The Los Angeles sun was blinding as they stepped out of the coffee shop.
Quentin was still dazed, like his soul had been fried. He stared at the check in Link's hand—$\$9,500$ plus five hundred-dollar bills—and he was practically speechless.
"It... it was that easy?" he stammered. "An unproven script can fetch ten thousand bucks?"
Link neatly folded the check and slipped it into his suit's inner pocket, his expression calm.
"It wasn't easy," he said. "We were betting on his ambition and his fear of missing out on a cultural moment."
Quentin paused, then couldn't help but burst out laughing. "Link, sometimes you're like a magician."
"A magician?" Link curved his mouth slightly. "I need money to buy a wand first."
He checked his watch, his tone turning businesslike. "Come on, we have things to do."
The sunlight hit his profile, illuminating his features with a pale gold. In that moment, he felt the very taste of the air had changed.
---
Twenty minutes later, they were at landlord Smith's office.
The stout man was flipping through his ledger, half a cigar hanging from his mouth. Seeing Link, he immediately rolled his eyes.
"Listen, kid, I warned you about the back rent..."
Slap.
Five hundred-dollar bills landed crispily on the ledger.
Smith froze, cigar ash scattering across the desk.
Link said flatly, "Four-fifty for the rent, fifty for a tip. Thanks for the place these past few months."
He turned to leave.
Quentin followed, grinning like a kid who'd just won the lottery.
Link stopped at the door.
"Keep the security deposit," he said, looking back. "Consider it my final tip."
Smith stood there with his mouth open, looking like a plucked turkey, unable to utter a single word.
Outside the building, the wind swept down the street. Quentin shivered, shouting excitedly, "Yes! Link, that was better than smoking a blunt!"
Link just smiled, saying nothing.
He could feel a long-lost warmth surging in his chest—not the warmth of cash, but the concrete realization that the future was getting closer.
Just then, the familiar blue interface quietly appeared:
\[User: Link]
\[Influence Index: 300 (+280)]
\[Notes: Secured Quentin Tarantino as a key collaborator, successfully resolved personal survival crisis, and obtained initial project funding.]
\[Skills Unlocked: Business Negotiation (Basic) -300; Crisis Management (Basic) -500]
Link immediately exchanged for Business Negotiation (Basic).
Silent information poured into his mind—negotiation tactics, psychological warfare, verbal traps—all instantly became crystal clear.
Link looked up at the distant city and let out a soft breath.
Quentin rushed over, throwing an arm around his shoulder. "Come on, let's celebrate."
Link opened his arms wide, embracing the LA wind.
He realized then that he was no longer a screenwriter being pushed by fate. He was the one starting to push fate.
---
That evening, at a steakhouse in downtown Los Angeles.
The air smelled of butter and tobacco.
Quentin furiously sawed at his T-bone steak, his mouth full of meat. "So... we just wait for Bender's call?"
"No, we don't wait," Link said steadily, the metal clink of his fork and knife sharp.
"We find a place to crash, then we register a company."
Quentin nearly choked on a bite of beef. "A company? Are you serious?"
"Absolutely." Link sipped his red wine.
"Starting today, we're not just a director and a writer working for other people. We need our own brand. That's the only way they'll sit down and listen to us."
He looked out the window as the neon lights started to glow.
"In Hollywood, you're either at the top of the food chain, or you're being stepped on."
Quentin was stunned for a moment, then burst into roaring laughter. "Man, Link, you're crazier than Jules in the script!"
"To the crazies." He raised his glass.
"To the crazies." Link clinked his glass against Quentin's.
The crisp sound cut through the air, like the final chord of destiny.
---
At the same time, at Malibu Beach.
Waves crashed against the shore, and moonlight shone on Lawrence Bender's villa.
The study lights were dim.
Bender, cigar in hand, opened the script he'd just received: Pulp Fiction.
As a producer, he never wasted time reading scripts; three pages usually determined life or death.
He read a page, his eyebrows slightly raised.
"Hmm... the dialogue's interesting."
Ten pages later, Vincent and Jules were blowing people away in the apartment.
He paused, a cloud of smoke swirling in front of his face. He felt a long-forgotten tremor, like someone was firing a gun into his soul with a script.
Thirty pages in, Vincent and Mia were doing the twist in the dance floor.
He leaned back in his chair, his expression completely changed.
It felt like layers of old movie rules were being torn to shreds in his mind.
The way these people talked, walked, and shot people—it defied convention. Yet every line was electric, and every scene was unputdownable.
Two hours passed, and he was still sitting there. The ice in his whiskey had long melted, and the cigar was burning his fingers, but he didn't notice.
He muttered, "A maniac... a genius maniac."
This wasn't just a script; it was a trophy.
He got up and paced the study, his heart pounding faster and faster.
A producer could smell a blockbuster—this thing was cheap, unique, and destined to spark controversy.
And controversy meant news, box office, and glory.
He looked up and saw the name on the cover—
Link.
A slow smile spread across Bender's face.
He suddenly recalled the young man's flat statement in the meeting room:
"The Palme d'Or at Cannes."
He couldn't sit still any longer. He grabbed the phone.
"Link!" The moment the call connected, his voice was ignited with urgency.
"I only have one thing to say—Goddamn! When do we start?"
On the other end, Link's laugh was low and composed.
"Tomorrow."
"But what we're talking about isn't just a director or writer contract."
"Oh?" Bender's tone was sly. "What do you want to talk about?"
"I want to discuss an opportunity to change the game. I've even got the company name picked out—Pangu Pictures."
There was a two-second silence on the line, followed by a laugh.
"Change the game? Kid, your ambition is even bigger than your script."
"Fine. Ten o'clock tomorrow. Bring your crazy director. Let's see if you want to change the game or be buried alive by the Hollywood system."
---
The night deepened.
Link hung up the phone, watching the flowing neon lights outside the window.
Quentin was asleep on the couch, mumbling about "gunfights," "the Bible," and "Whoppers."
Link smiled softly.
He knew that Pangu's first breath had just been taken.