Days passed quietly after the shadow first fell over Jihoon's life.
The scandal that had once filled news screens and gossip columns started to lose its grip on the public.
But in those early days, when the rumors were fresh and loud, Jihoon made a clear choice—he would not speak. He wouldn't post on social media, give interviews, or even offer a single quote.
He stayed silent.
He understood the game too well.
The more he talked, the more people would twist his words and if he denied it, they'd say he was hiding something.
If he defended himself, they'd ask, "Why so defensive?" So Jihoon chose stillness.
He stayed away from cameras and journalists, quietly watching the world react to a story he never confirmed nor denied.
In his mind, letting the storm burn itself out was better than throwing more fuel on it.
But while Korea debated his silence and speculated about his career, something unexpected happened—Your Name became a hit overseas.
The numbers were clear.
While ticket sales in Korea slowly declined due to the controversy, international markets told a very different story.
In Japan, theaters were packed. Fans lined up to see the film again and again. It wasn't just a movie to them—it felt personal. Familiar. Because the story had its roots in a famous Japanese anime from Jihoon's previous life, and though the characters and setting had changed, the soul of the film remained. So to many in Japan, it was as if the story had returned home, just in a new form.
In China, too, the response was emotional. Audiences praised the heartfelt storytelling, the magical atmosphere, and the beauty of Jeju Island, where most of the film was shot.
Social media buzzed with fan art, favorite scenes, and even cosplay videos. Jihoon didn't speak a word during this time, yet his work spoke louder than any press conference ever could.
Back in Korea, the media continued to hunt for the next big scoop. But scandals age quickly, and people's attention shifts fast.
Within a week, the headlines started to change. A pop idol was caught in a dating scandal. A famous actor was seen arguing at a restaurant. Slowly but surely, Jihoon's story slipped off the front page.
Public curiosity faded.
And just as things were starting to quiet down—something unexpected happened.
It wasn't a scandal. It wasn't a shocking secret. It was something far more ordinary—and somehow, more magical.
Not even Jihoon saw it coming.
While he was still keeping quiet, letting the media storm pass, a different kind of storm was building quietly behind him.
Not a storm of anger or gossip—but one of excitement, curiosity, and wanderlust. And it all began with the film.
In the film 'Your Name', Jihoon had captured Jeju Island not just as a location, but as a feeling.
The wide, windy fields. The glow of the sunset over Yongyeon Pond. The warmth of a school lunch wrapped in foil, the soft clink of a wine glass in a hidden vineyard.
The world he showed on screen felt real—and people wanted to be a part of it.
Especially fans from Japan and China.
They didn't just watch the movie. They stepped into it.
So with that tourists began flying into Jeju, not for luxury hotels or package tours, but to walk the exact streets the characters had walked, to taste what they had tasted, to live out a piece of the story.
At first, it was subtle. A few visitors asking for directions to the little barbecue place in the movie.
A couple taking selfies in front of the tangerine winery gates.
But soon, it exploded.
Jeju's famous black pork restaurants were overflowing, packed from morning until night with tourists.
The small winery that Jihoon had featured—a humble, family-run business—couldn't keep up with orders. Their tangerine wine sold out week after week. Their online store crashed from too much traffic.
The owner, a quiet man in his late 60s, posted a heartfelt message on his blog:
"We never paid him. We never even expected anything. But because of Director Lee's film, the world found us. He gave us a gift. He showed them who Jeju are."
That post went viral.
And only then did the Korean media notice.
Suddenly, the tone changed. The same media outlets that had questioned Jihoon's character just days ago were now calling him a "young genius" and "the quiet force behind Jeju's winter revival."
They all acted like they had never criticized him. New headlines popped up everywhere:
"Your Name Sparks Jeju Tourism Boom"
"From Allegation to Admiration: Jihoon's Silent Comeback"
"How One Film Rewrote Jeju's Winter Economy"
Even the Jeju Tourism Board couldn't stay silent. They issued an official statement, publicly thanking Jihoon for his contribution to the island's winter economy. They praised his film for boosting local businesses and revitalizing tourism during what was usually a slow season. They even extended a personal invitation for him to participate in upcoming cultural events.
Just like that, any lingering allegations or doubts about Jihoon were quietly swept away—overturned not by force or rebuttal, but by the overwhelming tide of public support and undeniable impact.
And that's when something clicked inside Jihoon.
People only care when they benefit.
All the praise, the gratitude, the sudden kindness—it wasn't because of who he was. It was because the things he did started putting money in other people's pockets. Once they gained from his success, they were quick to support him.
