Kennedy Airport, New York
The cold November wind felt like a knife.
Link stepped out of the terminal, carrying an old leather suitcase, just as his car phone started to ring.
"Link ! That maniac Cameron just blew up the prop ship!" Binder shrieked over the line. "He says if we don't wire the money, he's going back to Canada for vacation tomorrow!"
Link said nothing, his eyes fixed on the financial statement in his hand.
Account Balance: $10 million
Funding Gap: $80 million
"Keep him on the hook," Link's voice was calm. "I'll get the money."
"Are you planning to rob a bank?!"
Link hung up, then slid into a taxi. Outside the window, the skyscrapers of Manhattan looked like tombstones, cold and silent.
That jerk Cameron always chose the worst possible moment to go crazy. And the sharks on Wall Street? They could already smell the blood in the water.
This time, there was no turning back.
---
Citibank HeadquartersThe next day, on the top floor of Citibank's headquarters.
Davis, Vice President of Credit, a typical Wall Street veteran, tapped the Pangu Pictures file with a dismissive fingertip.
"Mr. Link ," he laced his fingers, leaning forward, exuding the arrogance of capital. "Pangu Pictures is very interesting. Pulp Fiction was a dark horse; I'll give you that."
He paused, then picked up the Titanic proposal, holding it as if it were a piece of trash.
"But now you want to use the future box office share of one movie as collateral for an eighty million dollar loan? And you plan to launch three simultaneous A-list productions?"
He let out a short, scoffing laugh. "From our risk assessment model, this isn't an investment; it's throwing money into the ocean! With all due respect, a company making a movie about a major Western maritime disaster? That's a joke right out of the gate."
A few muffled chuckles echoed through the conference room.
Link smiled, leaning back comfortably in his chair, his posture more relaxed than Davis's.
There's that look again. Fine. Talking about passion and vision with capitalists who only care about money is a total waste of time anyway.
"Mr. Davis," Link picked up the report and flicked it as if dusting off a speck of dirt. "Before you continue, I suggest you fire the analyst who wrote this report. That kind of amateur work will hurt Citi's bottom line."
The smile froze on Davis's face.
"Pulp Fiction was a dark horse? Just luck?" Link's tone was conversational. "I'm curious, what was the highest rate of return your bank's top-performing fund achieved last year? Thirty percent? Maybe fifty?"
Without waiting for an answer, he gently placed another report on the table.
"Pulp Fiction cost eight million, grossed $250 million globally, and the residuals are still rolling in. The return on investment is well over 4,000%. Mr. Davis, do you call that luck?"
The conference room fell silent.
"My project is high-risk?" Link raised a finger and tapped the three names on the project file. "James Cameron, Stephen King, Industrial Light & Magic. If those three names combined equal high risk," he looked around the room, "then I'd like to know, what does your bank's model consider safe? Tucking the money into a savings account for interest?"
Finally, Link stood up and walked to the massive floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the greedy street below.
He didn't turn around, simply looking at his reflection in the glass. His voice wasn't loud, but it clearly reached everyone's ears.
"I know what your real hang-up is. Asian guy."
"But Wall Street, just like Hollywood, worships only one god: profit. You don't have to trust my skin color; that's to be expected." He slowly turned, his gaze cutting into Davis's face like a surgical blade. "But you have to believe the number 4,000%."
"I'll tell you the future of Titanic—it will be a global box office miracle, grossing no less than two billion dollars worldwide."
"Two billion?!" Davis's face was like that of a devout believer hearing someone say God is dead. "Young man, do you know what the all-time box office champion, E.T., made? $792 million!"
"Then watch me." Link's tone was flat. "Citibank is free to turn me down. But this deal will become the biggest joke of your career, not mine."
With that, he picked up his suitcase and headed for the door.
"I hope before you retire, you get to see Citi's stock return 4,000%."
---
Times SquareStepping out of the Citi building, the cold wind hit him.
Link instinctively reached into his pocket for a cigarette pack, pulled it out, and tapped one loose.
Click. The lighter sparked, but the flame didn't catch.
He stared at the tiny, unlit spark, paused for a second, and tried again.
Click. A flame shot up, lighting the cigarette. He took a deep drag; the nicotine finally eased the tension in his nerves.
This was the third bank. No matter how pretty his pitch, it wasn't turning into cash.
His car phone rang again. It was Binder.
Link ignored it, letting it vibrate in his pocket.
The vibration stopped.
Two seconds later, an unfamiliar number called.
Link answered.
"Mr. Link, I'm John Carver from Sony Pictures." The voice was steady. "I hear you've run into a bit of trouble on Wall Street?"
News travels fast.
"What do you want?"
"We're very interested in The Mask." Carver got straight to the point. "Sony is willing to provide financial support."
Link's breathing paused for a moment.
"The terms?"
"We'll pay you a $70 million advance acquisition fee," Carver offered the carrot, then produced the stick. "In exchange, Sony gets permanent distribution rights for The Mask in all overseas markets. Mr. Link , this is a win-win."
Link fell silent.
The giant billboards of Times Square cast shifting lights and shadows across his face.
He stubbed out his cigarette, the ember falling into the darkness.
John Carver's math was brilliant. For $70 million in cash, he would steal The Mask, the golden goose.
This wasn't a win-win; this was a classic ambush.
But he desperately needed the money. Pangu Pictures had to survive this immediate funding crunch.
No present, no future.
Link looked up at the brightly lit JPMorgan Chase building across the street. He suddenly smiled.
When did he get so timid?
He hadn't come to this world to choose the slowest way to die within the rules set by others. He was here to set the rules.
The bankers couldn't understand his story, and the movie studio just wanted to fleece him. That was because they were all using an old map to search for a new continent.
He was the new map.
Link didn't bother with the phone still buzzing in his pocket. He turned and walked into a brightly lit phone booth on the corner, pulling out his address book filled with names and numbers.
He flipped past all the Hollywood names, past all the banker titles, and finally, his finger stopped on one name.
He dropped a coin and dialed the number.
The call connected, and a sleepy, gravelly male voice answered.
"Hello?"