"Who is it?!"
Link shouted, irritated.
"Sir, you're still alive—great! But it's time to check out."
"Check out? What check-out? This is my offic—"
Link opened his eyes and froze.
Where was this place?Where was Nicole Kidman?Where was his sleek, sunlit DreamWorks executive office facing Venice Beach?
He rubbed his eyes and slowly sat up.What he saw shocked him: he wasn't in any luxury office, but in a damp, musty, foul-smelling little room.
The room had only:
One bed,
A broken wardrobe,
A black TV set on top of the wardrobe,
A blackened electric kettle,
And a poster of Nicole Kidman on the opposite wall.
Even though the window was closed, the freezing wind still howled in through the cracks.
Link shivered and pulled the blanket up to his neck, trying to block the piercing cold coming from all sides.
But the blanket itself smelled strongly of mold and sweat, continuously assaulting his nose.
His head spun.
Just a few seconds ago, he had been in his office, with the dazzling Nicole Kidman, passionately intertwined on his mahogany desk.The hot L.A. sun had been beating down on his bare back, making him sweat profusely.
Now?
He was here—cold, sick, miserable—in some rundown motel room?
Bang bang bang!Bang bang bang!The door was being pounded louder and rougher than before.
"Sir, it's 11:30 AM. If you don't check out by noon, we'll charge you for another night. Up to you!"
"Okay, okay—I'm checking out now!"
Hearing they'd charge extra, Link responded instinctively.
But the moment he said it, confusion hit him again.His movie Buried had grossed over $100 million worldwide, and his bank account had eight figures.
Why would he care about a single night's motel fee?
With deep suspicion, Link slowly got out of bed.
His head spun. His body was weak. He nearly collapsed onto the filthy floor.
He pressed the back of his hand to his forehead.It was hot—a fever.
He sniffled.His nose was stuffy.
What the hell had happened?
Where were his ocean-view villa, his Rolls-Royce, his DreamWorks studio, and Nicole Kidman?
He grabbed a down jacket from the bed and threw it over himself, crouched down to put on sneakers—then realized he wasn't even wearing pants.
Sighing, he took off the shoes again and fumbled into a pair of long johns, then jeans.
As he moved, the dizziness faded a little, and a horrible truth started to sink in—
Everything from before…was fake.Just a dream.
Yes, he had participated in the 8th Sundance Film Festival.But he hadn't won any awards.No media reported on his film.There was no Harvey Weinstein throwing money at his feet to buy Buried.There were no millions in ticket sales.
And Nicole Kidman?
She wasn't the star of Buried.She certainly hadn't been lying on his desk, begging him for attention.She was just a poster on the wall…A projection of desire in his dream.
As for:
The Rolls-Royce,
The Beverly Hills mansion,
DreamWorks studios,
Lines of Hollywood actresses auditioning,
Harvey Weinstein begging for a collaboration,
Outshining Tarantino,
Becoming the most hyped new director in Hollywood…
All of it…A fantasy.
"No… no, it can't be! Everything felt so real. Nicole Kidman's skin felt so real! This must be a prank!"
Link shook his head.It only made him dizzier.
Clutching his feverish forehead, he stumbled into the narrow bathroom.
Just like last night, the faucet had no hot water.
In the freezing -4 to -5°C (24°F) air of Park City, Utah, the icy water was enough to kill your soul.
He splashed cold water onto his face.It stung like needles, driving out the warmth from his skin and the delusions from his mind.
Gradually, his thinking became clear.
He was Link.That part was real.
He was a transmigrator.
Five months ago, he had crossed over from 2024 China into 1991 America, taking over the body of a Chinese orphan in a Los Angeles slum.
To survive, he returned to his old profession—filmmaking.
With a head full of modern movie ideas, he wrote scripts and pitched them around town, but not one film company was interested.Every script he sent out was like a stone thrown into a lake—no ripples.
So he got desperate.
He washed dishes in Chinatown, worked as a film extra on Hollywood sets, and even wore mascot suits in McDonald's just to make ends meet.
At one point, he was juggling 4–5 jobs.
After 3.5 months of grueling work, he scraped together $20,000.
He used the money to rent a camera, audio and lighting gear, and a few props.
He planned to shoot the movie himself.
But when he started looking for actors and told them he was the entire crew, no one wanted to join—especially when they heard there was no pay.
Camera rentals alone cost over $200 a day.Link couldn't afford to wait.So he bit the bullet and wrote, directed, and acted in the film himself.
After 10 days of extreme hardship, Buried was finally finished.
When Sundance arrived, he brought his film to Park City, hoping for a miracle at the world's biggest independent film festival.
Sundance, founded in 1984 by actor-director Robert Redford, ran every January for 10–11 days.
This year was the 8th festival, and over 3,400 films were submitted from around the world.
Link had high hopes for Buried.
He dreamed of:
Being discovered by the jury,
Getting picked up by distributors,
Making a fortune,
And breaking into Hollywood.
But…
Reality hit hard.
Over three days of screening, only a few people wandered into the theater.Most walked out halfway through.
The fewer the viewers, the colder the room felt.
Buried created zero buzz.Not a single distributor asked about buying the rights.
And unlike the dream, Quentin Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs was a smash hit.
Harvey Weinstein personally offered him a high price for the rights.
As for Link—Cold, broke, and crushed—He drank himself into a stupor.
Then he collapsed into this cheap motel with no heating, and had the most extravagant dream of his life.
"Sigh… dreaming really is easier. The real world isn't so kind."
Link looked at his reflection in the mirror.
If there was one comfort, it was this—He was good-looking: short clean hair, sharp eyebrows, deep eyes, a strong nose, and chiseled features.
Combined with his pale, fevered face, he looked like a handsome Asian vampire.
He bared his white teeth and smiled at himself in the mirror.
"Damn you, Hollywood… I'll eat you alive."
Suddenly—
[Film production complete. Box Office Subsidy System calculating results…]
[Host participation: 95.3% | Film quality: 87.7%]
[Reward: 4x box office subsidy | +30% Directing XP | +10% Directing Stamina]
"Wait… I'm still dreaming?"
Link blinked hard.
The message [4x Box Office Subsidy] flashed three times in front of his eyes, then slowly faded away.
"The system… actually exists?"
So it would give him four times the actual box office earnings?
If Buried earned even $20 million…With the system's bonus, it'd count as $80 million?
He'd instantly become a multi-millionaire?
With that kind of money—Movie studios, mansions, sports cars, Nicole Kidman, mahogany desks—
No longer dreams.
DONG. DONG. DONG.The town bell struck noon in Park City.
Link suddenly remembered—He didn't have enough cash to pay for another night!
Panicking, he threw together his few belongings, dashed out the door, and yelled:
"Check out! I'm checking out!!!"