The call went through.
"Mr. Friedman, I apologize for calling so late. My name is Link, founder of Pangu Pictures. I've got a story that deserves to be on your next front page."
A few seconds of silence, then a tone of impatience.
"I hope this story is worth getting out of bed for."
The next day, noon. The Four Seasons Hotel in Manhattan.
The dining room was quiet, save for the faint clinking of silverware. Thomas Friedman, a seasoned reporter with salt-and-pepper hair and a sharp gaze, was methodically cutting into his steak.
"Mr. Link, you dragged me out of bed just to tell me you want to be the next Howard Hughes?"
His voice was flat, edged with a subtle sneer.
Link, sitting across from him, smiled and left his own plate untouched.
"No. Howard Hughes made movies to score with starlets."
"I make movies to make money. Period."
Friedman paused. The bluntness of the reply caught him off guard, jamming the pre-loaded sarcasm in his throat.
"But your company's running on fumes, isn't it?" He raised an eyebrow. "You're banking on an epic disaster-romance and a prison drama to turn the ship around? You call that a business plan, or a Vegas bet?"
"Looks like you did your homework." Link nodded. "So, do you know the return on investment for Pulp Fiction?"
"I heard it was a dark horse, but a single hit doesn't prove anything." Friedman's tone sharpened. "I don't care about your luck, Link . I care about your system. Do you have one?"
Link looked up, his gaze steady.
"Four thousand percent." He stated the number softly.
"Show me a fund on Wall Street that delivered a consistent four thousand percent return last year."
Friedman's hand froze mid-air.
"That's my first system: Content Incubation. We don't rely on luck; we rely on triage. Pangu has an in-house original script foundation—we can select the one story out of a hundred that has the highest box office potential. Other studios gamble on a blockbuster. I manufacture them."
"The second system: Technology Barrier." Link's voice remained even. "Pangu Digital, a joint venture with Industrial Light & Magic. We're currently developing a brand-new rendering algorithm that can slash CG costs by fifty percent. Hollywood's special effects benchmark is being rewritten right now."
Friedman's expression shifted slightly.
Link pressed on: "'Titanic. You think it's just a simple disaster movie? Wrong. It's a technology exhibition. That sinking scene—it will be the technical gold standard for every effects-driven film for the next decade."
He paused, locking eyes with the reporter.
"What's a company worth that can define the industry standard?"
Friedman offered no reply.
"The third system: Brand Soul." Link continued. "'The Shawshank Redemption. You might think it's a financial dud. But it will become Pangu's defining label. We don't just make blockbusters; we make hope. That's the bedrock that will keep Pangu standing in Hollywood."
The silence in the restaurant deepened.
Friedman stared back, his expression morphing from skeptical to intensely focused.
"Everything you're saying…" he murmured, "it sounds like a pipe dream."
Link smiled. "Everything that changes the world sounds like a pipe dream at first."
He leaned forward, his tone perfectly calm: "Mr. Friedman, I'm not here to beg you for coverage. I'm here to offer you a front-row seat to watch one era end and the next one begin."
"They're still using an abacus to count their change. I'm building the computer."
"Do you want to write this story, or wait for someone else to break it?"
With that, he rose, leaving a check on the table.
"Lunch is on me. Next time we meet, I expect it will be at Pangu Pictures' IPO bell-ringing ceremony."
Two days later, the front page of The Wall Street Journal ran a column by-lined Thomas Friedman.
A Hollywood Lunatic Teaches Wall Street a Lesson: While You're Reading the Spreadsheet, He's Already Building the Future
The article dropped, and the financial world exploded.
The old-guard bankers scoffed, dismissing Link as just another smooth-talking charlatan.
Others fell silent, folding up the paper thoughtfully.
And a few immediately picked up the phone.
"Run a deep dive on this Pangu Pictures."
Back in his hotel room, Link was looking over the storyboard sketches for Titanic. His phone only rang twice that entire day. One was from Binder, the other from Cameron. He knew she was trying to transition, but these things couldn't be rushed.
Leaning back on the couch, Link took a drag from his cigarette, feeling surprisingly calm.
He knew the article was a coin-flip.
Either they'd win big, or lose everything.
That evening, the phone rang again.
It was an unfamiliar number. The area code was Palo Alto—a call from Silicon Valley.
A slight smile touched Link's lips.
He picked up.
"Mr. Link? Jim Clark here. I just sold an internet company and have some cash to burn."
"I'm fascinated by your theory about 'leveraging tech barriers to redefine content creation.' I don't get movies, but I love betting on the future that the old-school bankers can't see."
"Got a few minutes to chat?"
Link looked out at the night sky, a soft chuckle escaping him.
"Absolutely."