The pressure inside Pangu Pictures' new office was suffocating.
Band was clutching the fax, his palms slick with sweat, his voice dry and unsteady.
"...The Directors Guild, the Actors Guild, and the Producers Guild—joint investigation. Link , this isn't an investigation, this is a raid. One word from the unions and the whole production gets shut down immediately. Those bastards at New Line aren't going to front a single dime for us!"
Around the office, the core staff didn't dare lift their heads.
Link said nothing. With his back to everyone, he stood by the window, watching the traffic below. He didn't turn around, but Band could see it clearly—Link 's hand gripping the window frame, his knuckles bone-white.
A full thirty seconds passed before he finally turned around. His face was unreadable, but there was a tightly suppressed fire in his eyes.
"The union reps get here this afternoon?"
"Yes."
"Alright." He grabbed the jacket draped over the back of a chair. "Let's go. Burbank."
Band froze. "Where? The Mask script read-through?"
"Yeah."
"Now?!" Band felt like he was losing his mind. "The house is on fire and you still want to go to a meeting?!"
Link slung the jacket over his shoulder, stepped up in front of him, and stared him straight in the eyes, speaking slowly, word by word.
"Lawrence, it's because the house is about to burn down that we have to walk out like nothing's wrong. The enemy wants to see us panic. They want us to stop. So we floor the gas and make them breathe our exhaust."
His voice was ice-cold, but Band could feel it—a volcano under the surface.
—
Half an hour later, a private rehearsal room in Burbank.
Director Chuck Russell had already arrived. He was the textbook technical director: script covered in notes, storyboards spread across the table, a tape recorder ready to capture the actors' line readings. The man looked like a machine waiting to be switched on.
The female lead, Cameron Diaz, hugged her script to her chest, nervous and excited, like a straight-A student on the first day of class.
Only Jim Carrey was missing.
Chuck frowned. The two New Line executives exchanged a look. One of them cleared his throat, about to speak—
"Bang!"
The door flew open.
Jim Carrey burst in like a gust of wind, in his classic look. He went straight for a half-dead potted plant in the corner, bent down, and leaned in close.
"I know it was you, buddy. Hand over the wallet, or I'm planting you in the toilet."
He giggled to himself, then finally turned around and greeted everyone like nothing had happened.
It was Chuck's first time meeting him. His face instantly went dark.
Even Link felt his temple twitch.
"Alright," Link said. "Everyone's here. Let's begin."
The table read started.
The first ten minutes were fairly normal—until Stanley touched the mask for the first time.
Chuck cut in, his tone icy. "Jim, here the emotion is fear mixed with curiosity. I want a close-up on your eyes—"
Jim ignored him completely. He dropped flat onto the floor and started mimicking someone possessed, muttering in a bizarre voice.
"No… it's breathing… it's talking… it wants me to stuff the manager's tie up his nostrils…"
The room froze.
Cameron instinctively leaned back. She was just a young actress—she'd never seen anything like this. The two executives exchanged a look that said, I knew this would happen.
Chuck finally snapped. He slammed the script shut with a loud bang.
"Mr. Carrey! There is exactly ONE line in the script here: 'What is this?' I need you to follow the script, not do your stand-up routine!"
Jim Carrey stood up. The goofy grin vanished instantly. His eyes were blazing.
"Director, you want to shoot madness, but you're not crazy at all!" He jabbed a finger at his own head. "Stanley isn't a character you read off a page. He explodes out of your brain! You can't calculate a bomb with formulas!"
"I'm not calculating anything!" Chuck shot back, pointing at the storyboards. "This is design! This is my set! You take the paycheck, you do what I say!"
"Bullshit!" Jim sneered. "What you want is a puppet, not an actor! If that's the case, go shoot car commercials!"
"You—!"
The two executives were already grabbing their coats, ready to walk. This collaboration was dead.
"Sit the hell down. All of you!"
The roar stunned everyone.
It was Link.
He slammed the script down on the table.
Stepping between the two men, he locked eyes with Chuck first, his gaze icy. "You want total control, right? Every second, every shot, perfectly mapped out in your head?"
Chuck stiffened, said nothing. That was answer enough.
Link then turned to Jim Carrey. "And you want absolute freedom—to rip every insane idea out of your head and throw it on the screen. Right?"
Jim grinned, but didn't answer.
"Good." Link took a deep breath, forcing down the fire in his chest. He knew that if he didn't rein these two lunatics in today, the unions outside would hand him a death sentence.
He pointed at Chuck. "From today on, your job is to build the most precise cage in the world. Use your storyboards, your lighting, your blocking—make that cage flawless."
Then he pointed at Jim Carrey.
"And you—your job is to be the wild beast no one can lock up. Your only goal is to use every ounce of your madness to smash that cage to pieces, from the inside out."
"One builds the cage. One destroys it."
Link swept his gaze across the room. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable edge.
"That's The Mask. Can you two handle it? If not, get out. Now."
Dead silence.
Chuck stared at his storyboards, something new flickering in his eyes for the first time.
Jim Carrey locked onto Link, that rubbery face breaking into a smile that held admiration—and just a hint of wariness.
Slowly, the two executives put their coats back down.
Band felt like he'd just come back from the dead.
At that moment, an assistant burst through the door, pale and shaking, holding a document stamped with the unions' red seal. It looked like a death notice.
"Mr. Link … the joint union investigation team… has issued a stop-work order."
Her voice trembled.
"All union members must withdraw from the production immediately. Anyone who doesn't will have their professional credentials revoked."
The rehearsal room, which had only just warmed up, instantly turned even colder.