Link set down his pen, staring at the thick stack of manuscript pages on his desk.
One hundred and twenty-three pages.
He flipped through it one last time: the dialogue, the structure, the pacing—he'd refined everything he could think of. He couldn't call it perfect, but it was, without a doubt, a slam dunk.
A "beep" from the system cut through his brief silence.
\[System Notification] Script Completion: 78%
\[Warning] Remaining Time: 4 hours 41 minutes
"Seventy-eight..." Link muttered, rubbing his temples.
While he hadn't achieved 100% replication, this was more than enough to become a classic.
Now, only one problem remained:
How was he going to sell it?
He didn't stay seated for long. Time wasn't a luxury he had.
Paramount? The security guard wouldn't even open the door for him.
Warner Bros.? Last year, an Asian American writer submitted a script, and it went straight to the spam folder.
Miramax? They only accepted submissions from agents, and he didn't even have an agent's number.
Every path that seemed viable was a dead end.
Suddenly, a crazy idea exploded in his mind.
Quentin Tarantino.
If he could just get Pulp Fiction into his hands, and let him run with it, wouldn't that missing 22% of the soul finally be complete?
Link's eyes grew steadily more determined.
But just as quickly, he looked down at his empty pockets.
From here to Manhattan Beach, even taking the bus would cost two bucks.
Two dollars.
It was like a chasm separating his dreams from reality.
He glanced around.
The only thing in the apartment that qualified as an "asset" was a row of UCLA textbooks on the shelf—brand new, practically untouched.
Without hesitation, Link pulled out the five thickest books, stuffed them into a plastic bag, and rushed out of the rental.
Fifteen minutes later, he was at the corner used bookstore.
"Hey, kid, these are good books," the owner said, flipping through them. "But textbooks get updated fast... ten bucks, and that's the final offer."
"Deal."
Link didn't haggle. Time was more important than money.
Leaving the store, he gripped the ten dollars in his hand.
The sun beat down on his face, hot and blinding. But for the first time, he felt that the sunshine in this city had weight.
He bought a sandwich, chewed it, and waited for the bus.
When it arrived, Link got on and grabbed a window seat.
The city flashed by in a series of shots. Michael Jackson's "Billie Jean" was blasting outside a corner record shop; the movie theater wall advertised the newly released Ghost.
The dreamy lights and romantic embraces made it feel like the whole city was smiling at the "dreamers."
Link leaned his head against the glass, looking at his own stretched, distorted reflection.
He began to mentally rehearse his opening line.
"Hi, I have a script." Too dumb, he'd be mistaken for a salesman.
"I'm from the future." Too nuts, he'd be labeled a crazy person.
No, he needed a key line.
A line that could precisely unlock the door in Quentin's mind.
If he messed this up, the whole day was a bust.
He took a deep breath, his palms sweating.
The original Link's diary entry flashed through his mind: "If I could do it all over, I would definitely leave my name in Hollywood."
Link closed his eyes and murmured softly:
"Let's start now."
---
An hour and a half later.
Manhattan Beach, Video Archives.
The sign light above the door buzzed, and the air inside smelled of plastic cases and old wood.
As soon as Link walked in, he saw the guy.
The huge chin, a Hawaiian shirt paired with jeans, and a straw stuck in his mouth.
He was talking a mile a minute, but his eyes were electrified.
There was only one customer in the store, a middle-aged man in a suit, whom he was backing into a corner.
"You're saying Die Hard is the peak of action movies? Come on, man, that's just a cop-stuck-in-a-building story!"
The man was practically being spit on and cornered against the wall.
"Have you ever seen Hard Boiled? Chow Yun-fat in that church scene—one hand, gun pointed down—now that's romance!"
He made an exaggerated gesture and nearly knocked over a shelf.
The middle-aged man laughed awkwardly: "I... I just came to rent The Terminator..."
"Oh, over there," Quentin paused for a second and pointed vaguely to the left.
The man practically ran out the door.
Link leaned against a shelf and couldn't help but smile. Hawaiian shirt, big chin, nervous eyes.
Yep, it was him.
Wiping the counter, Quentin mumbled, "Die Hard... Pfft. Bruce Willis is cool, but the script..."
He suddenly looked up.
Across the counter, Link stood calmly, holding a thick stack of manuscript pages, staring at him.
"Hey, pal, renting a tape?" Quentin raised an eyebrow.
Link gave a small smile.
"I have a question for you."
"What's the question?"
Link looked him straight in the eye, his voice slow, but every word carried weight—
"Do you know what people in Paris call a Quarter Pounder with Cheese?"
The air instantly froze.
Quentin's hand stopped mid-wipe, and the rag dropped to the floor.
He looked as if he'd been struck, an unbelievable light flashing in his eyes.
"You... what did you just say?"
Link didn't answer. He just gently placed the script on the counter.
The heavy stack of papers landed with a light sound.
But in that moment, it was like a bomb had hit.
The cover had two words printed on it: PULP FICTION.
Quentin's pupils contracted.
His breathing quickened.
Link watched him, his voice steady and almost clinical:
"I'm not asking you to read this..."
He paused, then smiled softly.
"...It was meant for you. Only you can capture its soul."
Quentin's expression shifted from stunned, to shocked, to a trembling laugh.
It was a laugh of someone who had just seen a sneak peek of destiny's script.
"You..." His voice was tight.
"How do you know that?"
In that moment, all the air in the video store seemed to have stopped.
A tape of A Better Tomorrow flickered on a wall monitor.
Sunlight streamed in through the glass door, falling between the two men.
One was the future director.
The other was the madman who was about to change film history.
The reel of destiny began to rewind.