The waiting area of North Hollywood Studios' Soundstage Two felt like air trapped in glue—thick and oppressive. Leon, James Wong, and casting director Susan Kaplan sat side by side behind a desk, a monitor humming nearby. Susan, a seasoned pro with sharp eyes, wore a crisp black turtleneck, gold-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. A stack of resumes and evaluation forms lay before her, her pencil scratching notes nonstop.
The red "ON AIR" sign glared like a cold eye over the makeshift performance area. On the desk, the Final Destination cast list and audition schedule sat next to half-drunk cold coffees and crumpled energy bar wrappers. Leon's name was already penciled in beside "Alex Browning," with a blank signature slot. As both screenwriter and lead actor, he was also tasked with finding the right faces for the other roles.
"Next," the casting assistant called, her flat voice cutting through the room's murmurs.
The door opened, and a girl stepped in. It was as if a spotlight snapped on. She stood nearly five-foot-nine, in a simple white cotton dress that swayed with her steps, accentuating a slender, graceful waist. Her thick, dark brown hair cascaded like seaweed over her shoulders, setting off her porcelain skin. Her face—sculpted like a Renaissance statue—held striking features: large, clear eyes with a hint of innocence, yet infused with an innate elegance and fragility. Just standing there, she seemed to glow, brightening the drab audition space.
Leon's finger paused on the cast list next to "Clear Rivers." His heart skipped. A name nearly slipped out—Anne Hathaway. This was 1999, before The Princess Diaries launched her to stardom. Here she was, an undiscovered gem, raw and radiant, crashing into his view.
James Wong, clearly struck by her beauty, leaned in, voice low, first to Susan, then glancing at Leon. "Wow… she's almost too pretty. But Clear's a death-premonition survivor, gritty and real, not a porcelain doll. Audiences might just stare at her face and forget to be scared."
Susan adjusted her glasses, her tone measured. "Her looks are striking—maybe too much. It could pull focus. The key is whether her acting can ground that beauty, make us believe she's an ordinary girl hunted by death."
Leon steadied his racing thoughts, recognizing their concerns as industry standard. He leaned forward, voice firm. "James, Susan, have you seen Get Real? Her TV role was small, but she held her own—not just a pretty face. And think about this: a girl this beautiful, with a seemingly boundless future, thrown into death's brutal game—that contrast could amplify the fear and tragedy. Audiences will connect. If she can't escape fate, what chance do the rest of us have? That's box office gold."
James rubbed his chin, his skepticism easing into a producer's calculating glint. Susan, noncommittal, jotted a few words on Anne's resume, saying, "Let's see her perform. Facts speak louder."
Anne Hathaway began her audition. The scene: Clear, rattled by Alex's frantic warning before Flight 180, alone in an airport lounge corner, no dialogue, all eyes and subtle expressions. She lowered her head, fingers twisting her dress hem, her gaze drifting to the window where a massive plane loomed like a beast ready to devour her. Then, as if sensing something, her eyes snapped back, pupils contracting, a faint ripple of fear spreading in her gaze like a water stain. She hugged her arms, shoulders hunching, embodying unease, instinct, and helpless isolation. It was natural, unforced.
Her performance wasn't loud, almost restrained, but the raw tension and resilient fragility nailed Clear's core. Leon and James exchanged a look, both seeing the spark. Susan's pencil paused, then scribbled: "Rich emotional layers," "authentic," "compelling."
"Cut!" the assistant called.
Anne snapped out of character, her cheeks flushing, eyes nervously flicking to the panel. "Thank you, Ms. Hathaway. We'll be in touch," Susan said, her tone softer than before.
Anne gave a polite bow, her dress arcing gracefully as she left, her gaze lingering on Leon with a hint of something unreadable.
"Okay," James exhaled, a smile breaking through. "I might've been biased. She's not just pretty—that fragility fits."
Susan closed Anne's resume. "Great talent, huge visual advantage. If she keeps this up, she'll be an outstanding Clear. I'm giving her an A-minus."
Leon grinned, drawing a bold star next to Anne's name. "Looks like our 'Death' found its beautiful prey."
The auditions rolled on. Leon felt caught in a familiar yet disorienting timeline. When a tall, earnest-looking young man entered, announcing he was auditioning for "Carter Horton," Leon's pen faltered. Devon Sawa. The name pricked like a needle.
