It had been a week since the premiere, and Pulp Fiction was the new buzzword on the streets of Los Angeles.
Radio stations were playing "Miserlou," coffee shop baristas were sporting black suits and skinny ties, and even taxi drivers were imitating Samuel L. Jackson's lines.
The city was buzzing, yet for the first time, Link felt a silence that was more dangerous than the applause.
It was early morning.
Sunlight pierced the hotel curtains.
The mist was golden and bright; LA looked like a machine just waking up.
The phone rang. Bander's voice was hoarse from lack of sleep but excited, like he was talking in a dream: "Link ! The opening weekend box office... it's out! Forty-one million seven hundred thousand!"
Link held the phone, silent for a few seconds, then simply said, "Got it."
He walked to the window, watching the sun slowly blanket the entire city.
The city looked like it was congratulating him, but he knew something was stirring beneath that light.
---
The Pangu Pictures office still smelled faintly of the champagne from the celebration three days ago.
Empty bottles floated in the ice bucket in the corner, and pizza boxes lay sprawled across the table like the wreckage of a battlefield.
Bander kicked the door open like a charging soldier: "Link ! Check this out—Variety's front page! 'Hollywood's New King!'"
He excitedly waved the magazine. "They're calling you the King!"
Quentin was sprawled on the couch, feet up on the table, using his Palme d'Or trophy as an ashtray. He glanced at the cover and grinned like a kid who'd pulled off a great prank: "King? That's nothing. When we get the Oscar, Link will be God."
A burst of laughter erupted in the office.
The laughter held both pride and a long-overdue sense of relief.
Link didn't join in, just lowered his head and spun a Parker pen; the sun sparkled on the tip.
The laughter, in that moment, sounded a little hollow.
The door was pushed open. Martha, the assistant, looked uneasy as she placed a copy of The New York Times on the table.
"Link , you need to see this."
The air immediately went quiet.
The headline was polite: A Brilliant Frenzy.
But every sentence was a hidden dagger:
> "It's like soda with Pop Rocks—exciting, fun, but not the wine you'd serve at a formal dinner."
> "The halls of the Academy require timeless art, not a cultural bomb that will be quickly forgotten."
The final paragraph landed like a heavy blow:
> "In contrast, Miramax's release, The Last Letter, with its depth of humanity and redemption, feels much closer to the true core of cinematic art."
Bander's smile froze.
Quentin snatched the paper, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it on the floor: "Bullshit! The last time he understood a movie was during the silent era!"
A flurry of complaints broke out.
"This has to be Harvey's doing!"
"He's giving us the kiss of death! Total setup!"
"He wants to pigeonhole us as the 'cool kids'!"
"So what do we do? Write an article to fight back?"
"Or start sucking up to those old fogeys in the Academy?"
Link remained silent.
He sat at the desk, looking quietly at the crumpled newspaper on the floor.
The pen spun once between his fingers, then gently tapped the table three times.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The noise seemed to be sucked away by those three beats.
The entire office suddenly hushed.
He spoke slowly: "Quentin."
Quentin looked up, cigarette dangling: "Yeah?"
"What were you just saying?"
"I said..." Quentin cracked a smile, "We should just throw a party and get them all wasted."
Bander shook his head, laughing: "Don't be ridiculous. Who has the energy for that right now..."
Link's pen suddenly stopped moving.
His eyes were fixed on the wrinkled newspaper ball.
He remembered the beer can in Russell Crowe's hand that day in Australia.
That light clink was like a crazy person announcing he was raising his fists again.
They were never afraid of the crazy people.
They were afraid of the genius who wouldn't play by their rules.
Link lifted his head, his voice light, but cutting through the air like a blade:
"Party."
Everyone in the office stared.
He stood up, walked to the whiteboard, and quickly scrawled two words in the center:
The Party.
"Martha," he didn't look back, "get me a list of Academy voters. Everyone under fifty. Especially the people involved in music and art."
"Quentin, go find Dick Dale and book the most high-energy bands in the city."
"Bander, book that abandoned ballroom on Sunset Boulevard. I remember the lighting rig is still intact."
Martha asked, stunned: "Link ... are you serious?"
Link turned around, his tone eerily calm: "Writing an article to fight back? That's a kid's game. Adults... throw a party."
He walked slowly to the window, gazing at the sunlit city in the distance.
His look seemed to be surveying all of Hollywood.
"Harvey wants to talk 'humanity' in the living room?" he said quietly.
"Then we'll rewrite the rules... on the dance floor."
A moment of silence.
Then, Quentin laughed. A kind of wild, manic laugh.
Bander laughed too, his eyes getting teary.
The laughter spread, like a fire catching.
Martha looked at those two words and suddenly realized—it wasn't just a party announcement.
It was a declaration of war.
Outside the window, the neon lights of Sunset Boulevard began to glow.
The sun was fading, and the night was heating up.
Link leaned by the window, a slight upturn to his mouth.
He knew they weren't just lighting up a party—
They were igniting a fire that could burn down old Hollywood.