In the dim glow of the Kodak darkroom, the storyboard for *Final Destination* lay sprawled across the workbench. Leon's fingertip rested on the page labeled "Flight 180 Explosion," his eyes meeting the scrutinizing gaze of James Wong. James's pen hovered over the dialogue for the "Todd's Bathroom Death" scene, his brow furrowed tightly.
"'Death gives warnings'—that line's too cliché," James said, pointing to the irregular pattern formed by a leaking hydraulic system on the plane's dashboard. "Look here. The fault lines I designed match the explosion Alex envisions perfectly." He traced an arc on the storyboard. "No need to spell out 'omen.' Let the audience spot the death connections hidden in the everyday—like how the faucet's drip in Todd's bathroom syncs with a heartbeat. That's suspenseful ambiguity." He paused, glancing at Leon. "Like in *Nightmare on Elm Street*, when you angled Freddy's blades to mirror the victim's dream visuals. That's horror's ambiguity."
James's pencil froze midair. He smirked, sliding the storyboard toward Leon. "You remember details from *Nightmare*? I've half-forgotten that short myself." He opened a drawer, pulling out a yellowed reel of film and unrolling it under the red light. "Shot in '92. I tried hiding the victim's birth chart in a toaster's burn marks. Producer tore me a new one for it."
Leon leaned in. The film showed a smoking toaster, the bread's scorch marks forming faint #@@# characters. "That producer didn't get it," Leon said. "It's cultural resonance." He grabbed a pen, jotting a note beside the storyboard: *"Forensic exam reveals Todd's wounds healed three hours before his death."* Looking up at James, he added, "I've got an idea for the sequel—keep the coroner as a recurring character, investigating these anomalous deaths. Like in part two's highway pileup, they find wounds with the same traits as Flight 180's victims."
James's eyes lit up, his fingers rubbing the word "coroner" on the page. "That's brilliant! Make the coroner the thread tying the films together." He pivoted abruptly. "But audiences love that 'death omens' stuff, like…" He tossed out two words for "bad omen," then started to explain in English.
Leon cut in, speaking fluent : "You mean 'death omens,' right? No need for overt supernatural vibes. Hide the signs in physical details—like the loose screws on Flight 180's jet bridge matching the damaged guardrail shapes in the sequel's highway crash."
James froze, embarrassment flickering across his face as he scratched his head. "I… don't speak Mandarin. Just Cantonese and Hokkien." Leon burst out laughing, the sound shaking the film strips on the table. "My bad, sorry," he said, pointing to the coroner's role. "Let's talk your way. In part two, the coroner notices the highway victims' wounds mirror Flight 180's, no dialogue needed. Audiences will pick up on the death pattern's continuity."
James slapped his thigh, nearly dropping his pencil. "Yes! That's the vibe!" He grabbed the pen, sketching on the storyboard: "I'll add this—the coroner's office has a filing cabinet with both Flight 180 and the highway crash autopsy reports side by side."
As they hunched over the revisions, the darkroom door creaked open. A Kodak lab tech entered, clutching a metal box, its green tape glowing like congealed bile in the red light. "Mr. Donaldson, Director Wong, want to check out our new C-41 film stock?" He set the box down, revealing a roll of tape. "Keying error's down to 0.3 millimeters—thirty percent cheaper than ILM's stock."
He hooked up a projector, playing a test clip. The explosion's debris sliced through the green screen, edges crisp, no color bleed, as if it crashed into the viewer's living room. James tapped the screen. "Can this fix green screen reflections in high heat?"
"Absolutely," the tech replied, handing over a spec sheet. "Tested at 38°C, reflectivity stays under fifteen percent."
Leon pointed at the Kodak logo on the box. "If we use this, can you supply it free? We'll add 'Special Support by Kodak C-41 Process' in the credits." He paused, adding, "And I want a long-term deal with Kodak. My next projects will prioritize your film and tape."
The tech's eyes gleamed. "Deal! We'll throw in free on-set tech support to ensure every frame keys perfectly."
James chimed in: "One more condition—send us some 1974 Panavision stock. I want to shoot the coroner's childhood flashback, using that old grainy texture for period vibes."
The tech nodded instantly. "I'll call the warehouse. It'll be on set tomorrow."
After the tech left, the darkroom quieted. James spread out the revised storyboard, dense with notes. "Look, we've turned the coroner from a plot device into a 'death observer.' He notices the time discrepancy, doesn't call the cops, but starts documenting these 'anomalies'—until he's caught in the time gap himself, dying on his own autopsy table."
