The next two weeks were a legal document hell. Howard's phone was practically on call 24/7, while Link managed the tedious details of company registration and simultaneously mapped out Pangu's future blueprint in his mind.
Pangu Pictures' first office wasn't in Beverly Hills; it was in a second-floor loft in Burbank. The windows were old, the paint was yellowing, and the floorboards creaked with every step. But the rent was cheap, and it was close to the major studios. That was enough.
The office contained three desks, one phone, and a coffee machine. The air was a mix of coffee and anxiety.
Bender held a business card, his brow furrowed.
"Marty Grossman. One of the toughest bastards in Hollywood," he whispered. "He only cares about cash and big-budget projects. To him, we're not even a joke."
"I'll take the call." Link reached for the card.
His dialing motion was calm, like he was executing a pre-planned procedure.
A cold male voice answered the phone: "Who is this?"
"Hello, Mr. Grossman. My name is Link, from Pangu Pictures."
"Pangu?" The man laughed, as if hearing a punchline. "Never heard of it. Get to the point."
"We are preparing a movie, Pulp Fiction. The director is Quentin Tarantino, and we would like to offer the lead role—Vincent Vega—to John Travolta."
A cold chuckle came over the line.
"John? You people? Come on, his quote is higher than your entire budget. Besides, he doesn't do indies. Alright, kid, I'm busy..."
"Mr. Grossman." Link's voice remained mild. "I suggest you don't rush to hang up. You might be missing the chance to bring John back to the top."
"Oh?" Marty's tone was mocking. "And win an Oscar, right? Heard enough. Stop wasting my time."
Click.
The phone was hung up.
A brief silence settled over the office.
Quentin slammed his fist on the desk. "F! That jerk!"
Bender sighed, as if everything was expected.
Link said nothing, simply dialing the number again.
This time, the phone rang three times before the other side answered with a roar: "You son of a b—"
"Mr. Grossman," Link calmly interrupted. "I'll only say one last thing."
His voice was low, yet carried an undeniable coldness.
"I'm making this call to let you know—if you hang up today, two years from now when John misses out on that Oscar nomination, he's going to ask you: 'Why didn't you let me take Pulp Fiction?' When that happens, please have an answer ready that makes sense."
He paused for a second, his tone softening, which made it feel even sharper, like a knife.
"Otherwise... you'll just have to tell him that you personally destroyed his last big chance."
Click.
This time, Link hung up first.
The air seemed frozen.
Quentin and Bender both stared at him, as if they were seeing him for the first time.
"That's it?" Quentin swallowed hard.
"That's it." Link picked up his coffee and blew lightly on it. "Now, it's his turn to lose sleep."
---
Two days later.
A rented audition studio in suburban Burbank. Pangu Pictures' first round of casting was underway.
Over a hundred girls packed the hallway, all vying for the role of "Mia Wallace." The mix of their perfume, anxiety, and ambition created a thick scent of desperate desire in the air.
Most were heavily made-up, wearing tight dresses, trying to mimic what they imagined a "mobster's moll" should look like. But once they got on stage, it was a disaster. Quentin's head ached; he kept shaking it in frustration.
"Next, Cameron Diaz!"
The door opened, and a blonde girl walked in. She was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, no makeup, just a touch of nervousness. But her smile was as bright as the California sun in June.
"Hi," she said with a slightly embarrassed laugh. "I was actually here to audition for the 'Honey Bunny' role."
Quentin frowned, about to tell her to leave, but Link raised a hand to stop him.
"That's fine, Ms. Diaz. Read a section of Mia's dialogue for me. Just aim it at me."
He pointed to the script. It was the scene where Mia, in the diner, recounts how her TV pilot was canceled.
Cameron took a deep breath. Her delivery was a bit raw, and her tone unsteady, but as she got into the lines, she slowly relaxed. That feeling—innocent, playful, even a little neurotic—hit them like a breath of spring air.
She wasn't playing a gangster's wife. She was like a girl bored out of her mind, using a laugh to mask her loneliness.
Quentin's frown gradually smoothed out, and even Bender's expression changed.
Link made a small circle on her application form.
"She's not Mia," he thought to himself. "But one day, Hollywood is going to go crazy for her."
"Thank you, Ms. Diaz. We'll be in touch." He smiled.
The girl bowed and left, a hint of disappointment on her face.
"She won't work," Quentin immediately stated. "She's too sweet. She doesn't have that dangerous, high-on-drugs vibe that Mia needs."
"No," Link shook his head, looking toward the door. "She is an unpolished gem. We can teach danger, but that innate, natural charm? You can't teach that."
Suddenly, there was the sound of hurried footsteps outside the door. Bender's assistant rushed in, clutching a copy of The Hollywood Reporter.
"Lawrence, we've got a problem!"
Bender took the newspaper, his face instantly turning ashen.
The headline was glaring:
"Genesis or Grand Theft? Unraveling the Script Controversy of Hollywood's Newcomer"
The article didn't name names, but every line hinted at "Pangu Pictures." The author claimed that an "established local screenwriter's" old concept had been stolen and repackaged by "foreign newcomers" as Pulp Fiction.
The final sentence was loaded with malice:
"In Hollywood, the line between inspiration and opportunism is quietly being erased by certain new companies."
"Sht!" Bender slammed the paper onto the table, the sound jarring. "Who did this? Link , we're done for!"
Link picked up the paper and casually glanced at it. A faint smirk played on his lips. His expression was uncannily calm.
"I think I know which idiot is behind this."