Chapter 3: A Fleeting Dream

"Who's there?!"

Link shouted angrily.

"Sir, you're still alive! Great. It's time to check out."

"Check out? What check-out? This is my—"

Link opened his eyes and froze.

Where was he? Where was Nicole Kidman? What happened to his office?

Rubbing his eyes, Link propped himself up on the bed and looked around. The place he found himself in was nothing like the clean, spacious, ocean-facing DreamWorks president's office by Venice Beach.

Instead, he was in a dark, damp, foul-smelling room reeking of mold and foot odor.

There was only a bed and a broken wardrobe, with a black TV set sitting on top of it. A grimy kettle stood nearby, and a poster of Nicole Kidman was pasted on the opposite wall.

Even though the window was shut, chilly gusts still seeped through the cracks.

Shivering, Link yanked the blanket up to his neck, hoping to shield himself from the biting cold coming from every direction.

But the blanket had its own problems—the stench of mildew and stale sweat relentlessly assaulted his nose.

Link felt dizzy.

Just seconds ago, he'd been in his executive office, indulging in wild passion with the stunning Nicole Kidman on his mahogany desk.

The scorching Los Angeles sun had poured through the windows, making his bare skin sweat profusely.

How had he suddenly ended up in this cold, damp dump?

*Bang bang bang! Bang bang bang!*

The pounding on the door grew louder and harsher.

"Sir, it's 11:30 AM. If you don't check out by noon, you'll be charged for another night. It's up to you!"

The voice outside shouted impatiently.

"No, I'll check out right away!"

Hearing the mention of extra fees, Link instinctively blurted a response.

After speaking, he was struck by confusion. Wait—since when do I care about hotel fees?   

After "Buried" was released, it had grossed over a hundred million dollars globally, leaving his bank account flush with eight figures. Why would he even blink at a hotel bill?

Struggling to make sense of it all, Link slowly stood up from the bed. A wave of dizziness hit him, his limbs weak. He staggered and nearly collapsed onto the grimy floor.

He pressed the back of his hand against his forehead—it was noticeably hotter than his hand.

He had a fever.

Sniffling, he realized his nose was partially clogged.

What the hell happened?  

Where was his seaside villa, his Rolls-Royce sports car, DreamWorks, and Nicole Kidman?

Link grabbed the down jacket from the bed and threw it on. Crouching down, he slipped on his sneakers, only to notice he wasn’t wearing pants. Cursing under his breath, he had to take the shoes off again and put on thermal pants and jeans first.

As he went through these motions, a chilling realization crept in.

It had all been a dream.

A vivid but fleeting dream.

Though he had indeed attended the 8th Sundance Film Festival, he hadn’t won any awards.

There hadn't been any media coverage of his film either.

Harvey Weinstein never bought the rights to "Buried" for an exorbitant price.

The film hadn’t become a global box-office sensation.

And Nicole Kidman?

She wasn’t the lead actress in "Buried." She hadn’t sprawled on his desk waiting for a "check-up."

She was just a projection from the poster on the wall that had infiltrated his dream.

There was no Rolls-Royce, no Beverly Hills mansion, no DreamWorks, no Hollywood starlets lining up for auditions, no Harvey Weinstein begging for collaboration, no chance to outshine Quentin Tarantino.

The media hadn’t crowned him Hollywood’s hottest new director.

It was all a dream.

"No way! No way! It felt so real! Nicole Kidman's skin was so soft—there’s no way this was just a dream! It has to be some sick joke!"

Link shook his head in disbelief, which only made him dizzier.

Clutching his burning forehead, he stumbled toward the cramped bathroom.

Just like last night, the faucet had no hot water.

In the freezing conditions of Park City, Utah—where it was below zero—the icy tap water was enough to chill anyone to the bone.

He splashed a handful of cold water on his face. The shock of the icy water forced the heat from his forehead to retreat.

His thoughts became clearer.

Yes, his name was Link. That part hadn’t changed.

And he was indeed a transmigrant.

Five months ago, an accident had sent him from 2024 to 1991 America, where he became an orphan living in the slums of Los Angeles.

To improve his situation, he returned to his old profession: filmmaking.

He shopped his screenplay around, seeking investors—but not a single company showed interest.

Every submission vanished without a trace.

In desperation, he took a grim step.

He got a job waiting tables at restaurant, did bit roles as an extra on Hollywood sets, and even wore a mascot costume at McDonald's.

At one point, he was working four or five jobs simultaneously.

After three and a half grueling months, he scraped together $20,000.

With that money, he rented a camera, audio equipment, and a few lights, along with some props.

He decided to fund and shoot the movie himself.

But when he tried to cast actors, everyone backed out upon learning it was a one-man crew with no pay.

No one wanted to be part of his film.

Renting a video camera was expensive—over two hundred dollars per day.

Link couldn’t afford it, so he made a bold decision: he would write, direct, and star in his own film.

After ten grueling days under extremely harsh conditions, Buried Alive was finally completed.

When the Sundance Film Festival arrived, he brought his freshly finished Buried Alive to Park City, Utah, home to the world’s largest independent film festival.

The Sundance Film Festival was founded in 1984 by renowned director and actor Robert Redford, specifically for independent filmmakers and films.

It takes place every year in mid-to-late January, lasting for 10 to 11 days.

This was the eighth edition, featuring over 3,400 films from around the world, showcasing the finest independent productions.

Link arrived at Sundance with his film, full of confidence.

He hoped Buried Alive would make a splash at the festival.

He hoped it would catch the attention of the Sundance jury.

He hoped film distributors would fight over it.

He hoped to make a fortune.

But reality was harsh.

During its three-day screening, only a handful of people entered the theater to watch Buried Alive, and many left before it even ended.

The fewer the viewers, the colder the atmosphere became.

Buried Alive failed to make any impact at the festival—no buzz, no inquiries from distributors about its rights.

Meanwhile, Quentin Tarantino’s new film, Reservoir Dogs, was the talk of the festival.

Miramax president Harvey Weinstein personally sought out Tarantino and acquired the distribution rights for a hefty sum.

Cold, hungry, and filled with disappointment, Link drank himself into a stupor.

He later fell ill in his cheap motel, which lacked heating, and had an extravagant dream.

“Sigh, dreaming is so much easier—real life is never this smooth.”

Link stared at his reflection in the mirror. The only consolation was that he had a decent-looking face—short, clean-cut hair, sharp brows, piercing eyes, a straight nose, and well-defined features.

Paired with his pale complexion, he looked like a handsome vampire.

He grinned at the mirror, revealing his white teeth.

“Damn it, Hollywood—I’m going to devour you.”

*[Filming complete. Box office subsidy system calculating...]*

*[Host’s contribution to the film: 95.3%. Film completion quality: 87.7%.]*

*[Reward: 4x box office subsidy; Directing experience +30%; Directing stamina +10%]*

Am I still dreaming?

Link rubbed his eyes. The words *[4x box office subsidy acquired]* flashed before him three times before gradually disappearing.

“Is this for real?”

Does this mean I’ll receive four times the original box office earnings of Buried Alive?

If that’s the case, my film’s global box office revenue would surpass 80 million?!

Once it’s released, I’ll instantly become a multimillionaire?!

With that money, I could start my own production company, buy a mansion, drive sports cars, maybe even meet Nicole Kidman. A solid wood desk wouldn’t just be a dream anymore.

*DONG! DONG! DONG!*

The clock struck noon in Park City.

Suddenly, Link remembered he didn’t have enough money to extend his motel stay. He quickly grabbed a few essential belongings, rushed out of the room, and shouted:

“Check out! I’m checking out!!!”

*(End of Chapter)*