The Beverly Hills night draped the Fox Searchlight headquarters like a velvet curtain, the glass facade shimmering with reflected light. A gentle breeze rustled the palm trees at the street corner, their leaves whispering against the distant roar of sports car engines on Rodeo Drive. Through the banquet hall's floor-to-ceiling windows, the Hollywood sign flickered faintly in the mist, its neon letters glowing like pearls strung across the sky.
Leon stood at the entrance, his fingers absently tracing a folded note in his pocket. Scarlett handwriting, bold and youthful, pressed into the paper with such force that each letter felt raised, carrying the rough grain of sawdust from the studio floor. Three days ago, the malfunctioning chainsaw's buzz still echoed in his ears. That was Hollywood's magic—one moment you're rolling in the mud, the next you're standing before a champagne tower.
"Lost in thought? Your face is practically glued to the glass." Laura Thompson's voice, laced with the sweet fizz of champagne, snapped him back. She pressed a glass of amber whiskey into his hand, the ice clinking sharply against the crystal, jolting him to attention. The liquid gleamed caramel in the light, beads of condensation sliding from the glass into his sleeve, sending a chill up his arm.
"When the box office hit fifty million on Friday, the distribution head nearly choked himself with his own tie," she said. "And here you are, the hero of the hour, hiding at the door like a statue."
Leon tugged at his tie, the silk's smooth friction against his neck reminding him of the *Midnight Scream* prop corpse wrapped in plastic film. For that scene, the prop team used triple-layered cling wrap to capture the authentic pallor of suffocation, a detail still vivid in his memory. This Italian silk tie, though luxurious, felt like a similar kind of elegant restraint.
He scanned the crowd—suits and ties, cufflinks gleaming subtly, champagne flutes twirling in practiced arcs, as if everyone had rehearsed their elegance. Behind the bar, a TV replayed *Entertainment Tonight*, the host's exaggerated voice cutting through the chatter. The screen flashed a iconic *Midnight Scream* shot: the heroine opening a fridge, the light failing to flicker on, and an ice pick emerging from the darkness, scraping the metal interior with a screech—mimicked by a prop master rubbing piano wire against aluminum.
Guests turned to watch, some gasping softly, others snapping photos of the screen. Laura pointed her champagne flute at it, the crystal stem refracting rainbows in the light. "See that? The *L.A. Times* critic said that shot reinvented 'everyday terror.' Axes and chainsaws are old news. Who'd think a fridge could be a murder weapon? Last week at the supermarket, I saw someone flinch opening the freezer."
"The scariest things are the ones you know best," Leon said, sipping his whiskey, its burn sliding down his throat. "Like your bed—until one day you find a pair of eyes staring up from under the frame."
As he spoke, Alan Levin, Fox's vice president, approached, glass in hand. His Italian bespoke suit was wrinkle-free, a silk pocket square folded to a perfect triangle, his polished shoes reflecting the light like they'd been buffed by a personal valet. "You must be Leon," he said, extending a hand that smelled of cologne and cigars, his ring finger's heavy band pressing into Leon's palm—a mark of authority. "Laura's been raving about you in board meetings, says your fridge shot gave horror a textbook suspense moment."
Before Leon could respond, Laura cut in, "It didn't just add suspense—it redefined it." She swirled her champagne, bubbles rising and bursting. "We used to lean on sound effects or jump scares, like tossing a cat into the frame. But Leon? He's got people scared of their own fridges. That's psychological infiltration."
She winked at Alan, her long lashes casting fan-like shadows. "Next week's production meeting, I'm bringing the *Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Next Generation* script. He's found a gem—seventeen, with a fierceness in her eyes that outshines any chainsaw."
Alan's gaze lingered on Leon for three seconds, like he was scanning a barcode, trying to decode the creativity beneath the surface. "I hear you're moonlighting as a writer?" He sipped his champagne, the liquid catching in the lines around his mouth. "Searchlight's looking for 'smart thrillers.' Not alien invasion crap—something…"
"Something that turns a microwave into a ticking bomb," Leon finished, whiskey rippling in his glass. "Like the fridge in *Midnight Scream*. The real danger's in your blind spot, dressed in the ordinary, ready to bite when you're most at ease. Audiences don't fear space monsters—they fear the neighbor who says hi every day but has a body in his basement."
Alan's eyebrow arched, like he'd found a long-sought answer. He pulled a card from his jacket, its matte texture heavy with prestige, and handed it to Leon. "Ten tomorrow morning, my office," he said, clapping Leon's shoulder with measured warmth, a gesture of calculated goodwill. "I'll have development send you the new project brief." He paused, glancing at the chatting producers nearby. "And tell me about this *Texas Chainsaw* actor Laura's raving about. Anyone who impresses her must be something special."
As Alan walked off, Laura elbowed Leon's side, harder than Alan's pat, with a friend's familiarity. "See that? These guys usually don't read past page one of a script, and now they're begging to send you projects." She nodded toward the entrance, her voice tinged with excitement. "Oh, look—our Oscar queen's here."
