Link leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath. The weight that had been hanging over him for days finally lifted.
He picked up the phone and dialed his assistant, Martha.
"Martha, book a conference room. Tomorrow morning, ten o'clock."
"And get Russell Crowe here. Tell him the team is in place."
—
The next day, Pangu's office.
When Russell Crowe pushed the door open, he looked like someone who'd been dragged out of hibernation.
Unshaven stubble. Bloodshot eyes. That restless, post-hangover edge clinging to him.
He slammed a thick stack of papers onto the table.
"This is everything that's publicly available on Nash," he said hoarsely, pointing at the pile. "Articles, interviews, even a few of his Princeton papers. This guy's mind…" He shook his head. "It's a maze. How are we supposed to film him? If we rely on secondhand material like this, we'll end up with a cardboard cutout."
Jennifer, sitting across from him, quietly slid a cup of black coffee in his direction.
Russell glanced at it, but didn't reach for it. For a moment, the air went still.
Link closed the last file and looked up.
"You're right," he said. "We're not trying to film a 'genius who exists on paper.'"
He stood, his voice calm but edged with certainty.
"We're going to film a living person."
Russell looked up, brows knit.
Link continued, "Next week. The three of us. We're going to Princeton."
Band's pen clattered onto the table.
"To… to do what?"
"To visit," Link said. "And then we ask Professor Nash—and his wife—to tell us a story."
Russell froze. The agitation on his face was replaced, for the first time, by genuine surprise.
Jennifer looked at Link, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
"He's not a contract, Russell," she said softly. "He's a living, breathing person. We have to earn his trust first."
—
A week later. Princeton, New Jersey.
The town was so quiet it almost felt unreal. The air smelled of grass and trees. Red-brick campus buildings were wrapped in ivy, old newspapers sat piled in the windows of corner bookstores, and a Gothic church stood nearby—an entirely different world from chaotic Hollywood.
The three of them rented an old Ford and parked in front of an unremarkable little white house.
The white walls were weathered, the window frames peeling. But the roses in the yard were neatly trimmed.
Link stared at the front door and took a deep breath.
For the first time since he'd crossed into this life, he felt it clearly—his so-called foreknowledge meant nothing here.
He had no idea what was going on inside that genius's mind. What stood behind that door wasn't capital that could be bought with money or fame, nor a cold, lifeless script.
It was a mystery.
He straightened his coat, stepped forward, and rang the doorbell.
The chime echoed inside. No response.
Just as they were about to assume no one was home, the door creaked open a crack.
One eye appeared in the gap—
Deep-set. Old. Yet strangely pure, almost childlike. The gaze slowly swept across the three of them—curious, assessing, and carrying a faint but unmistakable hint of caution.
Link felt his palm grow damp. He cleared his throat, about to speak, when the door opened a little wider.
A woman stepped out.
Her hair was gray, and she wore a plain blue sweater. Thin, but standing perfectly straight. Her eyes were calm, carrying the quiet strength shaped by years of life.
Alicia Nash.
"Yes?" Her voice was soft, but remarkably clear.
Link stepped forward and offered his business card.
"Mrs. Nash, hello. My name is Link. I'm a Hollywood producer. We were hoping—"
She didn't take the card, only glanced at it briefly.
"Hollywood?"
That single word carried just enough wariness to cool the air.
Link's smile stiffened.
Just then, Jennifer stepped forward.
She didn't look at Alicia. Instead, her gaze went to the rose bushes in the yard.
A breeze passed through, petals trembling slightly.
"I read an article about you," she said gently, as if afraid of disturbing something fragile. "It said your favorite flower is the Peace rose. Because it changes color in the sunlight—from creamy yellow to pale pink."
She turned to Alicia, her eyes sincere.
"Like life itself."
Alicia paused. She looked at Jennifer, and the guarded edge in her expression quietly softened.
After a few seconds of silence, she stepped aside and opened the door wider.
"Come in."
The house was dim. Old photographs covered the walls.
The scent of aged books mixed with wood hung in the air.
A grandfather clock ticked steadily in the corner.
A tall, thin man stood with his back to them, facing the window.
He wore a worn sweater, his shoulders slightly hunched.
He didn't turn around. He just stared at his reflection in the glass, fingers tracing shapes in the air unconsciously.
John Nash.
Alicia poured three glasses of water, then walked to her husband and whispered a few words into his ear.
Nash didn't react.
He continued staring outside, as if trapped in a world no one else could see.
Russell finally couldn't hold back and stepped forward.
"Professor Nash, I've read your work on game theory. It's truly—"
No response.
Only the ticking clock filled the room.
The atmosphere grew awkward.
Link's mind raced. He scanned the living room, his eyes landing on a small square table in the corner.
On it sat a chessboard.
Black and white pieces were scattered across it—a late-stage endgame.
Link walked over without a word.
He picked up a white queen, studied the position, then gently placed it onto what looked like an unsolvable deadlock.
Click.
The sound was soft—but sharp, like a knock against glass.
In that moment, even the grandfather clock seemed to hesitate.
The man at the window moved.
His hand stopped. His head tilted slightly.
Those eyes slowly shifted from the reflection in the glass to Link.
He looked at the board. Then at Link. His mouth twitched, as if searching for a memory.
"…It's not completely a dead position," he said at last.
His voice was raspy, distant.
"But that move… was clever."
No one in the room dared to speak.
Even Russell held his breath.
Link met Nash's gaze.
In those eyes, there wasn't just madness.
There was also a glimmer of reason, pushing through the ice.
And suddenly, Link felt it clearly—
He wasn't just making a movie anymore.
He was taking part in a reconstruction of something far bigger.
Human nature itself.