The next morning in Los Angeles, the sun rose as usual—but Hollywood had already changed.
At Miramax headquarters, the air was so cold it felt like it could condense into water.
Harvey Weinstein sat behind the massive mahogany desk, his face ashen. The image of guests fleeing in panic from the previous night's gala was still burned into his mind.
The opening bell rang.
On the screen, the stock price plunged like a waterfall, dropping straight off a cliff.
"Mr. Weinstein!" An assistant burst through the door, voice trembling. "It's over… it's all over!"
On the TV, the financial news ticker scrolled with ruthless indifference:
"Miramax Caught in 'Fabricated Public Opinion' Scandal, Stock Crashes 28%"
"Multiple Investors Pull Out of the '007' Project"
"Weinstein to Face Board Accountability Review"
Phones rang nonstop. Every call felt like a noose tightening around his neck.
Harvey grabbed a receiver, only to be met with investors shouting demands for him to "explain the scandal."
In that moment, he finally understood—the man from the East hadn't just won.
He had used a single livestream to nail Harvey to the pillory of the era.
Harvey had lost.
And he'd lost completely.
—
That day, Variety ran a full-page headline:
"Welcome to Pangu's Game: A Textbook Marketing Counterkill."
Time was even more blunt:
"The Fall of a King: Weinstein's Waterloo and the Rise of a New Challenger."
The New York Times wrote:
"A Chinese Producer Shatters a Billion-Dollar Empire with Just $100,000."
And in the executive boardrooms of Warner Bros., Sony, and Paramount, no one mocked Harvey.
They simply replayed the livestream again and again, staring at the young man on the screen.
He wasn't just a victor.
He was an uncontrollable variable.
An outsider who might rewrite the rules of Hollywood.
—
In sharp contrast to Miramax's deathly silence, Pangu Pictures' headquarters was on fire with celebration.
The fax machine spat out page after page. Phones rang without pause.
"Link! Link! You're a goddamn miracle!"
Band's eyes were red as he babbled in excitement. "The National Association of Theatre Owners finally caved! Sony, Fox, Paramount—they're all lining up to talk distribution rights for The Blair Witch! Yesterday we were the industry's cancer—today we're the marketing Bible!"
Champagne foam hit the ceiling. Employees hugged and screamed across the office.
Some cried. Some laughed. Someone even danced on a desk.
The roar of celebration shook the hallways.
And yet Link stood quietly by the window.
He watched the broadcast vans parked downstairs, the flashing camera lights.
His reflection overlapped with the sunlight on the glass, his expression calm.
This was only the first battle.
Harvey's fall was nothing more than kicking a rabid dog off the table.
The real monsters hadn't shown themselves yet.
—
Thunk.
The door swung open.
Quentin Tarantino walked in carrying a bottle of whiskey, a buzz in his step.
He didn't speak. He just stared at the gleaming Oscar statuette near the door.
"Hey, kid," he muttered, twisting open the cap and slowly pouring whiskey over the trophy. The amber liquid ran down the golden figure's head like some twisted baptism.
"See that?" He grinned, the smile bordering on madness.
"This is cinema."
"This is Hollywood."
He set the bottle down with a soft clink, then looked up toward the figure by the window.
For a moment, Quentin had the strange impression—
Link wasn't looking outside.
He was looking through the glass, at the entire era beyond it.
—
Just then, Link's brick-style cell phone rang.
A Silicon Valley number.
He answered, and Jim Clark's voice came through, unable to hide the laughter.
"Link, it's me—Jim. You're insane," he said, chuckling. "A single videotape and a few posts, and you played the entire American media like a fiddle."
Link smiled faintly, his tone even. "It was just a small experiment."
"Next time, we'll play something bigger."
"Haha. I knew I wasn't wrong about you."
The call ended.
Outside, the sunlight was blinding, his shadow stretching long across the floor.
—
"Link."
Martha knocked and came in, her expression a little strange. "This just arrived."
A heavy envelope, sealed with a wax stamp marked WB.
Warner Bros.
Band followed her in and leaned over to look at the crest, swallowing hard.
Link opened the envelope.
Inside was a handwritten invitation. Elegant handwriting, polite phrasing—yet carrying an unmistakable authority that allowed no refusal.
"Dear Mr. Link,
To celebrate Hollywood's arrival of new creative energy,
you are cordially invited to a private dinner at the Chateau Marmont.
—Arthur Goldman"
The room fell so silent you could hear the second hand ticking.
"What does he want?" Band whispered.
"At a time like this… he's inviting you?"
Link slid the invitation back into the envelope and smiled faintly.
"It's not an invitation."
He picked up his coat and looked out the window. The setting sun burned gold in his eyes.
"It's a recruitment."
He paused, voice calm.
"And recruitment…"
"…is often just another form of declaring war."