Inside Industrial Light & Magic's conference room, the silence was so deep you could hear the faint hum of electricity running through the fluorescent lights.
Catherine didn't answer right away.
She stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at Silicon Valley's endless stretch of tech campuses. She folded her arms and stood there for a long time, her back rigid and perfectly straight.
Bender was sweating bullets. In his mind, this deal was already dead—this was basically trying to get something for nothing. Why would ILM even play along?
Finally, Catherine turned around. Her eyes were sharp as knives. But when her gaze swept past the Millennium Falcon model, a flicker of hesitation crossed her face.
"Mr. Link ," she said, "do you know who you're talking to?"
"I'm talking to a team of geniuses who don't want to spend their entire lives working for someone else," Link replied, leaning back casually in his chair.
Catherine's eyelid twitched.
"This proposal is beyond my authority," she said, her voice returning to its icy tone. "I need to report this to the board—and to Mr. Lucas himself. Three days. I'll give you an answer in three days."
"No problem." Link stood up and extended his hand. "I'll wait for your good news."
—
When they stepped out of ILM, the sunlight was so bright it made their eyes sting.
Bender was still shaken. It wasn't until he got into the car that he realized his palms were soaked with sweat.
"Link , that's it? We're just leaving? Twenty million dollars! She didn't loosen up even a little!"
Link leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. "The hook's in. Now we wait for the fish to bite."
Bender swallowed hard and didn't dare say another word, though his stomach was still in knots.
The driver turned on the radio. A local college station was playing—noisy electric guitars and a female DJ hyping up indie band shows for the weekend. Link barely registered it. His mind was still stuck on three letters.
ILM.
…
Back in Los Angeles, Link didn't rest.
He had his assistant gather profiles on Hollywood male actors around thirty—guys suited for serious, dramatic roles.
A thick stack of files covered his desk.
He flipped through names one by one.
Tom Cruise? Too handsome. Didn't look like a math-obsessed nerd driven to madness.
Nicolas Cage? Too twitchy. Great at playing genius, not as good at playing the suffering behind it.
Then a name jumped out at him—
Russell Crowe.
Link's finger stopped.
He remembered that name. A hot-tempered bastard from Australia. A future Oscar winner. Those eyes carried a raw intensity—the kind that could carve obsession and pain straight into your bones.
That was the guy.
Just as he was about to tell Bender to contact Crowe's agent, his brick-sized cellphone rang.
"Link ." On the other end was Robert Shaye from New Line Cinema, his voice cool and sharp. "I just got a call from Wall Street. They say you're trying to pry ILM loose with twenty million dollars?"
The news traveled fast.
Shaye continued, "My board needs reassurance. Most of Pangu Pictures' funding comes from New Line's advances and a few independent investors. Your cash flow can't support a gamble this big."
"So what's your point?" Link asked calmly.
"So," Shaye paused, his tone turning pointed, "until the ILM partnership is finalized, I need you to put A Beautiful Mind on hold. Focus everything on The Mask. Deliver a money-making movie first—then we talk."
It was a power play.
Link didn't get angry. He smiled.
"Mr. Shaye, it sounds like you still don't fully understand Pangu," he said. After a beat, he added, "How about this—come by our office tomorrow afternoon. I'll show you exactly what cards I'm holding."
—
The next afternoon, Pangu's office.
The hallway was packed with young people. Someone was hugging a script and snoring loudly. Someone else sat in a corner quietly strumming a guitar, fingers clumsy but eyes full of focus.
Shaye frowned, like he'd walked into some chaotic street market.
"These people…?" he muttered.
"The future of Hollywood," Link said lightly, tossing a folder onto the table.
Shaye opened it. When he saw the budget breakdown on the first page, his brow slowly relaxed—though doubt still lingered.
"Three hundred proposals. Ten worth investing in?" he said. "Link , you're not seriously planning to build Pangu on kids like these, are you?"
"Mr. Shaye, don't you want to see whether five hundred thousand dollars can turn into fifty million?" Link replied. "The old guard in Hollywood doesn't have the guts to try. Pangu does."
Robert Shaye looked at the file, then out the window at the energetic faces beyond it. His Adam's apple bobbed.
"And don't forget," Link added, "we've also got a Palme d'Or winner about to hit theaters. That alone will bring in a steady stream of cash."
For the first time, Shaye fell silent.
Just as he hesitated—
The door burst open.
Martha rushed in, her face ghostly pale. She didn't even glance at Shaye, charging straight toward Link.
"Link —something went wrong! Russell Crowe—"
She was gasping for air, fingers clenched tightly around a folder.
"Harvey… stole him."
—
In that instant, the air in the room froze solid.