At Pangu Pictures' office, the phones were screaming.
And I don't mean that figuratively—they were literally shrieking.
Three external lines, plus the private desk phones of Bender and Quentin, meant five machines were ringing non-stop all at once. The mingled sound of the ringtones sounded like a cheap electronic concert.
"…No, we are not issuing any comment at this time!"
"No comment!"
"Screw off! Stop calling!"
Bender was pacing back and forth, his steps thudding on the floor. With every call he took, his face grew paler.
"It's New Line! They're asking if we're benching Russell!"
"It's Industrial Light & Magic! They want to know our PR strategy!"
"It's the theater chains! They said… if the outrage keeps boiling over, they're cutting down the number of screenings for Pulp Fiction!"
Quentin kicked the trash can, which flew across the room with a loud CLANG before hitting the wall.
"That damn fat pig! He's going to ruin all of us!"
Every employee in the office kept their heads down, nobody daring to say a word. The air was so thick with tension you could practically wring it out.
Only Link wasn't moving.
He didn't go make coffee, and he didn't speak. He just sat silently at his desk, watching the grainy, rough-quality video on the television screen over and over again.
In the clip, Russell Crowe's face was contorted with fury, his fist was swinging, and the captions highlighted the phrase in blood-red lettering: "F, Nier."
The office door opened, and casting director Martha walked in, followed by a stone-faced Samuel L. Jackson.
"Link ," Martha's voice was strained, "Jackson… he has something he wants to talk to you about."
Jackson didn't wait for her to finish. He walked up and slammed a newspaper down on Link's desk.
"Link , I don't care if this video is real or fake," his voice was deep and powerful. "I only have one question for you: What are you going to do about it?"
In his eyes, there was no anger, just the disappointment of a man who felt deeply offended.
In that moment, everyone understood.
Link instantly felt a massive headache coming on. They were truly facing internal problems alongside external threats now.
He looked at Jackson, then glanced around at all the tense faces in the office.
"Pull the phone lines." His voice was hoarse, but steady.
Bender froze. "What?"
"I said, pull all the phone lines." Link stood up. "From now on, Pangu Pictures is going silent to the outside world."
"Silent?!" Bender's voice was shaking. "Link ! The movie opens in forty-eight hours! If we go silent, the public will assume it's true! We're dead!"
Quentin roared, "Exactly! The only way out right now is to release a statement immediately and cut ties with that idiot Russell!"
"Cut ties?" Link looked at him, his eyes cold as ice. "That's an admission that Pangu Pictures signed a racist, violent maniac. All of us will be crucified in the media."
He walked over to Samuel, looking him directly in the eye.
"Jackson, I guarantee you, I will deliver a full explanation. To you, and to everyone who was offended by those words."
Then, he picked up a phone and dialed his lawyer, Howard.
"Howard, I need you to find the person who shot that video in the Australian bar within three hours. Find out how much Harvey paid him—I'll offer ten times that. I want the original footage, and I want that person on a plane to Los Angeles right now as a witness."
There was a moment of silence on the other end, and Howard lowered his voice. "Link , you're essentially talking about buying him off…"
"Just get it done. You'll understand why later," Link cut him off.
Hanging up, he then called Sarah Jenkins at The Hollywood Reporter.
"Sarah, are you free to watch an execution tonight?"
The woman paused, then couldn't hold back her excitement: "Yours, or Harvey's?"
"What do you think?" Link smiled, a smile filled with the madness of someone with nothing left to lose.
"What's the highest-rated late-night show in America tonight?"
"The David Letterman Show—it's live."
"Perfect." Link's tone was light, but every word was like a stone, hitting everyone's heart.
"Contact the producer for me. Tell him—"
"I'm willing to appear on his show with a huge announcement."
"Live."
—A deathly silence fell over the entire office.
Only the second hand on the wall clock could be heard: tick-tock, tick-tock, like a countdown to an execution.