After returning from England, Link locked the cracked rivet and the data-filled notebook together in the lowest-level safe in his office.
That heavy chapter of history—along with Belfast's endless rain—was temporarily sealed away.
At the same time, pre-production on Titanic moved forward slowly but steadily.
Thousands of miles away, on Rosarito Beach in Mexico, bulldozers had already rolled in. James Cameron's "madman's playground" was rising from the sea breeze, and the keel of a steel giant was about to be laid under real sunlight.
Back in Los Angeles, the sun was doing what it always did—blazing like it had a personal vendetta.
The The Mask set felt more like a sauna than usual that day.
Inside the "Coco Bongo Club" set, every light was blazing. Hundreds of extras in tuxedos and evening gowns were packed together, shirts soaked through with sweat, makeup melting into abstract art. Massive industrial fans blasted the dance floor nonstop, but all they pushed out was hot air mixed with the sweet, cloying smell of dry ice—enough to make anyone dizzy.
This was the final scene.
And also the most expensive one in the entire movie.
Director Chuck Russell's voice was already shredded. Clutching his walkie-talkie, he stared at the monitors and roared like a man possessed.
"Props! I need two more bags of confetti! Gold! I want the whole damn screen glowing like Fort Knox!"
"Camera three! Tilt up half an inch! I want to see the sweat on her face!"
It was the last day of shooting.
Everyone was running on fumes and adrenaline—like finishing a 26-mile marathon and sprinting the last hundred yards out of pure stubbornness.
Link didn't say a word. He leaned in the shadows behind the monitors, holding an iced coffee.
His eyes were fixed on the two people at the center of the dance floor.
Jim Carrey stood there in that outrageously loud yellow suit, his green makeup already touched up three times. His eyes were closed, chest rising and falling steadily, like a beast coiled and ready to strike.
Across from him was Cameron Diaz.
Her silver sequin dress shimmered under the lights. She was no longer the timid newcomer from a few months ago. Chin lifted, smile bright, she practically glowed.
"Everybody wake the hell up!" Chuck shouted into the walkie. "Last take! After this, I'm buying drinks till sunrise!"
The set went quiet for a heartbeat—
Then erupted in cheers.
Chuck took a deep breath.
"Action!"
The music exploded. Cuban Pete hit the air like dynamite.
Jim Carrey's eyes snapped open.
In that instant, he wasn't acting anymore.
He was the Mask.
He twisted and contorted like physics had personally offended him. Maracas flew, confetti rained down, and the extras were instantly electrified by his energy.
Cameron didn't move at first. She just smiled, watching him go completely unhinged.
Then he spun in front of her.
She reached out and lightly rested a hand on his shoulder.
And just like that, the entire dance floor fell under her spell.
Jim's madness didn't stop—but now every move had purpose. He spun her, leapt, lifted her high into the air.
Her skirt carved a silver arc through the lights, her laughter bright and crisp, like wind chimes.
The ice in Link's cup slowly melted.
He watched the monitor. Watched the genuine joy on that blonde girl's face. Suddenly, he remembered her months ago—white T-shirt, jeans, walking into the audition room with that slightly awkward smile.
Without realizing it, the corners of his own mouth lifted.
"Cut! Perfect!"
Chuck jumped out of his chair and hurled the script into the air.
"Holy hell! We're done! We actually freaking did it!"
The music didn't stop.
Jim Carrey didn't say a word. He just spread his arms, tilted his head back, and let the golden confetti rain down on him.
Cameron laughed—then cried. She punched Jim in the chest and shouted something no one caught.
Then the entire crew—from lighting techs to production assistants—lost their minds. Applause, whistles, screams nearly tore the roof off the stage.
Link set his coffee down and joined in the applause.
That night was the wrap party.
Instead of some fancy hotel, Pangu Pictures rented out an abandoned warehouse in Burbank.
What started as a crew-only celebration turned wild fast. With The Mask generating so much buzz, agents, producers, and industry types flooded in.
Outside, cars lined the street and flashbulbs popped. Inside, it was dark and chaotic—graffiti-covered walls, stacks of beer kegs, and a no-name punk band screaming wildly off-key.
Jim Carrey was completely hammered. He grabbed the singer's guitar, climbed onto a table, and launched into an Elvis-style rendition of Hound Dog. Halfway through, he leaned back and fell straight into the crowd.
Chuck Russell ditched his sharp-tongued director persona and started playing drinking games with the crew—losing, yelling "F—!" and downing his drink every time.
Link leaned against the bar, quietly watching the madness.
Every bit of this chaos—he'd created it.
"Not gonna have a drink, boss?" Cameron walked over with two shots of tequila.
She'd changed into casual clothes, makeup washed off, looking like the girl next door.
"Congratulations," Link clinked glasses with her. "You're officially a movie star now."
She took a sip, frowned slightly, something unreadable flickering in her eyes.
"And you?" she asked. "Already hunting for your next 'sweetheart'?"
The words had an edge.
Before Link could answer, a laugh cut in.
"Hey there, beautiful."
A blond man in his thirties squeezed in—expensive suit, overflowing confidence. MGM vice president. Link knew him well. Famous for swooping in on newcomers.
"I saw your performance," the man said, reaching out. "Our studio's developing a project, and I think you'd be perfect."
Cameron instinctively looked at Link.
Link smiled, lifted his glass, and spoke calmly.
"Sorry. Her next movie's already booked—with me."
The man froze, smile stiffening.
Link raised his glass slightly.
"But hey, great taste."
The executive raised an eyebrow, took the hint, and walked away.
Cameron stared at him, expression complicated.
"What you just said… were you serious?"
Link turned to her and smiled.
"Of course."
She froze.
Lights swept across her face, making her smile even brighter.
"You were really charming just now."
She lowered her head and took another sip, not looking at him.
Link was about to respond when a low voice sounded behind him—
"You're the guy who wrote Pulp Fiction, right?"
The voice was slightly slurred, but clear.
Link turned.
A man in a worn leather jacket leaned against the bar—messy hair, unshaven, sharp eyes.
"That's me," Link said, sizing him up. "Do we know each other?"
The man smiled and held out his hand.
"Frank Darabont."
Link recognized the name. A screenwriter known for being slow, obsessive, and stubborn. Not exactly Hollywood's favorite kind of guy.
Frank picked up a notebook and lightly tapped Link's glass.
"I read Pulp Fiction," he said, voice rough but sincere. "That wasn't a movie. That was an earthquake."
Link chuckled and raised his glass.
"Earthquakes are good. Means the ground's still alive."
Frank blinked, not quite getting the joke.
After a moment, he finally said, "I've got a script."
Link didn't interrupt.
"No one wants to make it," Frank continued. "They say prison movies are too dark. Too slow. No audience."
He took a drink, eyes drifting toward the crowd, voice dropping.
"But I know it's a film that'll last."
Link tapped the side of his glass and smiled.
"I love investing in movies no one believes in,"
He looked straight at Frank, his gaze deep.
"Because that kind of thing…"
The glasses clinked.
Clear and sharp—like the sound of fate making up its mind.