New York. Outside Susan Batson's private studio.
The warmth of the sun still lingered in the air, and the snow at the street corner had begun to melt.
Uma Thurman stopped beside her car, still gripping the script titled Looking for Mia Wallace.
She leaned against the door and flipped to the very last line.
"A true artist sees redemption and rebirth."
Her fingertips slowly traced the words. Her brow furrowed slightly, as if she could feel a faint warmth lingering in the sentence.
After a moment, she pressed her lips together and closed the script.
In that instant, something in her eyes changed—from hesitation to resolve.
The car door slammed shut. The engine roared to life. She turned the wheel and headed toward Century City.
She drove fast. In just half an hour, she pulled up at CAA headquarters.
Inside Ron Meyer's office, cigar smoke curled through the air, laughter mixing with the smell of whiskey.
He was chatting with two producers. When Uma pushed the door open, his smile froze for a split second before shifting into polished, professional warmth.
"Uma, darling—what a pleasant surprise."
Uma skipped the small talk. She gently placed the script on his desk.
"Ron," she said evenly, "I want to read this screenplay."
Ron glanced at the cover, and his smile faded.
"Pangu Pictures? That brand-new indie outfit?"
There was a hint of disdain in his voice. "A director who's never made a feature, and a story about a drug addict. You really shouldn't waste your time on this kind of trash."
Uma didn't respond. She just looked at him quietly.
The silence made Ron uneasy. He switched to a coaxing tone. "Uma, I'm lining you up for The Lover of Tomorrow. A top-tier project. Scott's producing. That's the kind of role that lets you shine."
Uma listened—and then she smiled.
The smile was faint, but sharp as a blade.
"Ron, you see an addict," she said softly.
"I see a character with a soul."
Ron's expression stiffened.
Uma closed the report, her voice cool and controlled. "If you won't even let me read the script… then maybe it's time we rethink our working relationship."
With that, she turned and walked out.
The door closed behind her. The smoke drifted slowly through the room.
Ron's hand trembled slightly as he held his cigar. Ash fell silently onto the desk. He stared at the closed door, feeling—for the first time—a subtle shift in the balance of power.
So this is what it feels like, when someone no longer needs your permission.
—
At the same time, in Pangu Pictures' office in Los Angeles.
Link wasn't waiting by the phone.
Waiting had never been his style.
"Quentin, let's go."
Quentin looked up, still holding a stack of rough storyboards. "Go where? We're not waiting for her call?"
"She'll call," Link said, with the certainty of someone stating a fact that had already happened.
"While we're waiting, let's invite the 'bishop' onto the chessboard."
They headed out, jumped into the car, and drove straight to their destination.
An hour later, they arrived at a small theater called The Actors' Gang.
The red curtains were faded. The lighting was dim. The audience was sparse.
From memory alone, Link knew that Samuel L. Jackson—the undiscovered genius Hollywood had yet to notice—was here.
Once the play began, they took seats in the second-to-last row.
Onstage, a tall, lean Black actor stepped forward. He had no lines. He only cast a glance from the corner of the stage.
That look.
Cold. Furious. Burning with belief.
Quentin gripped the armrest. "It's him… Li, do you see that? There's fire in his eyes!"
His voice was almost shaking. "That's Jules. My God—he's already there."
Link smiled faintly and said nothing.
He knew this wasn't intuition.
It was destiny.
The play ended. Scattered applause echoed through the nearly empty theater.
They didn't go backstage.
"Let's go," Link said as he stood.
"The prey has shown itself. All that's left is deciding how to close the net."
They stepped out into the blinding sunlight.
Quentin was still replaying the performance in his mind, but Link's attention had already shifted to the brick-sized cell phone vibrating in his pocket.
He glanced at the number.
New York area code.
He answered.
"Hello."
On the other end came a cool, distinctive voice—soft, magnetic, unmistakable.
"Hello. Is this Mr. Link?"
"Yes."
"This is Uma Thurman."
He didn't speak. He could hear her breathing through the line, slightly unsteady.
After a brief pause, she spoke slowly:
"I read your 'love letter.' I want to know—
the person who wrote it… is he a genius, or a madman?"
Her voice carried scrutiny, provocation, and a hint of dangerous curiosity.
Link smiled.
"Maybe both."
There was a short silence on the line, followed by her low laugh.
"Good."
"I'll be in Los Angeles tomorrow."
"We'll talk in person."
Beep.
The call ended.
Link slipped the phone back into his pocket. Sunlight painted his face with a faint wash of gold.
Quentin asked, curious, "Who was that?"
"A soul," Link replied, turning toward the street corner, his tone calm.
"Our queen has begun her move."