Morning sunlight slipped through the apartment curtains, casting a narrow streak across the floor.
Leon opened his eyes, a dull hangover headache lingering. His fingers brushed the bedside table, first touching a restaurant napkin with Gwyneth's number, its corner smudged where a smiley face bled from sweat.
He sat up, spotting three key papers scattered on the table.
Alan Levine's business card, its sharp edges glinting with Fox Searchlight's matte logo in the morning light.
Scarlett's note, curled at the edges, her phone number faded from being handled, a small lipstick paw print on the back—mimicking the way he'd gripped a wood shard during her audition.
Beneath them, Laura's X-Men project card, with Bryan Singer's name and her red-inked note: "Free before 3 p.m.," the final flourish curling like a scythe.
In the bathroom mirror, the man staring back had dark circles under his eyes, the scratch on his left cheek now a faint pink.
Leon splashed cold water on his face, the stream sliding down his jaw into his shirt collar, a sharp chill snapping him awake. He stared at his reflection, fingers tapping the glass, recalling last night's wrap party—Gwyneth handing him a champagne glass, her lip print on the rim eerily like the ice pick silhouette from Midnight Scream.
At 9:50, he stood outside Fox Searchlight's glass doors. His suit was freshly pressed, tie knotted tighter than last night. In his pocket, a rough draft of a new script, its cover scrawled in red:
Chain-Death Formula: 1% chance × 100 daily actions = inevitable disaster.
The bright-eyed receptionist recognized him, glancing twice as she handed him a visitor badge. "Mr. Levine's waiting for you, Mr. Donaldson."
Alan's office was simpler than expected. A Titanic poster hung on the wall, a corner plant dusted with fine grime. Leon noticed the monstera's leaves caught in the blinds' shadow, sliced by invisible lines, precise as one of his scripted traps.
As he entered, Alan was lighting a cigar with a silver lighter, blue smoke curling in the sunlight, casting warped shadows on the carpet. "Sit," Alan said, nodding at a leather sofa, pushing a cigar box across the coffee table. "Try one. Cuban, fresh last week. Supposedly the same batch Kennedy smoked." He flicked ash. "Laura says you turned Lurking Routine into something darker?"
Leon took a cigar, rolling it between his fingers. The rich tobacco scent mixed with the room's coffee aroma, a whiff of power plays. "Not darker—sharper," he said, sliding the draft across. "For 'smart horror,' I've got a leaner idea."
Alan exhaled, ash landing in a crystal ashtray. "Go on. No alien crap—Fox bought three invasion scripts this year already."
"No aliens," Leon said, leaning forward, tracing an arc on the table. "Microwaves. Every cursed microwave runs a death sequence coded by the Reaper."
Alan raised a brow, cigar pausing at his lips. "Reaper's code?"
"Chained deaths," Leon said, his voice steady as a scalpel's cut. "Take the first victims: Mary heats coffee in the microwave, her memory scrambled, forgetting the gas stove's on. Her husband, John, smells burning, rushes in, knocks over the coffee, dousing the flame but letting gas build up. Neighbor Susan hears yelling, knocks, and static sparks ignite the gas."
He paused. "It's no accident—it's the microwave's three-cycle death program: 60 seconds triggers memory failure, 90 ignites gas, 120 waits for a knock to detonate."
He opened the draft to a storyboarded page. "The genius is the 'finisher mechanism.' If Susan doesn't knock, the microwave switches plans—short-circuits during heating, sending Mary to the basement for tools, where a staircase railing, loosened by a prior victim's memory lapse, gives way."
"Like dominoes—one always falls," Alan said, cigar ash nearly dropping onto his trousers. "This isn't like Midnight Scream's fridge scene. You're building an inescapable death loop."
"It's fate," Leon said, flipping to a page with a red-inked death chain: Microwave → Memory Failure → User Error → Direct Death/Next Trigger. "Each step's a timer. A washer's spin cycle syncs with an upstairs chandelier's wiring. A vacuum's noise drowns out a falling ceiling."
He tapped the cover: The Reaper's Code. "You dodge the first trap, you won't dodge the second."
Alan repeated the title, grinning. "Catchy. Punchier than Lurking Routine." He rubbed the cover.
Leon continued, "I studied accidental deaths from 1990 on—83% of household incidents have at least two triggers. Like last week's North Hollywood microwave explosion: blamed on old wiring, but the real cause was the homeowner heating a metal container the day before, leaving arc marks inside."
"That's the Reaper's code," he finished.
