The news spread through Hollywood fast. It took less than half a day before it landed on the desks at Pangu Pictures.
Band burst into the office and slammed a copy of the Los Angeles Times onto Link's desk.
Front-page headline:
"Mysterious Videotape Sparks Nationwide Debate: Marketing Stunt or Real Disappearance?"
Subhead:
"Police say no official missing persons report has been filed; anonymous source posts 'official investigation report' screenshots online, authenticity unclear."
"Link !" Band was out of breath. "Every paper is—"
He cut himself off.
Link was on the phone.
Standing with his back to the window, his voice was calm and reassuring.
"Yes, ma'am… I understand your concern. Please don't worry. They're safe. They're still filming in the mountains, and there's no signal out there. Yes, I guarantee it—everything is fine."
He paused, then let out a soft chuckle.
"Thank you for your understanding. We'll contact you the moment the film is finished."
He hung up, gently set the receiver back in place, and turned around.
Band's palms were slick with sweat. Even his voice was shaking.
"Link , this public opinion storm… if it keeps escalating, we won't be able to contain it."
Link walked over, picked up the paper, and scanned from the headline down to the bottom corner.
He closed it, his fingers lightly rubbing the pages.
"Good."
Band froze.
"…Good?"
"Controversy creates conversation."
Link folded the newspaper and placed it on the desk as if it were just another page of a script.
Sunlight cut across his face through the window—half in brightness, half in shadow.
A brief silence.
Then Link spoke again. "Lawrence."
Band instinctively straightened.
"Those students in Maryland—their friends and family."
Link tone was almost casual.
"Send the PR team out there. Bring a photographer."
Band frowned. "Interviews? Right now… isn't that risky?"
"No." Link walked to the window and lightly tapped the glass with his fingertip.
"The public only believes two things—tears and cameras."
He paused, then turned back to Band.
"Make sure they speak from the heart on camera."
"From the heart?" Band didn't immediately get it.
Link smiled, his voice so gentle it was chilling.
"The people they lost—even if they only existed in a script—were real to them."
"You know what I mean."
The air went still for three seconds.
Band swallowed and nodded slowly.
"Okay. I'll take care of it."
Link sat back down and stubbed out his cigarette.
Smoke drifted in front of the window, reflecting his blurred silhouette.
—
Day Seven in Black Mountain Forest.
Cold.
A damp, bone-deep cold.
The air reeked of rotting leaves and wet soil. Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy, shattered into fragments on the forest floor.
Heather Donahue's lips were cracked, her eyes sunken. She held the heavy camera, pointing it at the ground.
Another pile of stones.
Seven of them, stacked neatly—like a small grave.
There had been nothing here when they went to sleep last night.
"Do you… do you see this?" Her voice was hoarse, the camera shaking in her hands. "They're back again. It's like… they're marking us."
The camera panned to the side.
Michael, one of the male actors, was slumped against a tree, his expression blank as he mechanically chewed the last bit of an energy bar.
He hadn't really spoken in two days.
"Fuck your markings!"
A furious shout ripped through the woods.
The camera swung around to Joshua.
He kicked the stone pile apart, rocks scattering everywhere.
"This is a game, Heather!"
His voice was raw, his eyes bloodshot.
"They make weird noises every night, then stack some stupid rocks during the day. They're screwing with us! How do you not see that?!"
"This is not a game!" Heather screamed, the camera nearly shoved into his face. "You heard the sounds last night! The kids laughing—"
"I heard it!"
Joshua stepped closer, words forced through clenched teeth.
"It was a recording! Those assholes recorded it outside the forest! They're watching us lose our minds!"
He snarled. "This is Quentin's so-called 'immersive filmmaking,' right?"
The camera shook violently.
Heather froze. Her lips trembled. For the first time, the belief in her eyes wavered.
—
Five kilometers outside the forest.
A modified trailer, disguised as a geological survey vehicle, sat hidden beneath the trees.
Quentin Tarantino clenched a cigarette between his teeth, staring at a nine-panel surveillance monitor.
Three blinking dots—each representing an actor—flickered faintly on the map.
Joshua's shouting crackled through his headset.
Quentin watched for a few seconds, then smiled faintly.
"The actors are starting to doubt," he muttered. "Perfect. Their trust is collapsing."
The technical director hesitated. "Director, Joshua's mental state is getting dangerous. If we keep pushing him, something might… happen."
Quentin was quiet for a moment, then spoke in a low voice.
"Give them one more day. After tonight, we step in."
He pointed at the location markers on the screen.
"Safety team, be ready. If the audio cuts out or behavior goes out of control, intervene immediately. No delays."
A voice came back over the radio. "Perimeter control is in place."
Quentin leaned back and exhaled a stream of smoke.
"Fear," he murmured, "is the most honest performance there is."
Wind swept over the roof, carrying a single fallen leaf.
—
Night fell.
The darkness of the forest was like melted ink.
Inside the tent, the three of them curled up in their sleeping bags, not saying a word.
The daytime argument had compressed the air into something heavy and suffocating.
"Scrrr… scratch…"
A faint scraping sound came from outside the tent.
Heather's eyes snapped open.
Joshua was awake too. His breathing was shallow, his eyes unnaturally bright in the dark.
He didn't shout. He didn't reach for the camera. He slowly pulled open the zipper.
Outside, the moonlight was pale and harsh.
In the clearing stood a human-shaped doll made from bundled branches.
A rag was tied around it—the bandana Joshua had used to wipe sweat yesterday.
Even worse, tangled in the fabric was a lock of light-colored hair.
Joshua's hand froze midair.
He slowly turned to look at Heather.
Her blonde hair, under the moonlight, had uneven gaps missing.
The air solidified.
"It was you…"
His voice was low, trembling. "You did this…"
Heather shook her head violently, panic breaking into sobs. "No! It wasn't me! I don't know anything!"
"You're still acting!"
Joshua lunged toward the camera, screaming.
"Give it to me! This thing is their eyes! If we destroy it, we're free—"
"Don't touch it!" Heather shrieked, clutching the camera like her life depended on it.
Michael rushed in, trying to stop him.
In the cramped tent, the three shadows tangled together.
The camera was knocked to the ground.
Dark shapes, ragged breathing, canvas scraping—static noise filled the recording.
Then a heavy thud.
The signal cut out.
—
Inside the trailer.
Quentin jolted upright.
All that came through the headset was piercing static.
"Audio's down!" a technician shouted. "Probably from the equipment falling—"
The safety chief stood up immediately. "Alpha team, prepare to move in!"
Quentin raised a hand, signaling them to wait, eyes locked on the blinking indicators.
Seconds later, faint breathing returned on the monitor.
"…Heather… are you okay?"
Then—long silence.
Suddenly, one GPS signal moved outside the tent.
"It's… it's Joshua."
They watched as he slowly walked away, disappearing into the trees.
"He's gone," the safety officer reported. "Heading toward the northern ravine."
Quentin said nothing, his gaze fixed on the vanishing dot.
"Catch up to him. Don't let anything happen."
He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
"His storyline is over."
He opened them again, his tone flat.
"But the Blair Witch story is just beginning."
A technician hesitated. "What about the other two?"
The corner of Quentin's mouth twitched.
"Tomorrow."
Quentin pulled out a slip of paper and lowered his voice to the technician.
"Give this to Michael tomorrow. Tell him—"
He stopped, then smiled faintly.
"The rest is up to our leading lady."