you were too brilliant to ignore, they'd offer you just enough comfort to compromise your fire — or else, you left.

You took your dreams overseas, to somewhere with more room and less glass ceilings.

And honestly? That made a kind of cruel sense.

South Korea was a small country — geographically compact, resource-scarce, and densely populated.

It didn't have the luxury of sprawling opportunity or vast natural wealth.

Competition here wasn't a motivator; it was a crucible. A pressure cooker that favored a select few and squeezed everyone else to the edges.

That's why the entertainment industry became so vital — not just culturally, but politically too.

It was one of the few places where the narrative could be rewritten.

Where a kid from nowhere could become someone the whole world listened to.

Yes, even K-pop and dramas danced on a stage built by the elite — but at least the performers had a chance to be seen. To rise. To fight their way up through talent, timing, and sheer will.

It wasn't perfect. It was still rigged in many ways.

But compared to the rest of the economy, it was one of the few arenas where the rules weren't entirely locked — where an ordinary person could still throw a punch.

Even so, Jihoon knew better than to romanticize it.

The country, Jihoon knew, was shackled by forces far more entrenched than laws or elections.

If you really wanted to understand how deep the roots went, you only had to look at the presidency — the so-called highest office in this country.

By 2025, thirteen people had sat in that chair. Of them, only one had walked away unscathed.

The rest? Assassinated. Imprisoned. Publicly humiliated. Ruined.

That wasn't coincidence — it was choreography.

A silent but clear message from the invisible architects of power saying:

'Don't get too bold. Don't forget who's really in charge.'

Because the moment a president dared to challenge the delicate, unspoken equilibrium — dared to make choices that rattled the interests of those lurking behind the curtain — their days were numbered.

Even if they made it through their term, their downfall was only delayed, never avoided.

It wasn't just about punishment. It was about precedent.

A warning shot fired across the bow of every incoming leader: Step out of line, and you'll end the same way.

It was political theater, yes — but the kind with real blood on the stage.

In Jihoon's eyes, it wasn't that these presidents had all made the same mistake.

It was that they eventually crossed the same line — the one drawn by the real power holders, the ones you never saw on the evening news.

This was the ruthless lesson they enforced again and again, not just to remove a threat, but to educate the next one.

Keep your head down. Protect our interests. Don't try to change the rules — just play your role and exit quietly when the curtain falls.

And that, more than any law or policy, was the true constitution of the nation.

So no, Jihoon wasn't deluded — not even with his ties to Samseong's Lee family. He wasn't hoping for a miracle. He was carving out a sliver of control.

And this wager — a calculated bet with Fox, one of the few studios with enough global clout to matter — was that sliver.

It wasn't about the money. It was about anchoring himself outside the reach of domestic power plays.

It was about tying his project to something too big, too foreign, and too visible to be quietly sabotaged.

He wasn't trying to win the whole war. Not yet.

He just needed to survive long enough to change the battlefield.

The scene shifted from the polished steel-and-glass world of meetings and contracts to something far more intimate — a high-end traditional Korean restaurant nestled in the heart of Seoul.

It was the kind of place where time slowed down.

Soft lighting glowed from paper lanterns overhead, the gentle clink of ceramic dishes filled the air, and the scent of grilled meat, sesame oil, and fermented spices danced lazily from the open kitchen.

Jihoon had chosen this place deliberately.

In Korea, hospitality wasn't just about shaking hands or sharing business cards — it was about sharing food.

And for someone like Jim, who had flown in from across the world, Jihoon felt a quiet obligation to welcome him the right way.

The Korean way.

Jim, born and raised in Brooklyn, looked both impressed and mildly intimidated.

He had grown up on New York street food, Italian family dinners, and American-style steak.

But this? This was something else.

As soon as the first bite of marinated beef touched his tongue, his eyes lit up.

"Okay, hold on," he mumbled mid-chew. "What the hell is this magic?"

Jihoon grinned, flipping another strip of meat on the tabletop grill. "Galbi, it's korean way to say short ribs, it is marinated Korean-style. Not bad, right?"

