James Cameron's voice wasn't loud, but it hit like a hammer—thud after thud—pounding into everyone's skulls.
"I don't want a model," he said flatly. "I want a real ship. Full scale. A one-to-one replica of the Titanic."
The air froze.
Moments ago, the room had still been buzzing from a successful casting session. Now the temperature dropped straight to zero.
Robert Shaye, who had been grinning like he'd just won the lottery, felt his smile stiffen inch by inch. The cigar in his mouth trembled; a bit of ash fell onto his pant leg and burned a tiny hole clean through the fabric.
Cameron ignored everyone. He held up an A4 sheet covered in cross-sections of a ship's hull, tiny stick-figure people sketched all over it. His blue eyes burned bright, like they might actually catch fire.
That look said it all:
Don't talk to me about budget. I want my ship. Now. Immediately. No excuses.
Shaye was the first to crack. He lowered his voice and hissed,
"Link , we're not there yet! Build a real ship? Do you have any idea how much that costs? The unions alone will suck us dry—bones and all!"
Link didn't answer.
He just watched Cameron. Watched those eyes filled with obsession.
He knew this wasn't a conversation about money.
It was a conversation about belief.
"James," Link finally said, his voice steady to an almost unsettling degree.
"I figured you'd say that."
He turned, pulled a neatly folded blueprint from his briefcase, and spread it across the table.
It wasn't a sketch.
It was a map.
Every coordinate was marked in dense detail, with handwritten notes along the margins—water depth, tidal range, wind speed.
"I did a little homework ahead of time."
Cameron frowned and leaned in.
Link placed a finger on the map. "Mexico. Baja California—Rosarito Beach."
Shaye practically leapt out of his chair. "Mexico?! Have you lost your mind?!"
"I haven't," Link replied calmly. "No unions. Land costs next to nothing.
And more importantly…" He paused.
"We can build the largest open-air water tank in the world right on the coast—and construct the ship directly inside it."
He looked up, his voice slowing deliberately. As he spoke, his hands moved through the air, like a director blocking a shot.
"We can shoot real sunrises—not studio lights.
We can let actors shiver in real ocean wind instead of pretending in front of a green screen.
And we can flood the ship with seventeen thousand gallons of real seawater—an impact no CGI can truly replicate."
Across the table, Cameron's eyes flickered.
His breathing quickened. His fingers tapped against the tabletop in a steady rhythm—like a heartbeat.
That was a director's blood on fire.
"What about logistics? Customs? Shipping equipment?" Shaye protested, still clinging to hope. "You think this is some low-budget indie?"
Link didn't even look at him.
"I'll handle that. All you need to do is the math—no union premiums cuts costs by a third.
Thirty million gets you visuals that look like sixty."
Shaye fell silent.
Numbers raced through his head. His expression shifted from shock, to hesitation, to reluctant acceptance.
Money was the only language he truly understood.
Cameron reached out and snatched the map, staring at it intently.
His lips moved as he muttered technical terms—"water pressure, camera tracks, fracture points."
Link knew it then.
The movie was already rolling in Cameron's mind.
The air in the room turned scorching hot.
Suddenly—
Bang.
Cameron slammed the table.
"Good!" His eyes blazed. "If it's one-to-one, then we do it all the way!"
"I want the original Titanic blueprints!
Every rivet, every plank—accurate down to the millimeter. I want audiences to feel how monumental that ship really was."
Shaye's face, which had just begun to relax, twitched again.
"And another thing," Cameron's voice rose, sharp and fierce. "I don't want a model! I want a real steel ship—one that floats!
I want to break it in half on camera and sink it for real!"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Shaye jumped to his feet, slamming the table. His voice cracked.
"James! This is a movie, not a damn historical reenactment! That's not in the budget!"
Cameron slowly turned his head, his gaze ice-cold.
Without a word, he picked up the map on the table.
—Rip.
The paper tore cleanly in two.
The sound was sharper than any shout.
He tossed the pieces down, pointed straight at Link, and said in a voice cold enough to freeze the room:
"What I want isn't a map to some beach."
"What I want is a ship's blueprint."
He grabbed his coat, slung it over his shoulder, and stared straight at Shaye.
"Add shipbuilding and sinking costs to the budget. Now.
Otherwise—" He paused, blue eyes burning.
"Go find a director who knows how to shoot movies with toy models."