The office door knocked. A secretary dropped off a project folder, and Alan set it aside. Leon's phone buzzed—Alice: "Jason agreed to $30K final offer but wants 'Based on Jason Cohen's original concept' in the credits."
Leon typed back: "Fine. But add '(reworked by Leon Donaldson)' in parentheses."
"Need help with rights?" Alan asked, tapping his cigar in the ashtray. "Fox's legal team just sorted out Thir13en Ghosts' copyright mess. They know the ropes."
"Might need your card," Leon said with a smile. "The other side's a rookie assistant—could use some persuasion."
"Laura says you found a gem?" Alan teased.
Leon paused. "Scarlett got scratched by a bear trap filming the swamp scene yesterday. Gave me an idea. I had props send it to effects to rework into a microwave trap—rusted teeth with her blood for authenticity."
Alan's eyes lingered on the storyboard, then he circled The Reaper's Code with his pen. "This could be a series. First film: microwave. Second: washer. Third…"
"Coffee maker," Leon cut in. "Drip-style. Each drop counts down a victim's life. The final drop falls as someone drinks poisoned coffee—tainted by chemicals heated in the microwave by the last victim."
Laura walked in, her coffee cup clinking on its saucer. "Perfect timing," she said. "You always tie violence to story." Her nails grazed the Reaper's Code page. "This is way meaner than Lurking Routine. The Reaper's Code?"
"No," Leon said suddenly. "Not The Reaper's Code. Call it Final Destination." Sunlight through the blinds carved sharp lines across his face. "Code's too soft. The Reaper's the core—lurking in every appliance, waiting for the start button."
Alan stubbed out his cigar, the ember hissing. The office AC screeched, and Leon glanced up, catching the vent's slats spinning slowly like a microwave turntable, casting rotating shadows on the wall.
"Final Destination it is," Alan said, grabbing the intercom. "Tell development to draft a new contract, budget bumped to $5 million." He hung up, looking at Leon. "Two weeks for a full first draft. Focus on the microwave's three-cycle death loop—each one pulling the victim closer to the Reaper."
Leon didn't respond directly, instead saying, "New Line's after Friday the 13th's rights, right?"
Alan chuckled, flicking ash. "You're well-connected."
"I heard they're talking to James Wong," Leon added. "His pacing for chained deaths is unique—like in his short where bloodstains appear on a ship's deck three minutes before the next victim steps there. That foreshadowing fits Final Destination's core."
Alan's brows shot up. "The X-Files' James Wong? He does weave Eastern philosophy into horror."
"More than that," Leon said, tapping the table. "In his Nightmare on Elm Street spin-off short last year, a blade pops from a toaster, slicing the heroine's artery, while the toaster's display hits '666.' Turning appliances into weapons aligns perfectly with my pitch."
Alan laughed, grabbing the intercom again. "Get development to call James Wong's agent. Say Fox has a 'Reaper' project to discuss."
Hanging up, he gave Leon a sly look. "Trying to hammer the final nail in New Line's coffin?"
Leon didn't answer, just lit a match from the cigar box, the flame steady. "The market only cares about good stories."
Leon and Laura left Alan's office. She handed him a stack of papers. "Latest X-Men cast list. Bryan wants you to add a 'hidden weapon' scene for Wolverine, tying into your appliance-horror aesthetic."
"Hidden weapon?" Leon raised a brow, tracing Wolverine's character sketch. "His claws could trigger nearby appliances—say, a jukebox in a bar blaring Midnight Scream's theme, or a fridge's beer bottles exploding, all caught on CCTV, later used by Trask Industries to track mutants."
At a corner coffee shop, Laura sat by the window, sliding a black coffee across. Its rim bore a lipstick mark, Dior 999 red, like Gwyneth's. Her sipping was effortlessly languid. "X-Men reshoots are next week," she said, her knee brushing Leon's calf, black stockings glinting coolly. "Bryan wants you for a villain cameo, line: 'Mutants belong behind appliances.'"
Leon stirred his coffee, milk foam swirling like the Reaper's rings. "Tell Bryan I'll add: 'The deadliest mutant power is making you think everything's safe.'" He remembered Scarlett's crutch by her wheelchair. "Also, ask props if they can make a wheelchair with a bear trap for Final Destination's poster."
Leaving Fox, the sun painted the street golden-red. Leon's phone buzzed—Scarlett: "Come over tonight to watch the rough cut and talk bear trap prop design. Bring bourbon. I've got Cuban cigars—don't tell anyone."
He smiled, typing back: "7 p.m. sharp."
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