The party following the Pulp Fiction premiere was held at a top-floor club on the French Riviera. The main hall was ablaze with light, champagne flowed freely, and laughter and bubbles rose simultaneously.
The buzz from the Palme d'Or wasn't close to fading, and everyone was still basking in the glow of the revelry.
Quentin was holding court with a group of critics, animated and talking with his hands; Travolta was surrounded by a swarm of European female fans, posing for pictures; Uma smiled under the post-red-carpet lights, looking as elegant as a painting.
Only Link wasn't part of the noise.
He walked alone onto the outdoor balcony, the champagne in his hand already flat. The night breeze blew in from the sea, carrying the scent of salt and a cooling chill.
The wind was a wake-up call.
He looked down at the city below—this city, feverish for film, twinkling with stars in the night.
Just over a year ago, he was stressing about rent, huddled in video rental stores discussing scripts with Quentin. Tonight, he was standing at the pinnacle of world cinema.
But he knew this wasn't the finish line; it was the start of a new battle.
A quiet chuckle suddenly came from behind him.
"Hiding out here all alone, Boss? Do you think our party is boring?"
Uma approached him barefoot, holding two fresh glasses of champagne. Her ankles were pale in the moonlight, her skirt sweeping the ground.
"Just needed a place to breathe," Link said, taking the glass.
"To breathe? I actually wish I could get a little drunk tonight," Uma smiled. "Almodóvar just told me Mia Wallace is the most dangerous and most fascinating woman he's ever seen."
"That means your phone is about to be ringing off the hook with European directors."
"No," she shook her head, her blue eyes bright like the ocean. "It means the future you promised me is starting to cash out."
She looked at him seriously, her voice soft but firm. "Thank you. For Mia, and for me."
Link just took a sip of his drink, saying nothing. The wind picked up again, and his gaze moved past the party lights toward the distant sea.
He knew this party was just the opening act. The real fight hadn't even started.
---
The next morning.
Bender burst into the room, clutching several faxed pages, his face paler than cheap liquor.
"It's over! Variety, The Hollywood Reporter, Cahiers du Cinéma—all our major interviews are canceled! The reason given is 'the principal creatives need rest.' Li, this isn't a coincidence, it's a shutout!"
Link leaned by the window, watching the harbor light reflecting off the water. He knew exactly what this meant.
Harvey had made his move.
He wasn't using a knife; he was using the media. With a single phone call, the news cycle could be rewritten.
He wanted to establish a new narrative:
Quentin was a genius discovered by Miramax.
Pangu Pictures was just a lucky outsider, a "troublemaking Asian company."
Once that impression was archived in the news, Pangu was finished. Nobody would finance their films, and no one would trust their brand. This wasn't just being defeated; it was being erased.
Link knew that inaction at a time like this was a slow death.
He spoke softly: "He wants to shut us up? We need to be louder."
Before Bender could react, Link had already spread his notepad out on the table.
"Help me find someone—Clint Eastwood. Find out what his usual habits are, or places he frequents."
"What? Are you crazy?" Bender stared. "That's the jury president! Cannes explicitly forbids private contact! If they catch us, we can forget keeping the nomination..."
"I'm not going to beg for an award," Link interrupted him, his tone calm.
"Then what are you going to do?"
"Find someone who still wants to talk about movies."
He paused, then added:
"He's the last man on Earth anyone would suspect of being bribed—the old cowboy. We'll be talking about film and life, not the Palme d'Or."
"Li..." Bender tried to argue.
"Relax," Link offered a slight smile. "I'm just going to have a chat."
He turned, looking out at the dazzling, sunlit sea.
---
Early that morning. The "Café du Soleil Levant" on the French Riviera.
Eastwood sat alone by the window, his black coffee faintly steaming in the sun. He looked like his own film characters—silent, rugged, and solitary.
Link walked over and sat down opposite him.
"You're at the wrong table, young man," the old cowboy's voice was low and gravelly, like sand grinding metal.
"No, sir." Link ordered a black coffee. "I think out of all of Cannes, this is the only table where one can still talk about the movies themselves."
Eastwood looked up. He didn't speak, but he didn't send him away either.
Link spoke calmly: "In Unforgiven, you told the audience that the legend of the Western hero was all a lie... that underneath was just an old son-of-a-bitch killer doing it for the money."