It wasn't a bitter thought. It was just reality. A quiet truth that settled in his heart like dust in sunlight.
But whether or not the support was pure, the results were real.
Yongyeon Pond was now a top destination for couples and photographers.
Heukdwaeji Master BBQ had become so popular, they had to hire more staff.
The tangerine winery had to triple its production in a month.
Even Jihoon's custom school uniform design—simple, timeless, inspired by older Japanese and Korean styles—became a pop culture phenomenon.
Fans wore it for cosplay. It showed up in fan art and music videos. At Comic-Cons across Asia, entire groups dressed as characters from 'Your Name', reenacting scenes with wide eyes and big smiles.
The film wasn't just a movie anymore. It was an experience. A movement.
Yet amidst this glowing praise, the rising ticket sales, and the soft applause from the Jeju winter breeze, one unresolved choice continued to sit quietly on Jihoon's shoulders—heavy, silent, and unshakable.
He hadn't sold his shares.
Not to CJ Group.
Not to Samseong.
Not to anyone.
And it wasn't because he hadn't thought about it.
In fact, he had thought of little else.
CJ Group was the obvious choice.
They were already kings in the entertainment world.
They owned theaters, streaming services, talent agencies. They even had hands in food, shipping, biotechnology, and global media. It was a modern empire, slick and efficient.
If Jihoon joined them, it would be like stepping onto a high-speed train.
The tracks were laid.
The engine was running.
All he had to do was ride it—and maybe help it go a little faster, a little farther.
They offered safety, stability, synergy. He would have resources, distribution, and marketing ready on a silver platter.
It would be smart.
It would be easy.
But Samseong?
That was something else entirely.
They had money—more money than CJ.
They had power—enough to shape industries.
They had influences—connection in the business and political world.
But they weren't in the entertainment business.
Not yet.
And that was where the risk—and the glory—lay.
If Jihoon sold his shares to Samseong, he wouldn't just be another cog in their vast corporate machine.
He would be the one building that machine—a new division, a new frontier within the empire itself.
He would be the man who led Samseong's entry into a new world—film, music, drama, digital content—territory they had never touched before.
He would have the full backing of one of Korea's most powerful conglomerates.
Endless resources. Untouched potential.
A chance to build an empire from scratch.
But also?
The weight of it all would fall squarely on his shoulders.
Every success. Every mistake. Every headline.
And even more dangerous than that—the family war.
The Lee family feud.
Both Samseong and CJ wasn't just a company. It was a kingdom, and like all kingdoms, it had its royal battles.
The war had started with Jihoon's great-grandfather, Lee Byungchul, and it had never really ended.
Bothers against Sisters. Siblings turned strangers.
Whispers behind boardroom doors. Silent wars fought with stock options and inheritance rights.
Joining Samseong meant joining that.
Becoming a piece of chess in a game that never ends.
Jihoon had spoken to his aunt—Lee Boojin—the sharp, no-nonsense businesswoman who had carved her own place in the empire. She believed in him. She told him, without hesitation:
"Join us. Take what's yours. Samseong is still within your blood."
But Jihoon remained silent. He didn't make a move. He didn't sell his shares. He didn't pledge loyalty to anyone—not to CJ Group, nor Samseong.
And strangely, neither side pushed him.
Because as long as Jihoon stayed neutral, both families still had a chance.
They weren't in love with the idea, but they tolerated it.
Especially CJ. As long as Jihoon didn't openly join hands with Samseong, CJ could still act as a trusted distribution partner for JH Pictures. The door was still open, the table hadn't been flipped, and everyone kept their poker faces on.
So they waited.
Watched.
And played nice.
No one wanted to make the first wrong move—especially now.
Because Jihoon's latest film had just done the impossible: It revived Jeju Island's winter economy.
Hotels were fully booked.
Flights sold out.
Local restaurants saw their best numbers in years.
Even the tourism board released a statement, unofficially crediting Jihoon's film for the surge in winter visitors.
The media loved it.
The people loved it.
And the corporations? They had no choice but to back off—at least in public.
Trying to smear Jihoon during this moment of success would have been suicidal. It would make them look bitter, jealous, or out of touch with the public mood. So they said nothing. Smiled politely. Clapped along.
But Jihoon knew better.
This wasn't kindness.
This was strategy.
This was patience disguised as grace.
He could feel it in the silence—the quiet expectation that he would eventually come around, pick a side, play the game.
But he also felt something else growing inside him. Maybe it was ambition, or maybe it was just a desire to let things flow as they were. Who knows? It all depends on what will happen to Jihoon in the future.
[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe for bestowing the power stone!]