Durango, Mexico.
The blazing sun scorched the earth, the air thick with dust and the syrupy sweetness of agave.
Inside an abandoned hacienda, a commercial shoot was falling apart. The director barked into a walkie-talkie, the client's representative frowned nonstop, and the model stood stiffly holding a bottle—everything about the production felt cheap, like a bad farce.
Only one person didn't belong in the chaos.
Emmanuel Lubezki.
With his untamed long hair and razor-sharp eyes, he was trying to reposition the camera, chasing the last strand of natural light filtering through a stained-glass window.
"Cut! Emmanuel!" the director roared as he stormed over, pointing at the bottle. "Add more lights! The client wants the logo crystal clear! I don't care about your artsy ideas!"
The client rep stepped in, cold and blunt. "If we don't get usable footage tonight, we'll be replacing people next time."
Lubezki's fingers froze on the camera. His eyes turned icy, like he might explode at any second—but in the end, he just muttered a curse in Spanish, shut down the rig, and let disappointment wash over his face.
Then, from behind him, a calm voice spoke in fluent English:
"You're trying to paint a bottle of tequila with Rembrandt lighting."
Lubezki spun around.
A young Asian man stood there, dressed in a casual suit that looked completely out of place on the dusty set, quietly studying him.
Rembrandt—the master of light from the Dutch school—was Lubezki's most private artistic faith. And now, this stranger had named it perfectly.
"Unfortunately," the man continued, a trace of regret in his voice, "all they want is a product catalog shot."
"Who are you?" Lubezki asked hoarsely, wary.
"My name is Link. I'm a Hollywood producer." Link extended his hand. "I'm here to invite you to paint something real."
Lubezki didn't shake it. He sneered. "Hollywood? I have zero interest in formulaic plastic trash."
"I understand." Link withdrew his hand, unbothered. "That's why I'm not looking for a technician—I'm looking for an artist."
His pace was calm, but each sentence hit like a hammer to the chest:
"In a cheap motel room, capturing the exhaustion in a killer's eyes.
In a dim bar, using light and shadow to trace the decay brought on by drugs.
Letting the camera become the third passenger in the backseat, feeling the tension and boredom of two talkative hitmen before a job."
Lubezki's breathing quickened.
These were images he'd never been allowed to chase—but they were exactly what he'd dreamed of.
Link suddenly shifted tone, his voice low. "If you keep shooting commercials like this, ten years from now you'll still be lighting tequila bottles. Work with me, and your name will be written into film history."
Silence.
The air felt solid.
After a long moment, Lubezki asked, his voice rough, "Where's the script?"
Link chuckled softly and handed him a bound screenplay.
"Read it tonight. If you think it's garbage, I'll pay you a thousand dollars for your time and leave tomorrow.
But if you think it's worth something…"
He met Lubezki's eyes, his words firm like a declaration:
"Then I'm not looking for a cinematographer.
I'm looking for a partner—someone willing to help me turn Hollywood upside down."
Lubezki took the script and walked away.
Link watched his back disappear, the script envelope in his hand warm from the sun.
He looked up. The Mexican sky was like a sun-bleached movie screen.
He knew he'd just struck a match.
---
That night, under the motel lamp.
Link closed the script envelope, then pulled out a few fresh pages.
After a moment's thought, he scribbled down a handful of lines—the rough outline of a story about genius, love, and perseverance.
Halfway through, he stopped and smiled.
"This gift should wait until New York."
---
Early the next morning, in the small-town motel.
The phone rang sharply.
Link picked up. Lubezki's low voice came through the receiver, carrying a forced indifference that couldn't hide its tremor.
"I don't know if I'm crazy… or if you are. When's the flight?"
Link lips curved into a smile. "Tonight. Los Angeles."
After hanging up, the system panel appeared before his eyes:
[User: Link]
[Influence Index: 2500 (+500)]
[Description: Successfully discovered and recruited an S-tier, high-potential behind-the-scenes core artist. Pangu Pictures' creative foundation is further solidified, and its industry influence continues to rise.]
Link closed the panel, pushed open the window, and looked out at the Mexican town bathed in morning light.
He slowly dialed Pangu Pictures.
When Quentin heard the news from Mexico, he clicked his tongue. "Link , the guy can barely speak English. You sure he can handle our movie?"
Link laughed. "Quentin, nobody can smoothly recite our movie's dialogue either—right?"
Quentin paused, then burst out laughing. "Fine, you lunatic. I'll trust you this once."
Bandit still sounded doubtful. "A Mexican commercial cinematographer… doesn't exactly sound safe."
"Safety is for accountants," Link said, snapping his briefcase shut. "Not for art. Relax—this move won't miss."
Now, it was time to go meet New York's Sleeping Beauty.