Outside Bender's office, Quentin was sweating profusely, as nervous as a condemned man walking to the electric chair.
"Link, he doesn't look like he's here for a party," he whispered. "What if he just wants to buy the script? What do we do?"
Link, however, was exceptionally calm.
On the way over, his brain had run through countless simulations of this negotiation. There was only one way to win, and given his current bind, it was the only option left.
He pushed the door open.
Sunlight streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and dust motes drifted slowly in the beams of light.
Behind the desk, Bender gripped a cigar, his eyes sharp as a hawk's. It was the look of someone not seeing a person, but evaluating a commodity.
He raised his hand and tapped the cigar against the ashtray. The instant the ash dropped, the air tightened slightly.
His lawyer, Howard, immediately pushed forward a stack of contracts, speaking dismissively:
"Fifty grand for the director, seventy-five grand for the writer, plus a 5% net profit share. For two rookies with zero credits, that's already a miracle."
Quentin's eyes lit up: "$50,000?!"
He almost reached out to grab the paper, afraid it might crumble if he breathed on it wrong.
Link didn't move.
He simply extended a finger and tapped the desktop twice.
"Tap. Tap."
The air seemed to be yanked tight, suddenly taut.
"Mr. Bender," he began calmly, "I believe you misunderstood."
Quentin's face flushed, and he began to jump up. Link reached out and firmly pressed down on his arm, his gaze sharp as a razor.
Bender raised an eyebrow, waved the lawyer to silence, and spoke with a hint of amusement: "Alright, tell me. What do you want?"
Link held up three fingers: "Pangu Pictures. We split the equity three ways equally. The company holds all the intellectual property for Pulp Fiction. You cover the budget. Quentin and I take no salary upfront."
"The hell you will!" Quentin practically leaped up. "Li, are you insane? That was fifty grand!"
Link didn't even lift an eyelid. He just said coolly, "Be quiet."
Bender's smile slowly faded.
"Based on one script that hasn't even been shot, you want me to put up the money, hand over equity, and even give you a company name? I'm not a charity."
"Not one script."
Link leaned forward, his voice dropping an inch at a time. "It's a machine that will constantly churn out great movies."
"You can choose to buy a single project, or you can choose to buy an empire that will dominate independent cinema ten years from now."
Howard sneered: "An empire? Please, let's not use words like that."
Link turned to him: "Then what words do you use? 'Conformity'? 'Assembly line'? Or maybe, 'Dying under Hollywood's old rules'?"
Howard opened his mouth but said nothing more.
Bender's fingers lightly tapped his cigar, smoke swirling in front of his face. He looked into Link's eyes, a strange unease flickered inside him.
—This kid is too calm.
It wasn't the demeanor of a rookie.
"Link, you talk a great game. But in Hollywood, dreams shatter more easily than glass."
"I'm not much of a dreamer," Link slowly exhaled. "I like to bet."
Bender's eyebrow twitched: "How do we bet?"
Link's voice was unnervingly steady.
"If Pulp Fiction doesn't make at least fifty million at the North American box office, or fails to win an international award, my equity—it's unconditionally yours."
Howard was stunned, his brow furrowed.
"Do you know what you're saying? In the States, a 'wager' contract isn't symbolic. If you lose, you don't just lose equity; you'll be considered in breach of contract."
"You'll have to pay money back, carry debt, and could be blacklisted by the entire industry. You'll be flagged by the system as a high-risk investor; loans, visas, credit—all ruined."
Quentin's breathing was ragged. His eyes wide, he turned to Link: "Link, this is too nuts!"
Bender took a deep draw from his cigar, the smoke churning in his lungs. His gaze was steady, sharpened by years of industry instinct.
This man knew what he was signing.
And he wasn't afraid.
He looked like a gambler, but also like a director who had already seen the ending.
Link just offered a slight smile, his voice composed: "Of course, I know what it means."
He looked up, meeting Bender's eyes, every word delivered like a nail being driven home:
"But if I'm not willing to put my life on the line—why should you bet on me?"
The room was silent, save for the tick of a clock.
Quentin's fingers clenched into fists. Fifty million? Cannes? Potential debt? This wasn't crazy; it was self-destruction.
But looking at Link's resolute eyes, he suddenly felt it wasn't a boast—it was a prophecy.
He gritted his teeth, slamming his hand on the table. "Damn it! I'm in with you!"
Howard gasped, a chill running down his spine. He'd met plenty of crazy people, but never this kind of calculated insanity.
Bender chuckled softly.
The laugh grew, spreading like a sudden, uncontrolled gust of wind.
He abruptly stood up, slamming a palm on the desk.
"Link, you have the biggest balls I've ever seen."
He picked up the contract, ripped it up with a rip, and tossed it in the trash can.
"Fine! One-third equity, Pangu Pictures. Howard, draw up a new contract!"
Howard's mouth twitched, his pen trembling on the paper.
Link took the new contract, his fingers shaking for a brief moment. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and signed his name.
With that stroke of the pen, the winds of Hollywood began to subtly shift.
---
---
He let out a gentle sigh, his expression remaining calm, as if this had all been predicted.
Bender laughed heartily: "Great! Now let's talk casting."
He wrote a few character names on the paper:
Vincent Vega.
Jules Winnfield.
Mia Wallace.
"For the role of Vincent," Bender mused, "I recommend Michael Madsen. He totally gets that bad-boy swagger."
Quentin immediately nodded: "Yeah, he's a great fit!"
Link picked up the pen and lightly drew a line through the name.
The room went silent.
He slowly wrote another name—
John Travolta.
There were three seconds of dead silence.
Then Bender and Quentin exploded almost simultaneously:
"Are you f-ing kidding me?!"
---
Meanwhile, across Hollywood, in a cramped apartment.
Bob White was nervously flipping through Variety magazine. He'd been on a terrible losing streak. Without Link, his efficient ghostwriter, the scripts he wrote were garbage, and he'd been getting chewed out by producers.
Suddenly, his eyes froze.
His hands slowly tightened, crumpling the magazine into a ball. Bloodshot veins spread across his eyes.
"Link...?"
He muttered the name, a cold, grim curve twisting his lips.
"Alright, kid."
"If you want to play the dream game, I'll show you that Hollywood, in reality, is hell."