The wrap party ended on a sour note.
Harvey Weinstein practically snarled "We'll see about this" through clenched teeth, then stormed out of the bar, leaving behind a crowd of people holding their breath.
Quentin was about to chase after him to yell some more, but Link held him back.
"Let him go," Link's eyes were terrifyingly calm in the dim light. "The real war starts right now."
Bander's face was pale, and the hand holding his drink was shaking. "Link ... did we... did we push things too far? Harvey's clout in marketing and distribution... we really can't afford to cross him!"
"Lawrence," Link looked at him, speaking deliberately. "Some ground, you can't give an inch. Final Cut is the director's lifeline. If we give up half an inch today, he'll take the whole thing tomorrow."
He looked around at the now-quiet group. His voice wasn't loud, but everyone could hear him clearly.
"Remember this. Pangu Pictures can work with anyone, but we will never grovel to anyone."
The bar music played on, but no one was dancing anymore.
Link took a sip of his drink; it was bitter.
He looked up at the Hollywood night outside the window, the light in his eyes turning cold.
From this moment on, Pangu's war had begun.
---
The next day, post-production kicked off.
In the editing suite, Quentin and his editor worked like machines, day and night.
Link pulled up a chair and sat behind them, silently watching the jumbled footage on the screen magically reassemble into something amazing.
He liked the atmosphere, until—
The door slammed open.
Bander rushed in, his face ghostly white, clutching two faxes in his hands, his voice trembling.
"Link ! We have a problem!"
He slapped the faxes on the table, pointing at the first one. "Miramax is holding our post-production payment! They say they need to re-audit the budget and it'll take at least two weeks!"
Before Link could speak, he pointed to the second, practically in tears. "I called Danny and every composer on our list—they all rejected us! They all gave the same damn reason: 'fully booked!' It's Harvey! He's blocked all our roads!"
"The money is gone, and the people are gone."
The editing room fell into a deathly silence.
Quentin slammed a fist onto the editing desk, his eyes bloodshot like an enraged lion.
"Damn it! He's trying to let our movie rot right here!"
Everyone looked at Link.
Link didn't say anything. He just quietly stood up, walked to the window, and lit a cigarette.
It was the first time he had smoked in front of his colleagues since he had arrived.
He took drag after drag, the smoke swirling and obscuring his expressionless face. The only sounds in the office were his heavy breathing and Bander's repressed gasps.
When the cigarette was done, he brutally stubbed it out on the windowsill.
"Notify all post-production staff," he turned around, his voice hoarse but ice-cold. "Pangu will pay the salaries up front, not a day late. Quentin, don't worry about the money. I want you to cut the best version, and do it as fast as possible."
Bander stammered, "But... what about the music?"
Link didn't answer him. His gaze fell on a box in the corner of the office, packed with unsolicited screenplays—the ones nobody ever looked at.
These were submissions they'd received for their "Original Screenplay Protection Fund."
A pile of... undiscovered dreams.
A crazy idea, like a bolt of lightning, split through the gloom in his mind.
He suddenly smiled, a hint of desperation and ruthlessness in the expression of a man backed into a corner.
"Harvey can blacklist all the big names..."
He walked over to the box and gently brushed the dust off the top.
"But he can't blacklist every lunatic who wants to become a big name."
He picked up the phone and dialed the lawyer who handled the fund.
"Howard, issue a public announcement in the name of the fund."
"Pangu Pictures is openly soliciting film scores for Pulp Fiction across the entire country. We don't care about resumes or reputation; we only listen to the work."
"Tell those geniuses hiding in their basements that whoever moves us with their music will get one hundred thousand dollars, plus a three-picture deal."
He hung up and looked at the stunned faces around him.
"Harvey wants to shut all our doors?"
Link's eyes were like fire-forged steel.
"Then we'll build the damn lighthouse right on top of his ruins."