Harvey Weinstein loved mornings.
Sunlight streamed into Miramax's headquarters, spilling across a walnut desk that cost well into six figures. He cradled his coffee and looked out over Hollywood—his turf, his kingdom.
"Harvey," said Marcus, his star lawyer, pushing the door open with an easy smile. "It's all taken care of. All three families agreed to sue Link."
Harvey calmly sliced into his toast. "They bought it?"
"They did. They think we're fighting for justice on their behalf." Marcus smirked. "They even asked for a hundred grand up front as a show of good faith—said they wanted to hire independent counsel."
"Heh." Harvey chuckled, mockery flickering in his eyes. "Wire the money. Get the media and the experts moving. I want 'Pangu Pictures' and 'fraud' permanently glued together."
Marcus dipped his head. "Understood."
Leaning back in his chair, Harvey wore a look of total confidence. "Make that kid from the East understand something—
in Hollywood, I decide what the truth is."
---
The storm hit faster than he expected.
The very next day, almost every major TV network rolled out a so-called exclusive interview during prime time.
On screen, Heather's mother, Angela, was in tears.
"They stole my daughter's dignity and tried to profit off her fear," she sobbed. "That's something only the devil would do."
The image cut.
A white-haired sociology professor appeared next, visibly distressed.
"…This kind of marketing has crossed a moral red line. It sends an incredibly dangerous message to our youth…"
Then a representative from a youth advocacy group, crying openly:
"Pangu Pictures' actions have seriously harmed young people's mental and emotional well-being. We call on the film association to launch a full investigation! This kind of psychological pollution must be stopped before it spreads further…"
Experts, nonprofits, advocacy groups—one after another, all outraged, all indignant.
Overnight, Pangu Pictures became public enemy number one.
Link and his company were hauled onto a moral gallows, judged and condemned in the court of public opinion.
---
Two days later.
Beverly Hills. The launch celebration for the 007 project.
Harvey was in an excellent mood.
The clink of champagne glasses, the laughter, the applause—everything revolved around him.
"Looks like you've won again, Harvey," Martin Scorsese said, raising his glass with a smile.
"Can't help it." Harvey spread his hands smugly. "Some people make movies. I play the game. And who writes the rules? Me."
The table erupted in laughter.
He loved this feeling—being admired, being looked up to.
"Just some nobody Chinese kid," Gloria added with a laugh. "What kind of waves can he really make in Hollywood?"
"Hahaha…"
Mocking laughter rippled through the room.
Then, suddenly, an assistant burst in, face drained of color.
"Mr. Weinstein! NBC's Moment of Truth—Link is on the show!"
Harvey raised an eyebrow, a cold smile curling at his lips.
"So he's finally folding?"
He snapped his fingers. "Turn on the TV."
The room buzzed with amusement.
The screen lit up.
Link sat in the studio, calm and composed, his expression unreadable.
The host, Linda, asked, "Mr. Link, the public says you deceived audiences and profited off victims' families. Do you accept that accusation?"
Harvey laughed loudly. "Here we go—everyone watch. He's about to beg."
But the very next second—
Link reached under the table, pulled out a tape recorder, set it in front of the microphone, and pressed play.
"…Miramax is willing to provide you with the best legal team. All expenses will be covered."
"The hundred thousand dollars will be wired first, as a sign of good faith."
"All you need to do in the interview is talk about the pain. The more devastated you seem, the more sympathy you'll get."
"You did great, Angela. Trust me—they'll pay for this."
…
The hall went dead silent.
Every laugh cut off at once.
Harvey's champagne glass froze mid-air, his hand starting to tremble.
On the screen, Link looked up, his gaze terrifyingly calm.
"I never said the three students were actually missing. I told an urban legend.
"And Harvey Weinstein—he spent a hundred thousand dollars buying the pain of victims' families, trying to manufacture a false truth to crush a competitor."
"So tell me—who's the real fraud here?"
Harvey's face drained of color.
"Fake! It's fake!" he roared, jumping to his feet.
No one responded.
All eyes were locked on the TV, on that recorder, replaying the voices over and over.
The tone. The cold, calculated manipulation.
It sounded real—too real.
The assistant's hands shook as he spoke. "Mr. Weinstein… NBC just released a statement. They say the recording's source has been verified."
Harvey froze, like he'd taken a punch to the ribs.
On screen, Linda delivered the final update:
"According to Pangu Pictures' latest announcement, The Blair Witch Project will hold a post-screening Q&A next week, with all three lead actors appearing in person."
Crack.
Harvey's champagne glass slipped from his hand and shattered on the table, the sound piercing.
His lips quivered as he whispered, "They… they're alive?"
No one answered.
The hall was deathly quiet.
The assistant stared at the floor, pale as a ghost.
Martin Scorsese let out a soft sigh, placed his napkin beside his plate, and turned to leave—without sparing Harvey a second glance.
The people who'd been laughing just moments ago now avoided eye contact, whispering to those beside them.
"What a disaster…"
"Miramax is finished."
"Don't look at him. Don't get involved."
Slowly, Harvey sank back into his chair, hands braced on the table, his face ashen.
Champagne dripped off the edge of the table, soaking into the carpet.
The lights stayed bright. The music started up again.
But no one laughed.
He sat there at the center of the room, surrounded by people—
yet it felt like he'd fallen into a deep, soundless well, completely alone.