"Cut!"
Quentin's hoarse shout finally landed, freezing the last shot on the soundstage. Jules and Vincent, wearing ridiculous t-shirts and shorts, walked out of the apartment carrying the mysterious suitcase.
A moment of silence, then an eruption of applause and cheers like a massive wave!
John Travolta and Samuel L. Jackson hugged tightly. Uma Thurman covered her mouth, her eyes wet with tears of joy. Even Lubezki put down his camera and, for the first time, gave Quentin a genuine embrace.
The intense, crazy shoot, which had lasted months, was finally wrapped.
Link stood up from behind the monitor, scanning the tired yet ecstatic crew. He knew deep down: the first cornerstone of Panggu Pictures was now firmly set in the foundation of Hollywood.
To celebrate the wrap, Bender rented out a retro-themed bar in the Silver Lake neighborhood that night.
There was none of the usual Hollywood glitz here—just deafening rock music, endless beer, and pure, unadulterated happiness.
John Travolta was completely cutting loose. He dragged Samuel L. Jackson onto the dance floor and recreated their iconic twist from the movie, making the whole place scream. There was no shadow left on his face, only the euphoria of a fresh start.
He squeezed through the crowd to Link's side, wine glass in hand, and gave him a powerful hug.
"Link ," he shouted right next to Link's ear, "Thank you. You're the one who helped me find the joy of dancing again."
Link smiled and patted him on the back.
Uma Thurman sat quietly in a booth in the corner, watching the madness on the dance floor with an amused look. Link walked over and sat down across from her.
"What's on your mind?"
"I'm thinking," Uma swirled the red wine in her glass, looking at him, "Is your next movie in need of a dancing killer?"
Link raised an eyebrow: "Are you hitting on me for a job?"
"No." A captivating smile played on Uma's lips. "I'm reminding you that a good partnership needs long-term maintenance."
Just then, a figure walked up shyly, carrying two glasses of champagne.
It was Cameron Diaz.
She had also been invited to the party.
"Mr. Link …" She handed Link a glass of champagne. "Congratulations on wrapping the film."
Uma glanced at Cameron, then back at Link, a playful glint in her eye. She stood up and said elegantly, "I'm going to go check on those two old boys. You two catch up."
Link and Cameron were left alone in the booth.
"I've read The Mask script at least twenty times," Cameron said, her eyes sparkling in the dim light. "I can't wait. When do we… when do we start?"
"Soon," Link took a sip of champagne. "In fact, I've already lined up a director for you."
"Who?"
"Chuck Russell."
The name sounded unfamiliar to Cameron.
Link explained: "He directed A Nightmare on Elm Street 3. He's one of the best directors in Hollywood who knows how to blend horror, comedy, and visual effects perfectly. More importantly, he has the patience and the skill to guide actors. He can handle Jim Carrey's craziness, and he can make you shine your brightest right next to him."
This professional and precise analysis captivated Cameron. She looked at Link, her eyes full of admiration. This man always seemed to be three steps ahead of everyone else, planning everything out perfectly.
Halfway through the party, an unexpected guest arrived.
Harvey Weinstein.
His appearance made the noise in the bar pause for a moment.
Ignoring everyone, he walked straight through the crowd to Link, wearing his usual friendly but intimidating smile.
"Congrats, Link ," he raised his glass. "I hear you guys have made a masterpiece."
"You'll see for yourself soon enough in the editing room, Harvey," Link returned.
"Oh, speaking of the editing room." Harvey's smile didn't fade, but his tone sharpened. "Quentin is a genius. I love geniuses. But geniuses need a little commercial refinement, or the final product might be too avant-garde. To make sure the film sells, my team needs to be involved in post-production. You know what I mean, Link ."
The surrounding chatter died down, and more eyes turned toward them. Clearly, everyone was watching to see how Panggu Pictures would handle this.
Link held his champagne glass, unhurried: "You're asking for final cut privilege?"
Harvey smiled, confirming it: "It's nothing personal. It's all for the movie."
Before Link could say anything, a drunken voice exploded.
"Get the hell out of my party, you fat pig!"
Quentin Tarantino, face flushed, wobbled up with a half-empty bottle of beer, pointing a finger right at Harvey's nose and swearing:
"Nobody sets foot in my editing room except me and my editor! Especially not you, you cash-counting son of a btch!"
The whole place gasped.
The smile on Harvey's face instantly shattered, replaced by a chilling glare. The two men in suits behind him immediately stepped forward, shoulders tensed, ready to throw down.
The atmosphere in the bar solidified instantly. The band stopped playing. It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room.
Bender went white as a sheet and rushed forward, panicked.
Link, however, gently held him back, then slowly walked between Harvey and Quentin.
He held his champagne glass, totally composed, as if he hadn't even noticed the two menacing bodyguards.
"Harvey," Link's voice was soft, but cuttingly clear, "What you bought was just a ticket into Quentin's world."
"You can applaud in the audience, or you can boo."
"But you don't get to storm the stage and tell the actors how to perform."
Harvey's eyes narrowed, and he cracked a sinister grin, leaning in to whisper his comeback: "Listen up, kid. You're mistaken. Without my money, you're nothing. Editing, distribution, marketing, theaters—it all goes through me. Don't forget, Hollywood is my town, not some place where a little indie shop like yours can turn the world upside down."
He took a half-step forward, his bulky frame creating a sense of menace: "Don't play hardball when I'm being nice. If you want to play the game, you play by my rules."
Link's expression didn't change an inch.
He lifted his eyes, his voice icy: "The moment you signed that contract, you stopped being the distributor."
"You are just… the first audience member to buy a ticket."
At his words, the air in the bar seemed to sharply vibrate.
Harvey's face was livid, his eyes fixed on Link with a murderous glint. The bodyguards behind him were strained to the breaking point.
"Control your people," Link added icily, his gaze sweeping over the two henchmen. "This is a Panggu Pictures party, not Miramax territory."
The whole room held its breath.
The two bodyguards exchanged glances, then stiffly stopped their movement.
Harvey's expression shifted rapidly between rage and calculation. Finally, he gave a cold, parting sneer, clearly marking this down as a score to settle: "Fine. We'll see about that!"