The moment John Travolta stepped onto the stage, the press conference completely spiraled out of control.
Security struggled to hold back the surge of reporters as camera flashes exploded from every direction, like a torrential downpour. The three people from Pangu Pictures were swept along as they were rushed out, their footsteps nearly drowned out by the blinding lights and the roar of the crowd.
The first person to catch up was Marty Grossman.
The top CAA agent—who just yesterday had worn an air of smug superiority—was now panting as he shoved his way in front of Link, his glasses sliding down his nose, his smile bordering on obsequious.
"Li—Mr. Link !" His voice trembled. "What just happened up there… my God, that was divine intervention! In twenty years, I've never seen a PR reversal that clean and beautiful!"
Link looked at him calmly and said nothing.
Marty immediately got the message. He nodded rapidly, grinning. "John's contract—we don't want an upfront salary. We'll take backend points only. Box office participation, plus an Oscar nomination."
That last line landed like a confident bet.
Link took a sip of water, his voice steady. "Have your lawyer talk to Howard about the contract. I only have one condition—John must fully cooperate with filming and promotion, anytime, anywhere."
"Of course! One hundred percent!" Marty thumped his chest enthusiastically. "From today on, John is your guy!"
He jogged off, smiling like a kid who'd just hit the lottery.
The flashes kept firing. Quentin and Bandit were trapped on the other side by reporters, both of them so excited they could barely form sentences. Only Link remained strangely calm amid the chaos.
He could feel something moving inside him—an indescribable clarity.
Deep in his soul, it was as if a beam of blue light briefly flickered on.
He knew it was the system responding.
[Influence Index: 2000 (+1500!!)]
[Description: Orchestrated a textbook-perfect PR counteroffensive, completely crushed negative press, established a positive company image, and secured a core lead actor. Influence has increased explosively.]
Silently, he thought:
This is just the beginning.
---
That night, they went to Ma Maison.
In a private room of the century-old restaurant, the lighting bathed everything in a soft amber glow. Dusty vintage movie posters lined the walls. The four people from Pangu Pictures sat together, drinking as if they were aboard a small, unnamed ship setting out to sea.
Bandit raised his glass first. "To Link ! I've been on the phone all afternoon—Miramax, New Line, Focus Features—every one of them begging for distribution rights! They're even offering guaranteed minimums! Brother, we actually fucking made it!"
Quentin laughed like a madman. "All those assholes who used to look down on me? Now they're lining up to buy me drinks! This feels so damn good!"
Travolta stood up slowly and personally filled Link's glass.
"Link ," he said, his voice low and sincere, "I thought my time was over. You gave me a second life. From now on, any movie of yours—call me, and I'm there."
The three of them looked at Link with burning intensity.
Link raised his glass and gently clinked it with theirs.
After a sip, his expression finally relaxed, a hint of youthful ease breaking through.
"Guys," he said, "don't celebrate too early. Today was just a warm-up."
He lifted the empty bottle and gave it a light shake.
"When we win the Oscar, then we'll open ten more bottles—way more expensive ones."
Laughter erupted. The crisp clinking of glasses sounded like the rhythm of a prophecy.
---
The next morning, sunlight streamed through the windows of Pangu Pictures' new office in Burbank.
They had finally moved out of the tiny attic and into a space of their own.
On Link's desk lay a thin contract.
Sitting across from him was a young woman who looked slightly nervous.
Cameron Diaz.
Her makeup was light, her expression tense.
"I… I thought I'd already been cut," she said quietly.
"No need to be nervous, Ms. Diaz," Link said gently, smiling reassuringly.
He slid the contract toward her. "This is a three-film priority casting agreement. Welcome to Pangu Pictures."
Cameron froze for a few seconds before it sank in. She lowered her head to read the contract, her fingers trembling slightly.
"But… I was terrible when I auditioned for Mia."
"That role really wasn't right for you," Link nodded. "But I have a script with a part that feels like it was written just for you. Not a dangerous woman—but a role that can turn you into America's sweetheart."
He paused, his tone turning serious.
"During the contract period, we'll arrange classes and training for you. What you need to do is be patient… and wait for that role to appear."
Cameron's eyes reddened.
In Hollywood, she'd heard too many empty promises and arrogant judgments. No one had ever spoken to her like this—seriously, thoughtfully planning her future.
She signed her name. When she looked up, there was a new light in her eyes.
"Mr. Link ," she hesitated, then said softly, "could I… buy you dinner sometime? Just as… a thank-you."
Link blinked, then smiled.
"I accept."
He paused. "But let's make a deal—when you earn an A-list evaluation, that's when we'll have that dinner. We'll celebrate you becoming a real actor."
Cameron smiled, tears glistening. "Deal."
When she left, her steps were light—like a girl who had just learned how to fly.
---
Link stood and walked to the window.
Sunlight fell across the whiteboard. He picked up a marker and wrote two names in the empty space:
Uma Thurman.
Samuel L. Jackson.
The strokes were sharp, almost like a declaration.
He stared at the names and murmured softly:
"The queen and the bishop—it's finally time for them to enter the game."
A breeze slipped through the window, carrying a few loose pages off the desk.