`The next morning, across every breakfast table in Hollywood, the same newspaper was spread out: The Hollywood Reporter.
In that moment, almost everyone reading it froze.
The front page was unprecedented, left mostly blank—a huge amount of white space. No news, no headline, not even an editor's credit. It was a silent declaration: all other stories had to move aside.
On the left was a screenshot of yesterday's accusation article. Stamped over it in blood-red ink was a gigantic question mark.
On the right, a minimal but sharp logo:
PULP FICTION
Below it, a small line of text was embedded, like a cold, confident smirk:
"The truth speaks for itself. See you at the movies."
A full-page ad, twenty grand. For a new company that was supposedly scraping by, it was a move that screamed "all-in."
Coffee cups were knocked over in cafes, fax machines jammed in editorial offices, and assistants shrieked into phones. Countless producers spat out their coffee.
"They've lost their minds! These kids are completely unhinged!"
"Are they trying to pick a fight with all of Hollywood?"
"No explanation, no denial—just a front-page ad? What kind of PR strategy is that?!"
Yet, the scoffing couldn't drown out another emotion: Curiosity.
"Pangu Pictures... write that name down."
"Maybe they're crazy, but sometimes crazy people rewrite history."
In a single morning, the paper traveled from the Hollywood Hills to Santa Monica, from the Paramount boardroom to a talent scout's back pocket.
In just four hours, a minor accusation had been transformed into a city-wide media storm. Everyone's attention was now locked onto the same time and place:
The Pangu Pictures press conference, the day after tomorrow.
---
Meanwhile, in a different part of town.
In a dingy, poorly-lit apartment, Bob White gripped the newspaper so hard the veins stood out on his hands. He tore it apart page by page, his face iron-gray as he looked at the blood-red question mark.
He thought he had found their weakness.
Instead, they hadn't even treated him like a threat. That complete sense of being ignored—that humiliation—was more stinging than any counter-attack.
"Bastards..." he muttered, his eyes slowly turning red.
"BASTARDS!"
He crumpled the paper and threw it violently on the floor. His chest felt like it was on fire.
Go? Or not go?
Going could be a trap.
Not going was a confession of cowardice.
He walked to the window, watching the neon signs flash across the street, his knuckles digging hard into his palm.
Finally, a vicious smile stretched across his lips:
"Fine, Link. You wanna play hardball? I'll play to the finish."
---
Burbank, the attic office of Pangu Pictures.
It was a world away from the outside chaos. Inside, the only sounds were busy footsteps and the rustle of papers. The rented desks and chairs wobbled, the paint was peeling, and an old fan rattled away.
But inside this broken-down attic, they were staging a press conference that would change their destiny.
Bender was a machine, signing contracts with one hand and taking calls with the other. His tone was no longer anxious but carried a long-absent, palpable excitement.
Quentin sat in the corner, hammering away at a typewriter, the clicking keys sounding like a machine gun. He was rewriting his speech, every word meant to pierce the world.
And Link sat quietly beside them, looking completely unfazed by the storm he had created. He calmly reviewed audition tapes, his expression tranquil.
"Bender." He spoke up suddenly.
"Yeah?" Bender looked up, his shoulder still holding the phone.
Link hit pause. The screen froze on Cameron Diaz's smile.
"This girl," he pointed at the screen, "Have Howard draw up a first-look casting deal and sign her."
Bender paused. "Sign her? I thought you said she wasn't right for Mia?"
"She isn't," Link shook his head. "Not for Mia."
He looked at the actress's bright smile, his voice dropping slightly. "Mia needs danger and a kind of sleepy cool. Uma Thurman will be the fit. We'll reach out to her later."
He paused, a slight smile touching his lips.
"But this girl, she has star-power. She has that undeniable charisma, the comedic timing, the natural accessibility. In the future, that's going to be our most valuable asset."
Bender was silent for a moment, then sighed: "I'm genuinely glad I didn't walk out of that coffee shop the other day."
Link smiled and stood up.
He glanced at the wall calendar. He'd circled the day of the press conference in red.
"Get ready," he said.
The sunlight streamed through the window, falling onto the file marked "PULP FICTION." Link's shadow was split in two on the floor.
"Tomorrow," he said softly, "every single spotlight is going to be on us."