Signing Samuel L. Jackson took less than an hour.
For an actor who'd spent years grinding it out at the bottom of Hollywood, Pangu Pictures' offer wasn't flashy—just a respectable paycheck and a chance, maybe, to finally be seen.
But when Link slid the script across the table and said, "This role will make people remember you," Jackson stared at him for a few seconds… then signed his name.
In that moment, Link knew it.
The three pillars of Pulp Fiction were finally standing.
—
On the other side of Los Angeles, though, the news hit like a bomb.
At CAA headquarters, Ron Meyer smashed an ashtray against the floor.
"Uma Thurman signed behind our backs? With some small-time outfit run by a foreign guy?!"
He roared at his assistant, "Dig into them. Top to bottom. I want to know exactly what Pangu Pictures is doing. If they want to play the Hollywood game, I'll make sure they don't even get dealt a hand."
—
Three days later, in a rehearsal room in Burbank.
Link pushed the door open. Donuts and coffee were already laid out on the table.
This was the first table read for Pulp Fiction.
He looked at the familiar-yet-unfamiliar faces—Travolta, Uma, Jackson—and felt a quiet surge of excitement in his chest.
"Today, we're not directing," he said with a slight smile. "We're just reading. Starting with the first scene—the car."
Jackson's voice came first. Low, rhythmic, with that unmistakable edge of danger only a hitman should have.
"All right, tell me again about them hash bars."
The air instantly tightened.
Travolta picked it up, his voice a bit stiff, stumbling once or twice. Jackson didn't stop—he leaned into it, tossing out a line with casual mockery:
"You don't smoke so much grass you forgot already, Vincent, do you?"
Travolta froze for a beat, then laughed and fired back, "I forget everything I smoke—except women's eyes and the names of burgers."
The room burst into laughter.
And after that laugh, something clicked.
Their rhythms locked in naturally. They weren't reading anymore—they were there, sitting in a car, killing time like two professional hitmen who'd grown bored of life and death.
Uma had been lounging back, just watching at first. Without realizing it, she sat up straighter, her fingers rubbing along the edge of the script. That strange feeling—fiction bleeding into reality—made her breathing go shallow.
When it was her turn, and she read:
"Don't you hate that? Uncomfortable silence."
The rehearsal room went dead quiet. You could've heard a pin drop.
Quentin sat off to the side, clutching his head, practically shaking as he whispered, "Oh my God… that's it. That's it."
Link watched them, his chest burning.
In that instant, he understood—
This movie was alive.
Applause broke out naturally.
Travolta reached over and high-fived Jackson. Uma smiled at Link and said, "You know… I think I'm actually starting to like Mia."
Link smiled and nodded.
For the first time, he truly felt like everything was about to begin.
—
Then Bender's phone rang.
He answered—and his face slowly drained of color.
"Link … we've got a problem."
On the other end was Mike, the cinematographer.
"I'm sorry. I can't take your project. CAA contacted me. They said if I work with Pangu, I can forget about shooting A-list films for the rest of my career."
The call ended.
Then came another. And another.
Production design. Lighting. VFX.
All rejections. Same tone. Same excuse.
Sorry. We can't risk it.
The air froze solid.
Bender looked at Link, his voice shaking. "Ron's moving. He's trying to blacklist us. Without these people, we can't even make the movie."
Quentin's face turned red. He practically shouted, "That bastard!"
Travolta tapped his fingers rapidly on the table. "Link —what do we do?"
Uma stayed quiet for a long moment before finally saying softly, "This is just the beginning."
Jackson snorted coldly. "Welcome to Hollywood."
The fire in the room went out all at once.
Every pair of eyes turned to Link.
He didn't speak. He walked over to the whiteboard and picked up the eraser.
Under everyone's gaze, he slowly wiped away the name Uma Thurman.
"They want to block us," he said calmly, his voice icy. "Then we take another road."
He set the eraser down, his eyes sweeping across each face. A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"So tell me—what do you think would happen if Mia Wallace were played by Jennifer Connelly instead?"