"Who is it?!"
Link roared with frustration.
"Sir, you're alive! Wonderful. But it's time to check out," came the voice beyond the door.
"Check out? What do you mean check out? This is my off—"
Link blinked. He froze.
Where was he?
Where was Nicole Kidman?
Where was his office?
He rubbed his eyes and sat up slowly.
Gone were the wide glass windows and the sun-drenched view of Venice Beach.
This wasn't the gleaming, wood-paneled DreamWorks executive office.
This was... a damp, dim room, thick with the stench of mildew and foot odor.
A narrow bed.
A broken cabinet.
An old, black plastic TV set.
A battered electric kettle.
And on the opposite wall—a poster of Nicole Kidman.
The window was shut, yet cold wind still seeped through the cracks.
Link shivered and yanked the blanket up to his chin, trying to block out the biting cold.
But the sour mix of mildew and sweat clung to the bedding, gnawing at his senses.
His head swam.
Just moments ago—he could swear it—he'd been making love to the beautiful Nicole Kidman on his office desk, warm sunlight from the Los Angeles sky glazing their bare skin.
Now... he was here?
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The pounding on the door returned—louder, sharper, more demanding.
"It's 11:30, sir! If you don't check out by noon, we'll have to charge you another night!"
"I—I'll check out right now!"
Link blurted instinctively, panic rising at the mention of additional charges.
And then—confusion.
Why did it matter? Buried Alive had grossed over a hundred million worldwide.
He had eight figures in the bank.
Why was he afraid of room fees?
Dazed, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and tried to stand—only to nearly collapse.
His limbs were weak. His head pulsed.
He pressed the back of his hand to his forehead.
Burning.
He sniffled—his nose was clogged.
What had happened to his beachside mansion, his Rolls-Royce, his studio, Nicole Kidman?
He pulled a down jacket over his pajama top, crouched to put on sneakers—only to realize he hadn't worn pants.
Off went the shoes. On went sweatpants. Then jeans. Then shoes again.
As he moved, clarity slowly returned.
And so did the truth.
The grand office, the red carpets, the Oscar whispers…
All of it had been a dream.
He had submitted Buried Alive to the 8th Sundance Film Festival.
But it had won nothing.
Not even a single mention in the press.
There was no Harvey Weinstein offering millions for the rights.
Buried Alive had not become an international hit.
Nicole Kidman?
She wasn't in the film.
She had never lain on his desk.
She was only a poster on the wall.
The Rolls-Royce, the Beverly Hills estate, the DreamWorks empire, the queue of actresses outside his office, Harvey's groveling, Quentin's humiliation, the headlines calling him Hollywood's hottest new director—
All. A. Dream.
"No... it can't be," he muttered. "It felt so real. Nicole's skin... so soft. That had to be real!"
His head throbbed again.
He staggered to the narrow bathroom.
The faucet, just like the night before, spat out freezing water.
In Park City, Utah, with subzero temperatures, that kind of water could shatter bones.
He splashed his face.
The icy shock cut through his fever, sobering him up.
Bit by bit, his memories realigned.
His name was Link. That was still true.
And yes—he had transmigrated.
Five months earlier, an accident had brought him from 2024 China to 1991 America, where he awoke as a Chinese orphan in the slums of Los Angeles.
To survive, he turned back to his craft—filmmaking.
He knocked on countless studio doors with his scripts.
None responded.
He worked odd jobs: waiting tables in Chinatown, playing extras on Hollywood sets, sweating inside a mascot suit at McDonald's.
Four or five jobs at once.
After three and a half months, he had scraped together $20,000.
He rented a camera, sound and lighting equipment, a few props.
No actors would work for free.
So, unable to pay anyone, he became a one-man crew.
He wrote, directed, and starred in his own film.
Ten grueling days later, Buried Alive was complete.
He brought it here—to the world's largest independent film event, the Sundance Film Festival, founded in 1984 by Robert Redford, held each January for 10-11 days.
This was the 8th Sundance.
Over 3,400 films from around the world competed.
He came full of hope.
Dreaming of discovery.
Dreaming of sales.
Dreaming of wealth.
Reality was cruel.
Only a handful of people showed up to his screenings.
Many walked out halfway.
With each showing, the room grew emptier.
No buzz. No press. No buyers.
Meanwhile, Quentin Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs became the darling of the festival.
Harvey Weinstein personally bought the rights for a massive sum.
Link, cold and dejected, drowned himself in cheap liquor.
Fevered, broke, and alone—he collapsed in this heatless motel.
And dreamed a dream of triumph.
"A dream's easier to live than reality," he murmured at the mirror.
At least the man in the mirror didn't look too bad: short, neat hair, sharp features, defined cheekbones.
Even pale from illness, he looked like a handsome, Asian vampire.
He flashed a toothy grin at the mirror.
"Damn it, Hollywood. I'll devour you."
Suddenly—
[Film production complete. Box Office Subsidy System calculating results…]
[Host's participation level: 95.3% | Film quality rating: 87.7%]
[Reward: 4x Box Office Bonus | Directing EXP +30% | Director Physique +10%]
Was he still dreaming?
He rubbed his eyes.
The phrase [4x Box Office Bonus] flashed in his vision—once, twice, three times—then faded.
"It's real? There's really a system?"
Four times the box office of the real result?
Buried Alive hadn't made much, but with the bonus… would that mean $80 million worldwide?
Would he wake up tomorrow a millionaire?
With money… the studio, the mansion, the sports car, Nicole Kidman, the hardwood desk—
They'd all become real.
DONG—DONG—DONG
Twelve chimes rang across Park City.
Link jolted upright.
He had no money to extend the room.
He grabbed his bag and burst from the room, shouting:
"Check out! I'm checking out!!"
(End of Chapter)