It was early morning at the Marmont.
The party had raged all night; a few champagne glasses were still bobbing in the pool. Sunlight hit the water, shattering into a layer of dull gold.
Link pushed open the window.
The sea breeze wafted in from a distance, carrying a faint scent of alcohol. Last night's laughter seemed to still echo in the air, but he was completely sober, feeling like an outsider.
Downstairs, Band shuffled into the office, his eyes bloodshot, and slapped a fax onto the desk.
"The acquisition of MGM was formally completed this morning."
He collapsed onto the sofa with a sigh. "Harvey is now the owner of that lion."
Link didn't reply.
He picked up the cup of cold coffee and finished it in one gulp. The bitterness felt like a nail being hammered from his throat straight into his chest.
"Lawrence," he put the cup down, his voice level. "I need you to find someone for me."
Band looked up, his voice gravelly. "Who?"
"James Cameron."
The air went silent for a moment. Even the wind outside seemed to pause.
"Link , after Terminator 2, he doesn't need money."
"He's not talking to anyone. He's either building submersibles on the ocean floor or crafting spaceships in his garage."
Band shook his head. "The guy's a technological madman."
Link gazed out at the gray-blue ocean, his voice calm but firm.
"Then go wait right outside his house.
Tell him—Pangu Pictures wants to bankroll his next film."
---
Malibu's morning broke too early. The wind carried a metallic tang.
Cameron's studio looked more like a submarine grounded on land. Charts of deep-sea dives were tacked to the walls, and mechanical parts were piled up on the tables.
Cameron, wearing an old work vest, his skin tanned deep bronze, was sanding a component, his head bowed.
He didn't even look up.
"Another producer with a checkbook trying to buy a dream?"
Link smiled, pushing a file folder toward him.
"No, Mr. Cameron. I'm here to make the dream a reality."
Cameron casually flipped open a couple of pages. His brow furrowed inch by inch.
"Titanic?"
He looked up, his eyes as cold as the deep sea.
"A love story?"
He laughed, a dry, grating sound.
"Mr. Link , do you know where that ship is now?"
Link didn't answer.
"It's on the ocean floor, thirty-eight hundred meters down.
That's a cemetery, holding fifteen hundred souls who never made it home."
He took a step closer, lowering his voice.
"You want to make a love story where the audience eats popcorn and cries on top of a grave?"
He paused, then his tone sliced the air like a knife.
"That's not cinema.
That's sacrilege."
The room was quiet enough to hear the faint scratch of the sandpaper.
Link offered no defense.
The words "thirty-eight hundred meters" hammered in his mind.
In that instant, a flash of light cut through his memory.
The pitch-black seabed, the fractured hull, the sound of music drifting away—
And a cold hand, reaching up toward the light from the deep.
It wasn't a dream.
It was the future he... had once witnessed firsthand.
---
That night, the waves in Malibu crashed against the shore, one after another.
Link sat on the balcony, watching the dark expanse of the sea.
He closed his eyes, and the memories slowly surfaced—the whole world holding its breath as the screen lit up;
the music swelling, the lights reflecting off a tear-streaked face.
He had seen that impact.
And he had seen how it changed the world.
He murmured softly, "It's not sacrilege... it's a farewell."
He opened his eyes and picked up the phone.
"Martha, assemble a research team for me.
I want the name of every passenger on the Titanic, every single story..."
---
Three days later.
The ocean and sky merged in Malibu, the sun so bright it was hard to keep your eyes open.
Link knocked on the metal door again.
Cameron opened it, his expression guarded.
"I told you..."
Link handed him a thick, brown paper envelope.
"Just read this first."
The envelope contained no budget spreadsheets.
Only yellowed files, old photographs, and faded handwritten notes.
Cameron opened the first page.
"Isidor Straus, co-owner of Macy's. He refused a lifeboat during the disaster; his wife, Ida, also gave up her seat.
They were last seen sitting on deck chairs, holding hands."
He continued flipping through.
"Mary Light, Second Class passenger, music teacher. Her fiancé gave his life jacket to a child. She never married."
The sound of the page turning slowed.
He read for a long time.
The last page contained a survivor's interview.
"I saw a man lift his daughter over his head and put her in the lifeboat.
He told her, 'Tell your mother I love her.'"
The sound of the file folder closing echoed loudly in the room.
Link spoke softly: "They're not numbers, they're not a concept.
They were real people.
I'm not trying to film their grave; I want to build a monument for them."
Cameron looked at him, silent.
His fingertip traced the words on the page.
"Do you really believe that?" he asked.
"I believe that film makes people remember," Link replied.
The wind blew through the window, and the sunlight splintered into tiny patches of light.
Cameron slowly lifted his head, as if finally seeing the faint glow deep beneath the ocean.
"Alright," he said, his voice barely audible.
"Then let's go bring them back from the darkness."