"'Not bad'? Jihoon, this is like... this is like steak had a spiritual awakening and came back with better priorities."

They both laughed.

Jim leaned back in his chair, savoring the flavors dancing across his palate — sweet, savory, garlicky, smoky.

The American food he knew suddenly felt one-dimensional.

"I've had a lotta meat in my life," Jim said. "Dry-aged steaks in Manhattan, my grandmother's meatballs back in Brooklyn. But this? This is next level."

"Careful," Jihoon teased, "you're gonna make my ancestors proud."

But not everything on the table hit the same. Jihoon poured them each a shot of soju — the classic Korean spirit that lubricated everything from first dates to boardroom deals — and Jim took it like a champ... sort of.

He blinked. "That's it?"

Jihoon raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean, 'that's it'?"

"Is this water pretending to be alcohol?" Jim asked, holding up the green bottle and squinting at it. "No offense, but there's zero kick to this."

Laughing, Jihoon poured him a bowl of makgeolli instead — cloudy, slightly sweet rice wine with a gentle fizz.

Jim gave it a sip and paused. "Oh. Now this is interesting."

"Makgeolli," Jihoon said, "the working man's drink. Farmers used to drink this after a long day in the fields. It's humble but sneaky."

Jim nodded, swirling the milky liquid in his bowl. "It's like a drunk yogurt soda. Weird, but I kinda love it."

They toasted again — not like two stiff-suited executives shaking hands across a conference table, but like two friends easing into a rhythm.

The kind of rhythm that only good food, strong drinks, and an honest conversation could build.

The makgeolli was halfway gone by now, and so were the formalities.

Jim leaned back in his seat, lightly tapping his glass against the table. "So, Jihoon… about that film you mentioned eariler on. Do you actually have something brewing or do you still need time for it?"

Jihoon gave a playful shrug. "I do have something — a rough idea, you could say. The bones are there, but I'm still hammering out the structure. You'll have to give me a little more time."

Jim nodded, thoughtful. "Sure, no rush. But just curious... are you thinking this is gonna be a Korean film? Or something more American?"

Jihoon sipped his drink and leaned in slightly. "Actually, both. I want the leads to be one Korean, one American. A true co-production. What do you think?"

Jim tilted his head. "Hmm. Is that... necessary?"

Jihoon raised an eyebrow. "Necessary?"

"I mean," Jim hesitated, choosing his words, "I'm not trying to mess with your creative vision or anything, but — Korean actors haven't exactly broken out internationally yet. Not in Hollywood, anyway. There's risk there. Studio execs might see that as a red flag."

Jihoon nodded slowly, as if weighing every word. "Yeah, you're right. There's risk. But come on, Jim — there's a first time for everything, right?"

Jim raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

Jihoon continued, eyes gleaming a little. "If I'm making my debut as a Korean director in Hollywood, I want another Korean up there with me. Someone who represents where I come from. Someone who deserves that spotlight."

He grinned. "And think about the marketing — a Korean duo? That writes itself. You don't just sell a movie, you sell a story behind the movie. The headlines, the interviews, the global buzz. You feel me?"

Jim chuckled, shaking his head. "Man, you're confident. You know that?"

Jihoon lifted his glass again. "Confidence is free, my friend. And besides, I've never failed before."

Jim gave him a look. "Oh yeah? Never?"

"Well... maybe once. I tried learning tap dancing when I was nine. Total disaster. But in film? Never failed."

They both laughed, the kind of easy laughter that comes when the walls are finally down.

Jihoon leaned in again, more serious this time. "Trust me, Jim. Once the script's done and you read it, you'll get it. It's not just a good story — it's a story that fits."

"Something that speaks to America, but told from a fresh angle."

Jim tapped his fingers against his glass, thinking. "If it hits the American audience where it matters... yeah, I can see that."

"It will," Jihoon said confidently. "As long as the film fits their stomachs, we don't have to worry about the box office."

Jim grinned. "Alright then. I'm officially intrigued. I'll wait for that script."

Jihoon raised his glass again. "You won't be waiting long."

They clinked glasses one more time — a quiet promise between two dreamers at the edge of something big.

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