In the original timeline, Devon was meant to play Alex Browning, leading the fight against Death's design. Now, Leon had taken his role and was judging whether Devon fit as Carter. Devon threw himself into Carter's reckless jock energy, his urgency to convince others a bit over-the-top, typical of '90s B-horror, but solid. Still, his vibe didn't quite match the impulsive Carter from the original.
Leon's feelings were tangled. Silently, he apologized to the "original lead." His presence, a butterfly effect, had derailed Devon's path. Leon had chosen to play Alex himself to steer the project with his future insight, costing Devon his big break. To keep control, he couldn't shift other major roles to Devon either.
Susan murmured, "Mr. Sawa's got energy, but it feels too 'performed,' not natural for an athlete. Carter needs that effortless vibe."
James nodded. "He's not quite there."
"Thank you, Mr. Sawa. Your performance had real power," Leon said, his tone weightier than with others. "Carter might go to someone else, but you made an impression. Please leave detailed contact info with my assistant. We'd love to consider you for future roles."
A flicker of disappointment crossed Devon's face, but Leon's sincerity and promise of future opportunities lifted him. He smiled politely. "Thank you, Mr. Donaldson. I'm looking forward to it." He sensed Leon, the fast-rising writer-actor, had a rare vision—his offer wasn't empty.
Susan glanced at Leon, nodding slightly, approving his tact, and wrote "Pending (other projects)" on Devon's form.
The auditions continued methodically. Amanda Detmer as the devout Terry Chaney, others for bookish Todd… Familiar yet strange faces showed their takes on the roles. Leon, James, and Susan evaluated, debated, sometimes nodding, sometimes whispering. Susan's sharp insights guided decisions.
In the audition room, fate's scales tipped with each performance, forming the cast list in Leon's mind—a lineup bolder than the original.
During a break, Leon stepped into the hall, checking his phone. A text from Scarlett: Auditions done? Just signed for Lost in Translation!!! Sofia Coppola directing!!! I'm going to Tokyo!!! Her excitement practically leapt off the screen.
Leon smiled. He knew this day was coming, just not so soon. For Scarlett, craving depth and serious film cred, Sofia Coppola's arthouse offer was a holy grail compared to a horror sidekick role.
He called her, and she picked up on the first ring. "Leon! Did you see?" Her voice danced, her agent's laughter in the background.
"Saw it. Congrats, babe," Leon said, genuinely proud. "It's a killer opportunity. Sofia's great with actors—you'll learn a ton."
"I knew you'd back me!" Scarlett's voice trembled with thrill. "I can't believe it… wait." Her tone turned sly. "Someone's not jealous, right? I'm off to Tokyo to act opposite Bill Murray."
Leon chuckled, leaning against the cold wall. "Jealous? Sure. So, we're setting some ground rules."
"Hm?" He could almost hear her raise an eyebrow.
"First, one call a day, minimum, so I know my leading lady's not lost in Tokyo's neon jungle. Second, if there's any—I mean any—intimate scene or anything racier than Texas Chainsaw, you're using a double. Non-negotiable. I'll confirm with your agent."
Silence, then Scarlett's bright, gleeful laugh echoed, turning heads in the hallway. "Leon Donaldson, you possessive old-school romantic!" She gasped through giggles. "Fine, I agree! Doubles it is. Sofia's film isn't about that anyway."
She pictured his face—proud yet staking his claim—and her heart felt like a spilled honey jar. His old-Hollywood possessiveness didn't annoy her; it made her feel cherished, secure.
"Stop laughing and remember the deal," Leon said, his tone softening. "Go nail that role. Show the world Scarlett Johansson's more than screams and running."
Hanging up, his smile lingered. He returned to the audition room, the air still tense, but his mood lighter. His girl was chasing a bigger stage, and he was reshaping a world's fate.
After heated debate, the cast was finalized. Anne Hathaway's name sat proudly beside "Clear Rivers." Other roles locked in, some faces differing from the original timeline, but Leon was confident. With Anne's star power, this Final Destination would shine brighter than ever.
He signed his name next to "Alex Browning," recalling Devon's hopeful yet disappointed exit. Hollywood was a daily dance of chance and regret. Today, Leon was both fate's winner and its quiet rewriter.
He closed the folder with a soft snap, like a gavel sealing the day's drama. For Devon, a future chance was noted in his heart.
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