The Spago restaurant, host of the Oscars after-party.
Right now, though, the place felt more like a very well-dressed funeral.
The music was loud, the laughter was hollow, and champagne bubbles shattered under the bright lights. People clinked their glasses, the "ding" sounding like a knock on an empty shell.
Bender was moving from table to table, his smile glued on. Quentin was slumped in a corner, already several whiskeys deep, his face flushed scarlet.
Link sat by the bar, staring at the Oscar statue in front of him—
Best Original Screenplay.
The trophy was heavy, making his palm feel numb.
Just then, a commotion broke out at the entrance. The air immediately went thick with tension.
Harvey Weinstein had arrived.
He was flanked by his assistants and producers, wearing the smirk of a victor. He approached, holding a champagne flute, the light reflecting off his oily face.
"Link !" Harvey opened his arms, his tone overly enthusiastic and almost fake. "Congratulations, my friend. One Oscar is a remarkable achievement for a newcomer."
He stepped up and gave Link an overly tight hug. He then naturally picked up the little golden guy and weighed it in his hand.
"You've got talent, kid." He smiled, but his eyes were sharp. "But you need to understand, Hollywood isn't just about making movies."
He paused, shifting to a condescending tone: "It's a club. You need to learn how to schmooze, how to toast, and how to sit at their table. Otherwise, this is all you'll ever have—just one Best Screenplay."
He held out his champagne flute to Link, his smile gentle but hiding a knife's edge.
"Come on, a toast to the future."
From across the room, Quentin's glass went "CRASH" as he crushed it in his hand.
He stood up, eyes bloodshot, looking like a wolf ready to pounce.
"Who the hell do you think you are!" he roared. "Don't act like God in here..."
Link didn't turn around. He simply raised one hand and pressed it down, a signal for quiet.
Quentin froze, his teeth grinding audibly.
Link ignored the champagne Harvey offered. He just picked up his own Oscar, running his thumb over the little golden man, and smiled.
"Thanks for the advice, Harvey. But I think," he raised his eyes and looked directly at him, "one trophy won purely on the merit of the film weighs a lot more than ten that were bought through backroom deals."
Harvey's smile instantly froze in place.
Link set the trophy down, turned, and patted Quentin's shoulder.
"Let's go, Director."
"Where to?"
"The funeral's over."
They walked out side-by-side. Behind them, the lights still shone, painfully bright.
---
3:00 AM, Pangu Pictures Office
The air was thick with the mixed smell of tobacco and frustration. Some people were cursing quietly, others were forcefully crushing paper cups. Quentin was staring intensely at the wall, his knuckles white.
Link stood by the window and pushed it open.
The night wind rushed in, scattering papers on the floor.
"He didn't win."
His voice cut the silence.
"He just showed us that the name of this game is the Oscars. And the rule isn't whose movie is the best—it's whose movie makes the old guard the most comfortable."
He turned around, his gaze sweeping over everyone.
"Make films they like? Drink red wine with them? Play by their rules?"
He let out a quiet, clean laugh, but it was sharp.
"So, are we going to do that?"
No one answered. The silence was the answer.
Link walked back to his desk and picked up the Oscar. Every pair of eyes in the office followed the glint of gold in his hand.
He walked to the doorway and tapped the statue's base against the glass.
Tap—Tap—Tap.
The sound was like a beat being hammered into the sleeping city, and into everyone's deadened heart.
Then, he suddenly spun around and strode forcefully toward the office door.
To everyone's shock, he swung the little golden man and wedged it firmly into the doorjamb.
"CLANG!" The door was held open.
"Link , that's an Oscar..." Bender gasped, his voice trembling.
Link dusted off his hands and stood up.
The light in his eyes was like a new fire rising from the ashes of a ruin.
"Now, it's just a doorstop."
He looked around at everyone, speaking clearly, word by word.
"Starting tomorrow, we don't study how to get into their club."
"We're going to build our own club."
---
In the early morning hours of Los Angeles, a faint gray light appeared on the horizon.
Link and Quentin stood side-by-side by the window.
The desk was littered with empty coffee cups and cigarette butts. Down below, the streetlights were turning off one by one.
Quentin shoved his hands in his pockets, his voice a little husky: "Hey, Link , quick question for you."
Link replied calmly, "Sure."
"You know what they call a Quarter Pounder with cheese in Paris?"
Link laughed, a big, hearty laugh.
Quentin shrugged, flashing that familiar bad-boy grin. "That thing kept me up all night."
Link turned his head to him: "Still craving one?"
Quentin squinted, a hint of a challenge in his tone: "Your treat?"
Link looked toward the doorway.
The Oscar, jammed into the door crack, was reflecting the first ray of morning light.
He smiled.
"After our next movie—the one that totally kicks the door of their club down."