On the whiteboard in the office, Link wrote down a single name—Uma Thurman.
Then he drew a circle around it, like he was marking a symbol of fate.
"Our queen."
He turned around, his voice low and steady. "If we land her, this movie finally has a soul."
Bender frowned, the crease between his brows deepening. "Link , this is harder than landing John. Uma's agent is Ron Meyer—one of the big dogs at CAA."
Link waved it off lightly. "Hard or not, we still have to try."
After a brief hesitation, Bender picked up the phone.
Once the call connected, he introduced the project as calmly as he could. After a few seconds of silence, the voice on the other end let out a short, mocking laugh.
"An indie nobody? A director who's never made a feature? Cute."
The air in the room instantly went cold. Bender hurried to add, "Mr. Meyer, our script is extremely strong. If Uma could just take a look—"
"Don't waste my time." The voice was dripping with arrogance and impatience. "My Uma isn't playing some junkie. That's not art. That's trash."
Click.
The line went dead.
The room fell into complete silence.
Link stared at the corner of the desk, his fingers slowly tracing the grain of the wood. For a split second, his breathing grew so light it was as if he were listening to the anger burning inside his chest.
Quentin exploded first. "Jesus Christ! They didn't even read the script!"
Bender spread his hands and sighed helplessly. "Link , I told you. To them, we don't even qualify to knock on the door."
Link said nothing. He slowly stood and walked over to the window.
Sunlight slipped through the blinds, cutting across his face—half lit, half in shadow.
A few seconds later, he turned back around, his expression already calm again.
"Just because they can't see it doesn't mean the owner can't."
Quentin blinked. "What do you mean?"
"If there's a guard dog at the gate," Link said, his voice low but firm, "we don't knock. We put the gift straight on the owner's pillow."
Quentin and Bender exchanged confused looks.
Link walked back to the desk and picked up a pen. "Quentin, I want you to write a full character profile for Mia Wallace. Everything you understand about her—put it all in there. I want her to see that Mia isn't a junkie, but a soul that's fallen into darkness and is still glowing."
Then he turned to Bender. "Find out who Uma's acting coach is."
Bender flipped through his notes quickly. Half an hour later, he looked up. "Susan Batson. New York. Legendary acting coach. Uma trusts her completely."
"Perfect." Link nodded and dialed Howard's number.
"Howard, I need you to contact Susan Batson. Tell her Pangu Pictures' 'Original Screenplay Protection Fund' would like to hire her as an honorary consultant. Annual compensation: one hundred thousand dollars."
"One hundred grand?!"
Quentin nearly spit out his coffee.
Link calmly set the receiver down. "If you want professionals, you pay professional prices."
—
Two days later, New York. Susan Batson's acting studio.
Snow drifted past the floor-to-ceiling windows outside. Inside, the air smelled of coffee and old wood. Uma Thurman had just finished training and was leaning back on the couch, sweat still clinging to her face.
Susan walked over, a black envelope in her hand.
"Uma, a young man asked me to pass this along to you."
"Which production company this time?" Uma said wearily. "I've already turned down a dozen projects."
"I know." Susan smiled slightly and placed the envelope beside her. "But this one—you should take a look."
After a moment's hesitation, Uma opened it.
Inside wasn't a standard offer letter. No numbers. No contracts.
Just a thin booklet, with a single line printed on the cover:
In Search of Mia Wallace
She flipped through a few pages. Her casual expression slowly froze.
This wasn't just character notes. It read like a poetic monologue—a story of a woman clawing her way toward self-redemption through the cracks between loneliness and desire.
It felt like she could hear herself breathing between the lines.
On the final page, a single handwritten sentence caught her eye:
"A mediocre actor sees drugs and degeneration.
A true artist sees redemption and rebirth."
Uma stayed silent for a long time.
Her fingers gently traced the words, as if feeling a pulse beneath the ink.
Susan watched her quietly, then asked softly, "Who is he?"
Uma looked up. There was a faint light in her eyes now, and the corner of her lips slowly curved into a smile.
"I'd like to know too," she said. "What's the name of the man who wrote this letter?"
—
At that very moment, far away in Los Angeles, Link stood in front of the whiteboard, calmly erasing the circle—leaving behind only a single name.
Uma Thurman.
Sunlight danced across his fingertips.
He looked at the name as if he were already seeing a frame from the future—
A woman smiling in the dark, a match of destiny burning in her hand.