Quentin reacted like he'd been plugged into a live wire. His chair legs screeched against the floor as he lurched forward, staring at Link as if he'd just committed heresy.
"Are you out of your mind?! That guy is washed up! He can't even get a commercial gig right now! His last credit was probably a voice-over for a talking dog!"
The more he talked, the more worked up he got, hands chopping through the air as if trying to physically erase the words "Box Office Poison" from the room.
Bender didn't say a word; he just sat there with a furrowed brow. He looked like an adult watching a child have a temper tantrum—not even worth the breath to argue.
Howard, the lawyer, couldn't help himself. He pushed up his glasses and let out a cold snicker. "This is an indie film, kid, not a charity project for the forgotten."
The air in the room turned to ice.
Link sat perfectly still. On the table in front of him, the sunlight caught the water in his glass, refracting a single gold line that looked like a frozen clock hand. He waited for Quentin's fire to burn out before he finally looked up.
"Quentin, tell me—what's the most compelling thing about the character Vincent?"
Quentin blinked, his tone softening. "He's... he's a hitman, but he's clumsy. A little naive. His cool isn't an act; it's just... an effortless presence."
"Exactly," Link nodded. "Effortless cool."
He paused, his voice dropping to a low, rhythmic drawl.
"Now, imagine it's ten years ago. Travolta is in a white suit, spinning on a dance floor. The lights are hitting him, and the whole world is watching."
Link looked into the empty space between them, painting a picture from memory.
"Fast forward ten years. He's older. He's heavier. His eyes look tired. He's wearing a cheap black suit and chewing on a cigarette. When he pulls a trigger, he doesn't look like an action hero; he just looks annoyed. But when he dances... his movements are slower, yet for one split second, you can still see it. He's still the King."
The conference room went dead silent. You couldn't even hear the clock tick.
Quentin's fingers began to drum on the table, the tempo picking up speed. He was starting to stitch the images together in his head: a fallen hitman dancing under dim lights, awkward yet elegant—like a dream broken by time.
"The beauty of the contrast..." he whispered.
A second later, he snapped his head up, clutching his hair. "Link , that's... damn, that's perfect!"
Link gave a faint, knowing smile. He turned to Bender. "Mr. Bender, I know what you're thinking. 'Box Office Poison,' right?"
Bender grunted, not bothering to deny it.
"But have you considered what a three-million-dollar indie film needs most?" Link asked quietly. "It's not just actors, and it's not just money. It's a narrative."
He leaned forward, his words cutting like a blade.
"If we cast a nobody, even if they're brilliant, people will just say, 'Hey, that was a decent flick.' But if we cast Travolta—a King forgotten by the era—and he delivers a knockout performance?"
He paused, locking eyes with Bender.
"That's not a movie review. That's a resurrection."
Bender's fingers stopped moving. The cigarette smoke swirled in front of his face. Link kept going, his voice calm but sharp with calculated ambition.
"The day we release, every headline in the country will read: 'Former Megastar Finds Redemption in Indie Masterpiece.' That is the most expensive, most powerful PR you can get, and it won't cost us a dime."
He let a small smirk play on his lips.
"Plus... he's dirt cheap right now. We can actually afford him."
The sneer on Howard's face had long since frozen. Bender leaned back in his chair, tapping the table slowly—his thinking rhythm. He looked at Link with a complex mix of doubt, alertness, and finally, the feeling of being swept up in a storm.
This kid wasn't just making a movie. He was playing the media, playing the audience, and maybe even playing Hollywood itself.
Bender let out a long breath and finally laughed.
"Link ," he said, "you're a dangerous guy." He looked at Howard. "Redraft the Letter of Intent. Let's roll the dice."
"Smart move," Link said, standing up to straighten his sleeves. "Now, we just have to convince Travolta himself that he's actually worth saving."
He adjusted his collar.
"Bender, Quentin—we need to find an office. Pangu Pictures can't keep building the future out of coffee shops."
As they walked out of the room, sunlight flooded the hallway. Quentin was still lost in the vision, muttering to himself: "An aging King... blood on his hands... dancing in a diner..."
He suddenly burst out laughing. "Link , man, you are a total freaking psycho."
Link glanced sideways, a cold flash of confidence in his eyes.
"Only the psychos get to rewrite history."
He kept the rest of the thought to himself.
And as for that history? I've already seen how it ends.