Fincher placed the cigar he was holding on the edge of the mixing console, a rare, strange smile appearing on his face.
"Release the dry audio from the second track," Fincher said.
Duro slid the fader, Artest's a cappella performance was clearly reproduced in the monitor speakers.
"... Only a true champion throws the hardest punch in the 12th round."
"Interesting." Duro removed half of his earphone, rested one hand on the mixing console, and grinned at Lin Qi and Fincher. "When Shaq was working on albums with Jive Records and Warner a couple of years ago, I handled a couple of demo tracks. The whole album was just him talking about which Ferrari he bought, how big a yacht he rented in Miami, and how many bikini-clad girls were around him. It sounded like a fat guy who just won the Powerball lottery showing off his savings to the world. Ron's stuff is completely different."
"These days, sports movie soundtracks are all crammed with that greasy Bruce stuff, all that locker room champagne popping, slow motion with orchestral music—it's so fake it's nauseating." Fincher looked at the audio track on the screen and gestured with his hand. "This song isn't a party song. I'm going to put it in the second half of ' Kingmaker, ' in that suffocating, attrition-filled NBA Finals. At that point, tactics don't even come together; all that's left is a bunch of madmen willing to do anything for victory biting each other. This song is like a eulogy, for the opponent, and for myself."
Duro turned the equalizer knob half a notch. "Got it, I'll add a bit more bass, bring out that heavy feel."
Fincher pressed the intercom button in front of him. " Ron, pull up your knee pads and put on your shoes. Recording is over."
The soundproof door was pushed open, Artest stepped barefoot onto the recording studio carpet.
As soon as he stepped out the door, Artest casually pulled a torn-up Snickers bar from his shorts pocket and stuffed it into his mouth.
Lin Qi sat in the leather chair, his brows immediately furrowing.
"What are you holding?" Lin Qi stared at the chocolate crumbs at the corner of Artest's mouth. "Who told you to eat a Snickers bar?"
Artest, his cheeks bulging from chewing, paused for a moment, glanced down at the wrapper in his hand, and replied matter-of-factly, "Snickers, peanut-filled. Boss, I just recorded seven takes, my brain's about to short-circuit, low blood sugar."
"Stop talking nonsense. You were chewing mints in the recording studio, and then you came out and were eating Snickers. You're always eating candy like crazy. Did you just feed all the weight-loss meals the team nutritionist prescribed to you to the dogs?" Lin Qi said coldly. "If your body fat percentage is more than 0.5% over the limit in the second half of the season, you can spend the rest of your life on the bench. Deducting two weeks' salary will be the least of your worries."
"Peanuts are nuts, and nuts are a source of high-quality plant protein. How can this be considered a snack?" Artest swallowed the chocolate in his mouth, muttering a sophistry, but still wisely stuffed the remaining half back into the packaging.
He took two steps closer to David Fincher and asked, his words muffled, " David, forget about that old man Rick Carlisle for now. If this song is in the end credits, how big should my name be in the credits? Can it be in big, bold yellow? Like the beginning of 'The Godfather'?"
Fincher looked at him expressionlessly. "If you're not indefinitely suspended by David Stern when the movie is released later this year, I might consider putting your name on the first page."
Artest grinned slyly. " David, if this song wins a Grammy, do I have to wear a suit to accept the award? I hate ties, those things make me look like a death row inmate about to be taken to the electric chair. Can I wear a Celtics jersey to accept the award?"
Duro chuckled behind the mixing console.
David Fincher shook his head helplessly, grabbed his leather jacket from the back of the chair, turned to Lin Qi and held out his hand. "Lynch, I took the rough cut of the master tape back to the editing room. I need to go back to the hotel to catch up on some sleep."
Fincher opened the door and strode away, and the corridor outside the recording studio fell silent again.
Artest crumpled the wrapper in his hand into a ball and tossed it into a trash can five meters away. Turning to Lin Qi, he said, "Boss, if there's nothing else, I'm heading back to the hotel. Gerald just texted to say he's bench pressing in the gym downstairs. I need to go see if he can lift 300 pounds. If he can't, I'll laugh at him all night."
"Go ahead," Lin Qi waved his hand. "Behave yourself, and don't mess with the Los Angeles fans."
Artest shrugged and strode into the fire escape with his toes pointing outwards.
As Artest's broad, solid back disappeared around the corner, Sam Presti, who had been waiting outside, strode into the recording studio, carrying a black leather briefcase.
Presti slammed the thick wooden door of the recording studio shut, cutting off the sounds of footsteps outside, and pulled a fax from his bag, handing it to Lin Qi.
"Boss, in North Carolina, Charles Chris Paul Sr. officially finished writing at the Converse store in Winston-Salem at 2 PM today."
Presti's voice was low, his pace steady and precise. "The old man got the franchise renovation sponsorship for the gas station for the next three years, plus a $200,000 business consulting fee from Chris Paul's brother at the Hamptons University. The breach of contract clause states that if Chris Paul completes three years of college without participating in the draft, or changes his business agent without authorization, old Charles will have to pay triple the amount in damages."
Lin Qi took the fax and glanced at the rough handwriting on the signature line.
In this era, the NCAA's amateur player rules appear as strict as a monastery, forbidding players and their families from accepting any direct financial benefits. However, major sneaker manufacturers across the United States have long since infiltrated the families of every potential star through summer camp sponsorships, peripheral consulting contracts, and business entities owned by immediate family members. Nike secured territory in Oregon with its grassroots tours, Adidas spent lavishly in Indianapolis, while Converse, leveraging Monster Energy Drink's network of gas stations across the southern states, carved out a highly covert direct route.
As long as his family's financial lifeline is completely tied to the terms of commercial sponsorship, Chris Paul's early candidacy after finishing his sophomore year becomes inevitable.
"What's going on at Wake Forest University?" Lin Qi closed the file.
"Coach Skip Prosser had a huge outburst in the locker room at noon today," Presti reported in a low voice. "The Charlotte Observer had a front-page photo of him meeting privately with the Oak Hill Academy head coach, and the article directly questioned whether Prosser was looking for a replacement for the 'post -Chris Paul era.' Chris Paul practiced in the gym for four hours this afternoon without saying a word to the coaching staff."
"Let the Atlanta PR team keep things going."
Lin Qi handed the fax back to Presti: "Every two weeks, spread the word on the local North Carolina radio that other top universities in the ACC conference are already preparing transfer options for Chris Paul."
Presti nodded and zipped up his briefcase. "Understood."