Morning light, soft as velvet, slipped through the blinds, spilling gently across rumpled Egyptian cotton sheets.
Leon woke to a familiar, pleasant warmth, his consciousness rising like a diver from the deep, every cell steeped in lazy satisfaction, fingertips tingling slightly. Last night, finalizing Final Destination's storyboards with James until 3 a.m., had left exhaustion in his bones, but this warmth soothed it into something pliable.
"Scarlett…" His voice was hoarse, laced with the gravelly magnetism of just waking, the end of her name curling upward. He made no move to stop her, instead shifting slightly to give her more room.
Her lips curved in a smug grin, like a cat who'd swiped a treat and dared to swish its tail in front of its owner. Her honeyed skin glowed pearlescent in the morning light, her collarbone marked with faint red traces, like rouge on silk. The cuts from Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Next Generation's reshoots had faded to barely-there pink, healing remarkably fast—something Leon knew well from the now-vanished scratch on his own cheek.
"Morning, big-shot writer," she teased, her voice husky from her latest "prank," sweetened with a playful lilt.
She climbed onto him nimbly, knees bracketing his sides, palms pressing against his chest, her weight settling with a perfect balance of softness—present but never heavy. Her fingers traced circles on his chest, sending a subtle itch down his spine.
"Looks like Fox's future cash cow needs a special 'morning wake-up service' to get going," she said. "Otherwise, I'm worried you'll sleep through the contract signing."
Leon chuckled low, his hand sliding along her spine, feeling the slight shiver beneath her skin. She was ticklish, yet loved to provoke him. In one smooth motion, he flipped her beneath him, the morning light catching his face, his golden-brown lashes casting soft shadows over the tenderness in his eyes. He leaned down, kissing her lips—still carrying his scent—first a featherlight brush, then deeper, lazy yet cherishing.
Her fingers dove into his curls, nails grazing his scalp, her response fervent. The kiss stretched on until they were both breathless, parting only when Leon pressed his forehead to hers, nose brushing nose. "Gotta get up," he murmured, voice rough from the kiss, pinching her chin lightly. "Big day—two contracts to sign. Need a clear head."
He kissed her hard one last time, then rolled out of bed, grabbing clothes from the floor. He buckled his belt with crisp efficiency, no hesitation. "We've gotta move. Don't you have that Pringles commercial audition today? Heard it's competitive—don't be late."
Scarlett propped herself on her elbows, watching him with a grin, eyes sparkling with amusement.
---
Fox Searchlight's small conference room on the 12th floor gleamed, the polished table reflecting three figures and scattered documents. Laura Thompson wore a sharp white suit, tailored to accentuate her poised frame, paired with a champagne silk blouse and a delicate pearl brooch. Her platinum ring glinted as she flipped through the contract, her manicured nails grazing the pages with a gentle but commanding air.
Her gaze, sharp yet warm, swept over James and Leon, carrying both scrutiny and expectation. Midnight Scream's success had cemented her trust in Leon's talent, and James Wong's reputation in low-budget horror made this duo a safe bet. "Final cut," she said, her voice clear and professional, repeating the key point. She slid the contract forward, tapping the bolded "joint ownership" clause. "It belongs to the director and writer—you two—by default. But Fox reserves the right to suggest edits if test screenings tank, defined as a score below 5.0 out of 10, with over 60% negative feedback."
She paused, pulling a thick supplemental agreement from a folder. "This outlines the screening process—viewer demographics, 18 to 45, including horror fans and general audiences. Scoring combines surveys and interviews for objectivity. We'll hold at least three screenings with different groups, so one bad round won't force changes. Ultimately, any edits need your unanimous approval—Fox won't strong-arm you."
Across from her, James Wong sat in a crisp gray suit, tie knotted perfectly, hair immaculate. Known for his Final Destination precursor short, he was a master of fast-paced, brutal shots and sudden-death dread. Landing this directing gig owed much to Leon's endorsement, alongside his stylistic fit. His fingers tapped the thick Final Destination contract draft rhythmically, eyes fixed on the "final cut" page, brows slightly furrowed, double-checking every word. For a director used to budget constraints and meddling financiers, final cut was a rare prize—he needed it airtight.
His coffee had gone cold, half-drunk, his focus entirely on the contract. He skimmed the supplemental agreement, glancing at Leon with a questioning look. Leon nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He'd already vetted the clause in Kodak's darkroom—it was standard Hollywood practice, and the screening terms were fair, unlikely to trigger "extreme negative" results. Even if they did, he and James held the final say.
James's shoulders relaxed, his tapping stopped. He looked at Laura, voice calm but firm. "It's fair. We're in."
"No issues here," Leon added.
"Then," Laura said, pointing to the contract, "Director: James Wong." Her pen moved. "Writer and co-star: Leon Donaldson. Lead auditions are set for next Tuesday, 9 a.m., North Hollywood Studios, Stage 2." She flipped to the schedule addendum. "This accounts for everyone's availability. Any questions?"
Both shook their heads. The gears of pre-production clicked into place.