Leon nodded, adding a line to the storyboard's end: *"What are these wounds saying? Death never stops; it just waits for the next target."* He looked up. "No answers. Let the audience ponder."
James circled a contract clause: *"Final cut to director and writer."* "I'll handle Fox," he said. "If they touch our death chain, I'm taking the storyboard to New Line."
Leon grinned. "No need to go nuclear. I've got legal drafting a rider—if Fox makes unauthorized changes, they pay triple the budget."
James handed over the contract sample, sighing. "Twenty years shooting horror, and you're the first to sync with my brain like this."
Leon folded the contract into a file. "Get your agent to Fox next week for the formal signing. I've already looped in Laura—she's hooked on our 'time discrepancy' angle."
As he spoke, the door swung open again. Scarlett stood there, a file folder under her arm, a compass badge on her canvas bag catching the light. "Alice said you forgot the *Texas Chainsaw* reshoots schedule," she said, handing it over, her fingers brushing Leon's hand, leaving a faint itch.
James tactfully turned to fiddle with the projector, his shadow pinned to the wall by the red light. Scarlett leaned in, her lips nearly grazing Leon's ear. "Come over tonight?" she whispered.
"Sure, but I'll be late," Leon replied, squeezing her wrist, his thumb grazing an old scar from a splinter during her audition. "You head back. I've got to wrap up the storyboard with James."
Scarlett pouted, then winked at James before leaving.
The darkroom fell silent again. James cranked up the projector's volume, a gas explosion's flames engulfing half the screen. He clapped Leon's shoulder. "Tomorrow, I'm taking you to meet Kodak's tech director. We'll lock in the best film stock." He paused. "Oh, and for the coroner, I'm thinking Ronny Yu. His detached vibe in *The Joy Luck Club* as a doctor fits our 'death observer' perfectly."
Leon nodded, stubbing out a cigarette in the crystal ashtray. "I'm good with that, as long as he nails the confusion and obsession with the time discrepancy."
As they left, James pulled a note from his pocket. "My grandma's Hakka blessing. Translate it to Mandarin for me—I want it on the coroner's talisman." Leon read the scrawled characters aloud: "Peace and prosperity, free from calamity."
James repeated it, his accent shaky but his grin childlike. "That's it!"
They stepped out of the Kodak lab, the night breeze carrying the chemical tang of film. The Hollywood sign loomed faintly in the distance. Leon texted Alice: *"Tomorrow, Fox for contract. Check Ronny Yu's availability."* The "sent" confirmation flashed as he exchanged a knowing smile with James.
---
On Hollywood Boulevard, Leon drove his Ford toward Scarlett's apartment. The door opened, warm light spilling over the entryway. He set his briefcase on a low cabinet, his gaze settling on the living room. Scarlett was curled on the couch, asleep, far from the radiant actress who lit up the set. A script lay open on the carpet, the TV flickering with an old movie, light dancing across her peaceful face.
She looked like a tired cat, her breathing soft, a stark contrast to her fiery set presence. Leon's steps lightened, a tenderness softening his core. He leaned down, slipping one arm under her knees, the other behind her back, lifting her gently. Her hair carried a faint gardenia scent, mingling with the cedar from a smoldering candle.
Scarlett stirred, her long lashes fluttering before her sleepy eyes opened, focusing on Leon's face inches away. Without a hint of surprise, she looped her arms around his neck, nestling deeper into his shoulder. "You're back…" Her voice was a drowsy murmur, warm as a dream.
"Yeah," Leon said, carrying her steadily to the bedroom. She shifted to a more comfortable position, fully relaxed in his arms. He laid her gently in the center of the soft bed, pulling the covers over her. She sank back into sleep the moment her head hit the pillow, her fingers still clutching a corner of his shirt.
Leon stood by the bed, watching her serene face, the day's hustle and darkroom precision fading into calm. He gently pried her fingers loose, tucked in the blanket, and headed to the bathroom. Warm water washed away the day's fatigue, but his mind stayed sharp, swirling with images: *Final Destination*'s storyboards, James's approval, Kodak's new tape, Ronny Yu's schedule.
He shut off the shower, the room falling silent except for the drip of water. Toweling his hair, he returned to find Scarlett in a new position, the blanket kicked aside. Smiling softly, he tucked her in again, her furrowed brow easing as if she'd found safety.
Leon slid under the covers beside her. Scarlett instinctively nestled closer, seeking warmth. He pulled her into his arms, her steady breathing lulling him as he closed his eyes.