At eight o'clock the next morning, the latest issue of The Hollywood Reporter hit the streets—and exploded across Los Angeles like a bomb.
At Pangu Pictures' office, the phones started ringing at 8:01 and never stopped. All three lines were screaming nonstop, and the receptionist's voice was already hoarse.
"…Yes, the information is accurate… No, we're not accepting interviews…"
Band's eyes were bloodshot. He hung up one call and another immediately rang. His hand shook so badly that the coffee sloshed out of his cup and spilled everywhere.
"This is insane! Completely insane!" he snarled at Link. "Variety! Fox! Warner! Everyone's asking about that list! Harvey's office is completely surrounded by reporters!"
Link stood by the window, not turning around. The cup of tea in his hand had gone cold—he hadn't taken a single sip.
"Let it burn," he said calmly. If you listened closely, there was a trace of roughness beneath the composure. "The bigger the fire, the more people notice it."
Band finally snapped. He stormed over, grabbed the teacup from Link's hand, and slammed it onto the desk.
"Link! Stop screwing around with me!" he shouted. "That list! Those thirty-plus projects—where the hell did you get it?!"
For the first time, fear crept into his eyes.
Link turned around and stared at him for a few seconds without saying a word. Then he walked over to the filing cabinet, pulled out a thick folder labeled 'Pangu Original Screenplay Protection Fund,' and tossed it onto the desk in front of Band.
"You want to know where I got it?" Link said coldly. "From here. From every unlucky bastard whose script got buried by studio politics and union red tape. I didn't make anything up, Lawrence—I just stitched their tragedies together into a mirror."
Band froze, completely speechless.
Just then—bang!—the office door was shoved open.
A middle-aged man in a sharp suit and gold-rimmed glasses walked in with two assistants. He scanned the room and slapped a document down on the front desk.
"I'm Robert King, legal counsel for the Directors Guild," he announced flatly. "Under the joint union regulations, I am formally notifying you that all members affiliated with the Big Three guilds must leave this office within fifteen minutes and cease all work immediately."
He glanced at the clock on the wall and added coldly, "The countdown starts now."
The office fell into a deathly silence. Several employees went pale on the spot.
Robert's gaze finally settled on Link, undisguised contempt in his eyes.
Link smiled.
He picked up the phone and, in front of everyone, dialed New Line's president, Shaye.
The moment the call connected, Shaye's furious voice exploded through the receiver.
"Link! Are you out of your goddamn mind?! You're declaring war on the unions—and dragging New Line into it? Do you have any idea what this could do to me?!"
Link smiled faintly, his tone steady.
"I do. But in fifteen minutes, my entire crew will be forced out. Robert King is standing in my office right now. He's already started the clock."
There was a brief pause on the other end.
"Link," Shaye said quietly, his voice turning dangerous, "what exactly are you trying to do?"
"Simple," Link replied unhurriedly. His voice wasn't loud, but everyone in the office could hear him clearly. "I'm setting up an Independent Filmmakers Support Fund. One hundred million dollars. Pangu and New Line split it fifty-fifty."
He continued, calm and precise. "It'll exist for one purpose: to give independent filmmakers crushed by studio power and union rules three things—legal support, project financing, and distribution."
A cold laugh came through the phone. "You think I'll agree to that? Link, you don't understand the situation. If the unions blacklist us, every actor and director in town will avoid New Line. You expect me to go head-to-head with the entire industry? Don't be ridiculous."
Link walked to the window and looked down at the street below, packed wall-to-wall with reporters. His voice sharpened.
"Shaye, what you really need to worry about isn't the unions—it's your board. If you don't have a Christmas blockbuster, New Line's quarterly numbers will be absolute trash. And when that happens, they'll be the ones who personally shove you out of your chair."
There was a brief silence. Then Shaye said coldly, "Are you threatening me?"
"No," Link replied gently. "I'm offering you a way out."
He continued evenly, "Once the fund is established, every director and actor pushed aside by the unions will come running. They need a stage—and you'll be the one providing it. What you get isn't just The Mask. You get an entire generation of new creators."
The tension in the office was razor-sharp. Robert King's face had turned an ugly shade of green. He hadn't expected Link to openly pry at Hollywood's old power structure right in front of him.
After a long silence, a quiet sigh came through the phone—like a final concession.
"…You're a lunatic."
Another thirty seconds passed.
"Fine. I'm in."
Link hung up, then turned to the stone-faced Robert and made a polite after you gesture.
"Mr. King," he said with a smile, "you may continue the countdown now."