The public relations storm had been brewing for two full days.
The Pangu Pictures office felt like a command center that had just won a major battle.
Phones rang incessantly, but the noise was no longer a jarring alarm—it was the sound of a victory march.
Every page spat out by the fax machine signaled a new invitation, a fresh news story, or a new offer for a collaboration.
Bander's tie was askew. He hung up one call, didn't even have a moment to breathe, before another one rang.
He glanced at the caller ID, put it straight on speakerphone, and motioned to the excited, battle-weary crew in the office.
"Mr. Link? I'm an editor at Time Magazine. We want to do a cover story on you and Tarantino—the headline is: 'The Hollywood Rulebreakers.'"
Quentin put his feet up on the desk and slowly blew a smoke ring. "Tell 'em if they want a cover shoot... they'll have to take a number."
Laughter erupted across the office.
This media whirlwind was far more intense than anyone had anticipated.
Harvey Weinstein had become the industry's punching bag.
The three major guilds had withdrawn their cease-and-desist orders. Their presidents had even personally called Bander to "express their concern," sounding as humble as if they were admitting guilt.
Everyone was celebrating.
Only Link, after the noise died down, walked into his office alone.
He ignored the piles of paperwork and interview requests, quietly making an international call—to a flight booking center for a flight to Sydney.
Bander pushed the door open, confused. "Link, why are you going to Australia now? The premiere is next week!"
Link looked out the window, his voice calm. "We won the war in the media, but our next Oscar winner is still bleeding out on his own battlefield."
---
The Southern Coast of Australia.
The sea wind, thick with salt, swept through the small white cottage. The curtains snapped loudly.
Russell Crowe sat in a rocking chair on the porch. The TV silently looped the footage of his recent altercation.
The beer can in his hand was already crushed out of shape.
Link walked up the wooden steps, his footsteps barely audible.
"I look like a clown, don't I?" Russell murmured.
"No," Link sat down next to him and handed him a fresh bottle of beer. "You've just been used by them as a pawn they could sacrifice at any time."
Russell's hand was stiff, his eyes fixed on the ocean.
The crash of the waves, one after another, sounded like they were hitting his heart.
"They've nailed you to a pillar of shame," Link said, his voice calm and slow. "They're making you doubt yourself. Making you believe that maybe you really are the thug they say you are."
Russell's shoulder gave a slight tremor.
"John Nash," Link suddenly said. "A genius misunderstood by the world. Everyone called him crazy, but he fought the hallucinations in his mind his whole life. He never gave up."
Russell looked up, his blue eyes finally gaining focus.
Link put the ice-cold beer in his hand. "You won the first media war. But the real one... is the one inside you."
They sat side-by-side, listening to the wind beat against the eaves.
After a long time, Russell's fingers loosened, and he quietly asked, "The script... when do I get it?"
"Soon," Link said, looking at the distant horizon, his tone serene. "It's waiting for the eyes you have right now."
---
A week later, Los Angeles, the Chinese Theatre.
The red carpet covered the entire length of Hollywood Boulevard.
The flash of paparazzi bulbs turned night into day, and the screams of the crowd rose in successive waves.
The Pangu motorcade arrived.
Link was the last to step out of the car. He stood by the door, watching everything unfold like a director watching the opening scene of his first movie.
John Travolta was leaning down to sign an autograph for a female fan who was so excited she was crying.
He patted her on the shoulder, and the smile he gave wasn't the standardized curve trained by a talent agency, but a genuine expression of ease.
Uma Thurman stood alone in the interview area, facing dozens of microphones. She looked aloof and commanded the space. Instead of answering the questions, she started questioning the reporters back, her powerful presence making them step back. She looked like a real queen, not a doll waiting to be picked.
Samuel L. Jackson wore sunglasses and leaned against the backdrop, lazily flipping the bird at a familiar camera, which brought a round of good-natured laughter. He wasn't there to attend the event; he was the event.
And Quentin, that lunatic, was currently gripping Roger Ebert—the most famous film critic in America—and arguing heatedly, spitting everywhere, about a '70s Italian B-movie, completely ignoring the host's exasperated gestures to hurry up.
Every single one of them was shining.
These "freaks" and "has-beens" who had once been cast out, misunderstood, or forgotten by Hollywood were, at this very moment, the true stars of this city of fame and fortune.
Watching this scene, Link finally smiled.
It wasn't the smile of a mastermind, nor the smile of someone full of self-satisfaction. It was a smile of genuine relief.
Tonight wasn't about anyone's failure; it was about the birth of Pangu.