The scratch of pens signing was crisp. James's signature was steady, deliberate. Leon's flowed with sharp angles. Laura stamped Fox Searchlight's seal.
She stood, smiling, extending a hand. "Congrats, gentlemen. Final Destination is officially underway. I hope it's not just as big as Midnight Scream—but bigger, a real shock to the system."
They shook hands, her smile widening. "My assistant will schedule follow-up meetings. Audition materials will be sent tonight by Martha. Looking forward to casting the right actors next week."
Outside, James clapped Leon's arm. "That plane crash opening in the storyboards—I love it. We'll use long takes, pulling from the cabin to high altitude, then cutting to an explosion close-up to crank the tension."
Leon nodded. "Exactly. We'll sync with the DP to nail the shot language, aim for one take."
They parted, and Leon headed to the parking lot, driving his battered Ford down Hollywood Boulevard. Sunlight warmed the car, the radio playing lazy jazz, a saxophone drifting slow. At 3 p.m., he pulled into the quiet "Old Oak" coffee shop.
His contact was already there, a young man in a checkered shirt, looking shy, almost nervous, with an untouched glass of ice water and a worn folder on the table.
Leon's boots clicked on the wood floor as he sat across from him, setting his black briefcase down. "Jason?" he asked, voice calm.
"Mr. Donaldson?" The man's head snapped up, eyes wide with disbelief and a touch of unease. The writer behind Midnight Scream, the guy who'd gone from nobody to horror's new star with one film. "Mr. Donaldson?" His voice trembled, words tumbling fast, almost stuttering. "It's really you? I—I'm a huge fan. The fridge scene in Midnight Scream was unreal!"
His cheeks flushed, hands twisting together on his lap, excitement overriding nerves.
"Thanks," Leon said, smiling, signaling a waiter for black coffee. His eyes landed on the folder. "You brought it?"
"Yes, yes!" Jason nodded eagerly, grabbing the folder like Leon might change his mind. His fingers fumbled with the knotted string, sweat beading on his forehead as he worked it loose. "This is the Fight Club film adaptation rights contract." He slid it across, eyes mixed with reluctance and hope, lingering on the cover as if saying goodbye. "Honestly, when I bought it, I never thought it'd actually get made."
He paused, gaze distant, recalling the moment. "I found the novel in a downtown L.A. used bookstore. Chuck Palahniuk, nobody knew him then. Plain black cover, Fight Club in white letters, author's name tiny. I read a few pages and was hooked—the anger at modern life, the rebellion against consumerism, the protagonist's inner struggle. It hit hard. I knew it had to reach more people."
He gave a wry smile. "So I bought the book for $500, tracked down the author through a lawyer, and paid $10,000 for the adaptation rights. But I pitched it to everyone—Warner, Universal, Paramount. They all passed. Said it was too dark, too bleak, no heroes, no happy ending, just a 'schizophrenic' lead. Didn't fit Hollywood's formula."
He shook his head. "They told me it was unfilmable, to sell the rights and do something 'practical' with the money."
Leon took the contract, fingers brushing the rough pages, scanning key terms: transferor, Jason Cohen; transferee, blank; rights covering film, TV, streaming, permanent transfer for $30,000—a laughable sum in future Hollywood, where hot novels fetched millions. For an unknown author's brutal story, though, it was decent, better than letting it rot.
Leon tapped the price, his expression unreadable. He knew the information gap was his edge, a perk of his time-travel knowledge. He saw the novel's potential, its future as a groundbreaking film, a cultural milestone that would spark deep reflection.
"WME didn't give you any advice?" he asked casually, eyeing Jason with a probing glance. WME, a top Hollywood agency, should've seen the value—unless they were blind or didn't bother reading.
Jason pushed up his glasses, smiling bitterly. "They called it an 'unmarketable asset.' Said $30,000 was a good deal, told me to sell and buy something more commercial."
Leon nodded, understanding. He pulled a pen from his suit pocket. "Then," he said, signing the transferee line with a fluid stroke, "its fate's in my hands now."
Jason watched, exhaling like a weight had lifted, or a historic moment had begun. He signed his own name, less practiced, and handed Leon a copy, his eyes bright with hope, voice earnest to the point of humility. "I hope you make it, Mr. Donaldson. This story deserves to be seen. It's not dark for darkness's sake—it's just honest, about the anger and confusion in all of us, the search for 'self.'"
"I will," Leon said, tucking his copy into his briefcase alongside Final Destination's contract, like guarding twin treasures. The coffee arrived, its bitter aroma filling the space. He took a sip, the sharpness waking him further.
Jason finished his ice water, standing. "I won't keep you, Mr. Donaldson. I'll be at the Fight Club premiere, front row."
Leon nodded, his smile genuine. "You'll get the best seat. My assistant will reach out."
Jason's face lit up, beaming as he thanked Leon and left, his steps light, like he'd shed a thousand pounds.
Leon stayed, sipping coffee, watching the sunlight outside, a faint smile playing on his lips.
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