Night fell, and the lights of the Chateau Marmont flickered on.
In the private rooftop dining room, there was no loud music—only soft jazz and the faint clink of silverware.
Outside the windows, Los Angeles stretched out in a blaze of light, like an upside-down galaxy.
Arthur Goldman—gray-haired, impeccably dressed—cut into his filet mignon at an unhurried pace. His movements were refined, almost graceful. But behind the gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes were sharp as a hawk's.
"Link ," he said gently as he dabbed the corner of his mouth, his tone nearly grandfatherly, "you gave Hollywood a lesson. We're all getting old. Harvey's way of doing things—it's time that ended."
Link swirled the red wine in his glass, saying nothing.
"I've seen The Blair Witch Project," Goldman continued, leaning forward slightly. "Smart. Disruptive. You leveraged the entire American media ecosystem with just a few tens of thousands of dollars.
That kind of talent shouldn't be wasted on… small-scale experiments."
He paused, then finally revealed the blade beneath the velvet.
"Warner Bros. can give you a platform. We'll set up an independent label just for you. The name 'Pangu' can stay. We'll provide the funding, the distribution channels, and access to Warner's entire resource library."
He looked at Link as if bestowing an irresistible gift.
"You won't have to gamble against Wall Street for eighty million anymore. You won't have to use risky tactics to fight people like Harvey."
"There's only one thing you need to do—focus on creating."
"Join us, Link . You need a family. Hollywood's winds are brutal. You can't stand against them alone."
The restaurant fell quiet, save for the ice shifting in a glass.
Link smiled.
"Mr. Goldman," he said calmly, setting his wine down, "your offer does sound tempting."
The corner of Goldman's mouth curved slightly—victory already within reach.
"But I think you've misunderstood one thing."
Link lifted his head and met those hawk-like eyes directly.
"I didn't come to Hollywood to find a family to shelter me from the storm."
He paused. His voice stayed low, but it landed like a knife on the table.
"I came to build a new roof."
"One where people who are tired of bowing their heads can finally stand."
Goldman's smile froze.
The jazz music continued to drift softly through the air.
He studied Link in silence. Then, with the same practiced elegance, he set down his fork and knife and wiped his mouth.
"A new roof?" he repeated, indulgent, like an elder humoring a rebellious child. "It's an interesting metaphor, Link . But you seem to forget—buildings need foundations. They need roads. They need an entire commercial system to support them."
He leaned back, those sharp eyes reflecting the sea of lights outside the window.
"And all of that," he said softly, "is in our hands."
Link knew it wasn't a threat. It was simply the truth.
Warner Bros., like the other giants, controlled the lifelines of North American—and global—theatrical distribution.
No matter how perfect a film was, without their approval, it would never take flight.
"I admire your ambition, kid," Goldman said as he stood, straightening his jacket. "But Hollywood winters are cold. Especially outside the roof."
He reached out and lightly patted Link shoulder.
"My door is always open. Think it over. Come see me when you're ready."
With that, he turned and walked away—steady, decisive, without a hint of hesitation.
Link didn't move. He watched through the window as the Rolls-Royce drove off, its taillights disappearing into the traffic at the base of the hill.
—
On the drive back, Band was drenched in sweat.
He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white.
"Link … did we screw this up? That was Arthur Goldman! One word from him and we vanish from every theater in the country!"
"He won't," Link said, leaning back with his eyes closed. His voice was calm to the point of coldness.
"Why not?"
"Because that would be ugly," Link replied, opening his eyes. "He's not Harvey. He won't attack us directly. He'll just let everyone else… forget us."
Band's heart sank. He knew Link was right.
The media would move on. Theaters would quietly cut showtimes for 'market reasons.' Actors and crews would slowly drift away.
No hostility. No fingerprints.
Like a frog boiled slowly—dead at the bottom of the pot without ever realizing it.
"Then… what do we do?" Band asked, desperation creeping into his voice.
Link didn't answer. He simply pulled out his brick-sized cell phone and dialed Quentin Tarantino.
"Quentin. Do we have the opening weekend numbers?"
On the other end came Quentin's ecstatic roar:
"They're in! Link ! You're not gonna believe this! Twenty-seven theaters, three days—$1.58 million!"
Band slammed on the brakes. Tires screeched as the car lurched to the side of the road. Ignoring the horns behind them, he grabbed the phone.
"How much?! Say that again!"
"One point five eight million!" Quentin screamed. "Fifty-eight grand per screen! A record! Reporters are losing their minds—they're asking if we're printing money in the theaters!"
Fifty-eight thousand dollars per theater.
The number detonated in Band's head like a nuclear bomb.
He knew exactly what it meant. Every screening sold out. Lines wrapped around the block. Word of mouth had completely exploded.
Band hung up, his hands still shaking. He stared at Link with pure, unfiltered awe.
"Link … we did it. We actually did it."
Link smiled too.
The smile was genuine—almost youthful, carrying a flash of reckless pride.
But as it lingered, his expression slowly sobered.
Goldman's words echoed again in his mind.
Hollywood winters are cold.
Link tapped his knee lightly, his gaze hardening.
Outside, the city was still blazing with light—but it felt distant.
"Link ?" Band called nervously.
Link rolled down the window, letting the night air rush in.
The wind was cold, but it cleared his head completely.
"We did succeed," he said softly, almost to himself.
"But…"
He looked toward the distant Warner Bros. water tower.
"This isn't a victory."
A brief silence.
"It's a message."
"We're here."
Link put the phone away, his expression deep and unreadable.
The excitement still churned in his blood—but the cold air pressed it down.
Like a flame sealed inside a glass lantern.
Ding.
At that moment, the system notification sounded in his mind.
The Blair Witch Project box office surges. Global topic heat increased.
Influence +
Current Total Influence:
Link took a deep breath and opened the system panel.
Available Skill Exchange: Inspiration Spark (requires Influence)
He didn't hesitate and confirmed immediately.
Inspiration Spark activated.
A cold electric current shot through his brain. Countless images flashed—algorithms, models, light simulations.
These were the core CG mathematical models behind Pangu's future films. The team's long-unsolved algorithmic bottleneck was instantly reconstructed, perfectly, inside his mind.
Link opened his eyes. A sharp, cold light flickered within them.
"Get the plane ready," he said to Band.
Band froze. "Where to?"
"San Francisco," Link replied quietly.
"I need to go to Pangu Light & Magic—
and start building the dream."
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