Gwyneth Paltrow glided in, her silver slip dress sparkling like crushed stars, each step casting shimmering flecks on the floor. Fresh off her *Shakespeare in Love* Oscar win, her diamond necklace—rumored to be from the same jeweler as her statuette—drew every eye. She was a magnet, the crowd parting around her, yet she made a beeline for Leon, raising her glass.
"Care to share a drink with the 'fridge killer' creator?" Her voice was clearer than on-screen, laced with playful mischief, like they shared an inside joke. Her champagne flute held pale gold liquid, its delicate stem looking ready to snap.
Leon froze, staring at the glass she offered, her faint pink lipstick mark clinging to the rim like a dried petal—far more real than the fake blood-lipstick mix from *Midnight Scream*. He straightened, feeling the room's eyes on him, like stage lights snapping on. "I saw *Midnight Scream*," Gwyneth said, clinking his glass, the sound sharp and clear. Her gaze turned serious. "Your villain isn't just a killer—he's a philosopher. Quoting Rilke before a murder? I couldn't play that kind of twisted, but I'd love to work together." She paused, adding, "Not as a victim—as someone who can stand up to him."
"Honored, Ms. Paltrow," Leon said. "I'm working on a *Fight Club* script. Any chance you could pass a word to Pitt?" The words slipped out before he could stop them, and regret hit instantly—mentioning an unannounced project at a victory party was a rookie move, and he wasn't sure where Gwyneth stood with Brad Pitt, despite their public "still friends" line. His ears burned, like a newbie fumbling in front of a veteran.
Gwyneth blinked, then her eyes lit up like a kid finding treasure. "Chuck Palahniuk's novel?" Her voice rose, catching the attention of two nearby producers. "I flipped through it at a bookstore last year. Tyler's a lunatic but a poet. That soap-to-bombs scene? Still sticks with me." She leaned closer, champagne bubbles popping near her nose, carrying a green apple scent. "Brad's hunting for complex roles. He's done with hero-saves-damsel stuff. Last party, he was griping that fans only see his blonde hair and smile, not his *Se7en* final look." She winked. "I can pass a word. He's into antiheroes like your fridge killer—bad with logic, ruthless with depth."
Leon's heart skipped, his grip on the whiskey glass nearly slipping. "His agent's number is with my assistant," Gwyneth said, pulling a mother-of-pearl pen from her clutch. She scribbled a number on Leon's napkin, her elegant yet firm handwriting ending with a tiny smiley face. "Say I sent you. Mention *Fight Club*. He's vacationing in Malibu—might call you back tomorrow." As she turned to leave, she lowered her voice, like sharing a trade secret: "Don't let the execs intimidate you. They know box office, not stories. Your fridge shot works because you get it—fear hides in the familiar. And next time, call me Gwyneth." Her heels clicked away, leaving a faint trail of perfume.
By midnight, Leon was tipsy, the whiskey's kick turning the chandeliers into spinning halos, the guests' laughter sounding distant. He leaned on the terrace railing, gazing at the city lights below, a spilled jewelry box of unfinished stories. In his pocket, Scarlett's rough-edged note and Alan's sleek card brushed against each other—one raw and jagged, the other heavy with gold-embossed authority.
Laura approached, slipping another gilded card into his shirt pocket, its edge pressing against his ribs, grounding him. Her silk scarf fluttered in the breeze, grazing his hand with the salty tang of the Pacific. "Fox's new project, *X-Men*, is casting," she said, her breath a mix of champagne and mint. "They need a script consultant who gets 'non-traditional heroes'—not writing superpower brawls, but how mutants hide in plain sight." She tapped the card, her wine-red nail polish stark in the moonlight. "Like your fridge killer, hiding a weapon in the everyday."
She paused, adding, "When you see Alan tomorrow, swing by the third floor for Bryan Singer. He's the director and a *Midnight Scream* fan—watched it three times."
Leon pulled out the card, Fox's logo glinting dully in the moonlight, its edges sharp enough to cut. In *Midnight Scream*, the fridge victim's last words were, "I just wanted a glass of milk." The simplest desire, the most bizarre death. Maybe mutants were the same—not out to save the world, just to survive, like Scarlett's swamp escapee, fighting not to rebel but to breathe.
"Laura," Leon said, staring at the Hollywood sign, its neon flickering like an old giant blinking, "if Wolverine opened a fridge, what's inside?"
She laughed, champagne bubbles rising and bursting, leaving faint tracks on the glass. "Six beers and half a cigar box. What, you wanna write superheroes into your horror stories now?" Leon didn't answer, just tucked the card against his heart, where its edges felt like a seed ready to sprout.
The sea breeze lifted his shirt hem, carrying the Pacific's briny scent, muting the banquet hall's noise to a soft hum. A cheer erupted inside—the *Midnight Scream* box office had hit $63 million, climbing toward $70 million on the digital ticker.
Leon headed back, his dress shoes clicking on the marble floor, echoing oddly with the memory of Scarlett's barefoot steps through sawdust. Passing the bar, he glanced at the TV's fridge scene, the ice pick rising in the dark, its glint reflecting off the freezer's walls. He touched the three papers in his pocket—Scarlett's note, Alan's card, Gwyneth's number. Three sparks, waiting to ignite in Hollywood's night.