The air still smelled of gunpowder.
The board members who had been pounding the table minutes ago now slumped back in their chairs, their breathing uneven.
They were both excited and terrified—
Like they had just gambled their entire lives.
Robert Shaye remained standing.
He adjusted his tie, his tone as calm as if he were delivering a verdict.
"Link ," he said. "The investment is approved."
"But... there's a condition."
Link looked up, tapping his fingertip gently on his coffee cup.
"Let's hear it."
"Casting."
Shaye's voice was slow and steady. "The male lead must be Tom Cruise, and the female lead, Nicole Kidman."
He paused, offering a professional smile.
"They are box office guarantees in Hollywood. Get them, and New Line's forty million will be in your account tomorrow."
A sudden silence fell.
Even the air conditioning could be heard.
Link looked down at the cold coffee in his cup.
The surface of the liquid trembled slightly, like a quiet laugh.
"Tom Cruise, Nicole Kidman..."
He repeated the names softly.
He lifted his head, his tone still gentle—but every word was edged with steel.
"Mr. Shaye, you want box office assurance."
"What I want is soul."
Shaye narrowed his eyes. "What does that mean?"
"Jack needs a sense of youth, a kind of raw edge; Rose needs rebellion."
Link paused slightly, meeting the other man's gaze.
"Mr. Cruise has never lost; he doesn't understand fear. Ms. Kidman's elegance is her cage."
He stopped for a second, then added in a low voice:
"Perfect people have no story."
When those words landed, the air seemed to be sucked out of the conference room.
Shaye's knuckles were white. He finally forced out a question: "So... you refuse?"
"No," Link smiled. "I just demand final casting authority."
They held the gaze until Shaye finally looked away.
---
The next morning, the Los Angeles sun was blindingly bright.
Bender burst into the office and slammed a newspaper onto the desk.
The front-page headline of The Hollywood Reporter:
The photo was a candid shot of Cameron yelling, with a caption below it:
"Smart actors should stay far away from that sinking ship."
Bender's face was flushed with anger. "This has to be Harvey! He wants to make sure no one dares to take our roles!"
Link looked at the newspaper, his expression unreadable.
He gently rubbed his thumb over the headline, as if wiping away dust.
He suddenly recalled a scene:
The ocean breeze, the mast, and a young couple standing at the ship's bow with their arms stretched wide. It was a shot he would never forget, a memory from the future lodged in his mind.
He knew what he was waiting for.
He needed to bring that moment from the dream back to reality.
He picked up the phone.
"Martha, put out an announcement: Open casting call for Titanic. No restrictions on nationality or professional experience."
He paused, and added:
"Tell Sarah at The Hollywood Reporter that this is an exclusive."
---
One week later.
Los Angeles, a rented, rundown audition studio.
Sunlight streamed through a broken skylight, and dust motes spun slowly in the beams of light.
Outside the door, hundreds of young people were lined up.
Some wore wrinkled suits; others carried plastic bags with unfinished breakfast inside.
Hope was etched on every face.
Cameron leaned against the monitor, arms crossed, looking impatient.
"Link , seriously," he hissed under his breath, "this is a complete waste of time. You're not going to find my Jack and Rose in this pile of garbage."
Link didn't answer, just looked calmly at the door.
"Some people," he said, "are worth the wait."
Actor after actor came in, read their lines, and left.
Time dragged on.
The air grew heavy, and Cameron's fingers drummed faster and faster on the armrest.
"This is what you call a 'blank slate'?" he sneered.
Link just quietly said, "Be patient."
Just then, the door opened.
A blonde young man walked in.
He was a little raw, with a boyish confidence.
When he smiled, the light seemed to be drawn to him, and the entire room brightened a little.
Link's hand slowly tightened on his leg.
Leonardo DiCaprio.
He opened his mouth and read his lines, his voice as clean as the sea breeze.
Cameron said nothing, but he leaned forward slightly.
It was a director's instinct.
He had sensed "the texture of fate."
Link's expression remained neutral, but he nodded subtly.
Ten minutes later, the door was pushed open again.
A girl walked in.
Reddish-brown curly hair, skin so pale it was almost translucent.
She wore minimal makeup, and her tone was slightly abrasive: "What do you need me to perform?"
Her attitude—it wasn't softness, it was defiance.
Kate Winslet.
She finished her lines, and a few seconds of silence followed.
Cameron frowned and muttered under his breath, "She's a little... chubby."
Link smiled, a smile of confirming something predestined.
"She is Rose."
He turned to Cameron.
"James—your tickets have arrived."
The sunlight outside the window landed perfectly on the monitor.
In the frame, the two young faces appeared side-by-side.
In that moment, time seemed to hit the "record" button.
The opening credits of history had just quietly begun.