Eastwood's eyes flickered.
Link offered a small smile. "We're doing the same thing. We tell the audience that those supposedly cool hitmen are just a couple of idiots who talk about hamburgers and foot massages before they kill someone. Cool? It's just another lie."
A brief silence fell. The sea breeze blew through, carrying the scent of coffee.
"You're telling the audience that what they always believed is fake."
"Yes."
"That takes some guts."
Link laughed. "But you did it, and I'm doing it. Someone always has to do it."
They held each other's gaze. A few seconds later, the old cowboy put down his cup and stood up.
As he walked past Link, he didn't stop, only murmuring a single line:
"Kid, bucking the trend isn't always a good thing... but I like it."
He was gone.
Link looked up and gave a subtle nod toward the corner of the street.
A camera shutter snapped. A bullet had just been fired into the heart of the media war.
---
That afternoon, the air in the Carlton Hotel was thick with tension.
Harvey Weinstein stared at the copy of the Cannes Daily on the table. The photo showed Link and Clint Eastwood sitting face-to-face, deep in conversation.
The headline was like a dagger:
> The Architect of Pulp Fiction and the Disruptor of Unforgiven: A Secret Summit on the Future of Film.
The cigar between his fingers was slowly crushed, the ash scattering on the tabletop.
He had anticipated Link would fight back, but he never expected the kid to dare drag the Jury President into it.
"Harvey!"
Mara, the Head of PR, rushed in, holding several newspapers with a complicated expression. "Look at this..."
She spread out several front pages.
> Victory for the Indie Spirit! Link's Historic Dialogue with Eastwood on Pulp Fiction
> The Future of Art Begins at the Café du Soleil Levant
Harvey stared at the headlines, his expression becoming colder rather than satisfied.
Mara hesitated, then added, "But... there are different voices, too."
She pulled out a few more papers.
> Meeting Jury President Before Judging? Independent Cinema's 'Idealism' Degrades into PR Stunt
> Can the Palme d'Or Resist Media Manipulation?
Harvey's brow finally relaxed a fraction. This was a familiar smell to him: controversy.
Mara whispered, "Should we issue a clarification... or support the counter-narrative? People are starting to doubt the jury's integrity. If this blows up, it could affect us..."
"Clarification? No." Harvey sneered, shaking his head. "The messier, the better."
He picked up one newspaper, tapping his finger on a headline.
"The Palme d'Or is mine, not Link's. No matter who walks up on stage, the audience has to remember that Miramax made them famous. A single independent producer can't overshadow the studio."
Mara hesitated but said nothing more.
Harvey snuffed out his cigar, a cold smile playing on his lips.
"Go on. Let them keep arguing. What Cannes truly loves isn't the movies... it's the drama."
---
Meanwhile, on the other side of town.
Bender finished reading the papers, completely shell-shocked.
"Li! We have a huge problem!" he yelled, gripping the newsprint. "They're saying you bribed the jury, rigged the system, and staged a PR stunt! Look at this headline: 'Producer's Hollywood Tactics'! If this sticks, we're done for!"
Link took the paper, glanced at it, and a slight smile played on his lips.
"Excellent."
"Excellent? Are you nuts?!"
Link tapped the striking words with his fingertip. "Harvey thinks the media storm is attacking us, but he's actually just adding fuel to the fire."
Bender was utterly confused.
"Think," Link's voice was quiet. "What does Cannes really want? Controversy. As long as they're fighting, it means people are paying attention. Now, Pulp Fiction isn't just a movie—it's become a war between 'artistic revolution' and 'the old guard.'"
He looked up, his eyes as cold as the ocean surface.
"If they don't give us the award now, they're bowing to gossip. If they do give it to us, they're defending art. Most importantly... no matter the outcome, the buzz around our movie is going to explode."
Bender remained speechless for a long time, only able to stare at Link.
In that moment, he finally realized:
This guy wasn't a producer; he was playing the entire global media like a chess game.
---
The external storm continued to escalate.
One section of the media championed the "soul collision between a rising producer and a legendary juror"; another group of journalists blasted "indie cinema degrading into a PR theater."
Reporters from The New York Times, AFP, and the BBC were all demanding a response from the jury.
The Jury President, Eastwood, offered only one icily delivered line:
"I meet with filmmakers, not contestants."
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