Chapter 7: Quentin

When Link returned to the youth apartment complex, the sky was nearing dusk.

The sun, hovering over the western horizon, cast its golden light onto the tall buildings of the residential area, illuminating the patchy walls, chaotic graffiti, and balconies adorned with various styles of underwear.

Link formed a frame with his index finger and thumb, pretending it was a camera lens. He aimed it at the sunset, the buildings, a man urinating in the corner, and a woman dancing gracefully on her balcony.

These were ordinary scenes in everyday life, but when placed on the big screen and combined with other plots, they created a different effect. This was the language of cinema.

A director's job is to tell stories through the lens and visuals, conveying tragedy, comedy, thriller, suspense, action, and other genres to the audience using imagery and sound.

A skilled director can masterfully use the camera, telling a story fluidly and powerfully, making it engaging and emotionally compelling.

A poor director, on the other hand, tells stories like a stuttering child, a delirious lunatic, or an elementary schooler with an empty mind, resulting in dull and lifeless films.

Link was never considered a top-tier director. He was just an old-school, hardworking filmmaker who had struggled in the entertainment industry for years—barely scraping by, longing for success but unable to find the right path.

After being reborn in Hollywood as a 20-year-old, he now had more time and opportunities to tell new stories and make more films.

With the help of his "golden finger," perhaps he could surpass his past self and go further on the path of directing.

As he watched the sunset, Link realized his mindset had changed. He was no longer as anxious and restless as before. The frustration that once weighed on him had lessened, and he felt a youthful sense of ease.

This clarity made him reflect—he had been moving too fast, too desperate for success, too eager to change his circumstances, which had led to unnecessary struggles.

If he had taken things slower after waking up last year, perhaps by joining a film crew as a cinematographer, assistant director, or director’s assistant, he could have built his way up step by step.

With his first real paycheck, he would have been better prepared to shoot Buried.

But now, he had gone all in, like a pawn that had crossed the river. The only choice left was to charge forward with everything he had.

When he arrived at Building 13, he noticed a moving truck from a relocation company parked in front of the apartment across the street. A group of people was helping move furniture—some onto the truck, while others were left on the roadside for anyone who needed them.

Among those helping, Chris Bauer stood out. While others struggled to lift small items in pairs, he effortlessly carried a large sofa by himself.

"Link, do you want this big sofa? It would fit perfectly in your room," Chris called out, patting the black leather couch.

"No, thanks. Too much furniture makes moving a hassle."

"It'd be a shame to throw it away. I think I’ll take it. Sleeping on this in the summer would be pretty nice," Chris said, jumping onto the couch and bouncing on it.

Link had no intention of helping, nor did he want to stand around watching. Just as he was about to leave, he saw Quentin Tarantino emerge from the building, accompanied by his friends Roger Avary and Lawrence Bender.

Roger Avary was the co-writer of Reservoir Dogs, while Lawrence Bender was the film’s producer and would go on to produce many of Tarantino’s future films as well.

"Quentin, I heard you’re moving into a big mansion? Congrats!" Link greeted him.

Tarantino laughed. "Haha, not quite. I just rented a bigger apartment over in Beverly Hills."

When Tarantino smiled, the muscles on his cheekbones tensed, pulling the rest of his face with them. This made his features look sharper and slightly intimidating.

"With your talent, it’s only a matter of time before you buy a mansion."

"Yeah, Quentin, soon you'll be a millionaire—living in a mansion, dating gorgeous women, driving sports cars. Man, that’s the dream!"

"I wish I were as lucky as you."

A few of the movers gathered around, talking excitedly.

Tarantino simply chuckled, not responding. Instead, he pulled out a few bills and handed them to Chris Bauer, asking him to buy some beer as a thank-you for everyone helping with the move.

"Long live Quentin!" someone cheered.

As Tarantino prepared to leave, Link stepped forward and brought up the distribution of Buried, asking if he could introduce him to Harvey Weinstein or any other film distributors.

Tarantino hesitated for a moment, then patted Link’s shoulder. "Link, you really are talented. After just a few months on set, you had the guts to invest in your own film and managed to complete a logically coherent and structurally sound movie within a month. That’s impressive—even I couldn’t have done that.

"But your film has some clear issues. A single character, a single setting—the story is too monotonous, and it lacks a strong selling point.

"Also, you’re the lead actor, and you have an great face. Oh, don’t take it the wrong way—I have nothing against young people. But in Hollywood, there just haven’t been any major box-office hits with young lead.

"Because of these factors, your movie doesn’t have much market potential.

"I even mentioned it to Harvey, and he feels the same way.

"Link, you have real potential as a director. If you’re willing to join my crew, I’d be more than happy to have you on board. Think about it."

Tarantino was slightly taller than Link. As he spoke, he rested a hand on Link’s shoulder, his tone gentle. The people nearby looked surprised, puzzled by why Tarantino held Link in such high regard.

"Alright, I get what you’re saying. I’m aware of these issues. But I’m stubborn—I want to keep trying. If Buried fails to get distributed, I’ll come work for you. Just make sure I have a meal on the table."

"Haha, deal! You’ll always be welcome."

Honk! Honk!

Lawrence Bender pulled up in a Mercedes.

Tarantino glanced back, then waved goodbye to Link and the others before getting into the car.

The sedan and moving truck drove away from the cluttered apartment complex, leaving behind a group of envious young men and women—and a pile of discarded furniture on the sidewalk.

"The beer’s here! Who wants a drink?" Chris Bauer called out, lugging two cases of beer.

"Of course! Free beer? Count me in."

"We’ve got beer, we’ve got a couch—let’s get more people and throw a party!"

"Great idea!"

The group eagerly began setting up for a party.

"Link, aren’t you joining us?" Chris Bauer asked, handing him a beer as he noticed Link heading inside.

"You guys have fun. I’ve been busy all day—I need some rest."

Link stretched his sore arms and entered Building 13.

Unfortunately, he ran into the apartment manager at the entrance.

"Link, you’re two months behind on rent. If you don’t pay by the 15th of next month, we’ll have to evict you," said Lucy, the manager.

"Got it. I’ll make sure to pay before the deadline."

(End of Chapter)