Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Four Seasons ballroom, flooding the room in a blinding glow. Los Angeles looked every bit like Hollywood today.
More than a hundred reporters had their cameras and microphones trained on the small stage, packed in so tightly there was barely room to breathe. Flashbulbs crashed like thunder, and the air buzzed with raw excitement and barely contained chaos.
Media outlets, agents, and producers filled the hall, whispering among themselves.
"This is bigger than the Golden Globes."
"I heard the script was written by a foreign guy."
"Probably another rip-off."
By the back entrance, Bender kept wiping his palms over and over, sweat slipping through his fingers.
"Lee, there are at least a hundred and fifty media outlets out there," he said, his voice shaking. "Can we really handle this?"
Link looked at him, calm and unruffled.
"The moment we walk through that door," he said evenly, "we're no longer representing just ourselves."
He pushed the door open.
A wall of white light exploded toward them.
Link stepped out first, cutting through the storm of flashes like a blade. His composure was almost unsettling, as if he'd seen this scene a thousand times before.
He walked onto the stage, picked up the microphone, and tapped it lightly.
"Ladies and gentlemen, good morning."
In that instant, all the noise snapped into a single point of silence.
"I know why you're here."
He smiled faintly, a chill hidden in his eyes. "You're here for a debate. A spectacle. A plagiarism scandal."
The silence pressed down like a sheet of glass over everyone's hearts.
"Sorry. We're not wasting time talking about trash today. We're here to talk about movies."
The room erupted.
Some people gasped. Others laughed outright. But no one dared interrupt him.
Link raised his hand and clicked the remote.
The screen behind him lit up—and four words slammed into everyone's vision.
PULP FICTION
The stark black-and-white logo hit the room like a right hook.
"Pangu Pictures' first film officially begins production on the fifteenth of next month."
Boom.
The press section exploded.
They'd waited an entire week for explanations, denials, apologies—and got none of them.
He didn't explain anything. With a single sentence, he seized the narrative back completely.
Without pausing, Link handed the mic to Quentin. "Now, let our director talk about the film."
Quentin's voice came alive with his signature manic rhythm, like a jazz drum solo.
He talked about nonlinear storytelling. About the poetry of violence. About a darkly comic world.
He wasn't pitching a movie—he was describing a dream.
Every word that came out of his mouth was a spark, and the reporters' once-cold eyes slowly caught fire.
When Quentin sat back down, Link took the microphone again.
"Great films need great scripts. And great scripts are born from respect for originality."
He swept his gaze across the room, his voice steady, as if laying down a rule for the future.
"Out of that respect, I'm donating one hundred thousand dollars, personally, to establish the 'Hollywood Original Screenplay Protection Fund'—to support writers who, like I once was, have talent and dreams, but are still struggling at the bottom."
The air stopped moving.
Every camera forgot to press the shutter.
A hundred thousand dollars. Personal donation.
Not a PR stunt. A statement of belief.
A second later, the flashbulbs detonated again like a torrential storm.
Then a furious shout ripped straight through the light.
"Link! You're a thief!"
The crowd erupted.
Someone cried out, "Bob White! It's him!"
The almost-forgotten screenwriter shoved his way out from the back, holding a few wrinkled pages of a script outline, his face twisted with equal parts triumph and rage.
"Link, dare you admit that Pulp Fiction stole my idea? I've got proof!"
The reporters lunged forward like sharks smelling blood, microphones thrust out in unison.
Bender's face drained of color. Quentin muttered a curse under his breath.
Link simply turned his head slowly, his expression calm, as if he were looking at an ant.
"Mr. White," he said politely, with a layer of icy distance, "some people spend their entire lives hugging what they think are brilliant ideas and congratulating themselves. Others actually manage to write a movie."
Bob froze.
"Your pain," Link continued quietly, "comes from believing that having an idea is the same as having a finished work."
His voice wasn't loud, but every word landed like a hammer.
"What makes this film unique isn't the plot. It's the language. The structure. The way the story is told. That's its soul—and it's not something your so-called idea could ever capture."
The silence was deafening.
"If you have legal concerns, we'll see each other in court. But today—" he paused, then said coolly, "we're here to talk about movies."
He added lightly, "Next question."
Boom.
The entire room lost control.
It was a public execution.
Bob's face turned crimson as security held him back. He could only rage in place, barking like a rabid dog.
Link didn't spare him another glance. He adjusted the microphone, as casually as brushing off a speck of dust.
"Mr. Link ," a female reporter suddenly called out, "some people say you're gambling big here. What if Pulp Fiction fails? Aren't you afraid of becoming a joke?"
The whole room held its breath.
Link looked up, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly.
"Good question."
He spread his hands, his tone gently sarcastic. "But hey, if it really is a terrible movie—at least you'll all get ten or twenty articles trashing me. That's job security, right?"
Laughter exploded.
In an instant, the air started moving again. The reporters couldn't help nodding—this guy wasn't just fearless, he actually had a sense of humor.
Link let the smile fade and said calmly,
"If there are no further questions…"
He stood up slowly.
"…then I think it's time to introduce a friend who truly believes in this film."
The side door opened.
A familiar figure stepped in—black suit, silver-gray shirt, and one of the most recognizable smiles in Hollywood.
Link smiled, as if unveiling the final act of a carefully scripted show.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our leading man—John Travolta."
In that moment, the ballroom detonated into a sea of light.
Flashbulbs fired nonstop, like rain hammering against steel.
Travolta reached out and shook Link's hand onstage.
It was the sharpest possible response. A plagiarism accusation, buried outright by a single confirmation of collaboration.
Bob stood frozen in the crowd, swallowed by the flashes.
Like a supporting actor shoved offstage, his face stiff, even his anger now unnecessary.
At the center of the light and noise, Link remained calm.
A calm like an undercurrent deep beneath the ocean.
He knew—
This wasn't a victory. It was a declaration.
The dream had been built.
Now it was time to print money.
The monster had entered the stage, and the game was only just beginning.