The apartment was thick with a sweet, sticky air of parting, like a bottle of aged bourbon spilled and left to linger. Sunlight sliced through the blinds, carving golden stripes across Scarlett's smooth back, the interplay of light and shadow forming a mysterious totem on her skin.
Leon's fingers traced those "totems," feeling the warm pulse of life beneath. Scarlett, like a lazy cat, stirred in his arms, letting out a soft, muffled whimper before burrowing deeper into his chest. "I don't wanna go…" Her voice, husky with a post-hangover rasp and a hint of playful whining, warmed his skin with her breath. "Sofia's script is great, and Tokyo sounds cool… but I'd rather stay here, waking up like this every day."
Leon chuckled, the vibration passing from his chest to her. He tightened his arms around her, his chin brushing her hair, scented with orange blossoms. "It's just a few months, Scarlett. And Lost in Translation is your big break."
His words were encouragement—for her and for himself. He knew she had to go; this was a pivotal leap for her acting career. But his chest was heavy with reluctance, a weight that fueled a near-ravenous intimacy. From dawn's first light to mid-morning, every corner of the apartment held the lingering heat of their fervor—from tangled bedsheets to the steamy bathroom tiles to the cool marble kitchen counter.
Scarlett seemed determined to claim every moment of the months ahead, pouring all her strength and passion into etching this memory, this possession. Leon surrendered fully, guiding and responding, letting the chaos of Hollywood and the editing room fade. The world shrank to the vibrant, passionate, soon-to-depart figure in his arms.
By afternoon, as the sunlight slanted, Scarlett dragged herself up, her body moving as if it had been disassembled and put back together. Barefoot, she shuffled across the floor, picking up one item, then dropping another, lingering like a scene shot in slow motion.
Leon, in a bathrobe, leaned against the doorframe, watching. "Taking this?" Scarlett held up a black lace bra, dangling it teasingly, her eyes sly.
"You tell me," Leon said, raising an eyebrow, his tone laced with dangerous flirtation. "Or should we test its durability one more time?"
Scarlett laughed, tossing the bra into her suitcase. "Hahaha!" She rummaged further, picking up the dog-eared Lost in Translation script, her expression turning serious. "I'm gonna miss you, Leon. Every day."
"I know." Leon set down a report and crossed the room, wrapping her in a hug from behind, kissing her shoulder. "Me too. Remember our deal?"
"One call a day, stand-in for love scenes…" Scarlett drawled, feigning annoyance, though her lips curved. "Got it, Mr. Possessive Old-School."
She turned, looping her arms around his neck, gazing into his eyes. "Don't worry, Bill Murray's not my type. My heart's only got room for one handsome, brilliant, horror-script-writing jerk."
The nickname made Leon laugh. He leaned down, kissing her, stretching their parting afternoon even longer.
---
After a long, almost suffocating farewell kiss at the airport, Scarlett turned, waving reluctantly until she vanished from sight. Leon sat in his car, staring at the direction where she and her assistant had gone. The silence felt too heavy, laced with her lingering orange-blossom scent and a faint melancholy.
He took a deep breath, pushing the softness back down, and started the car. It was time to face the birth of another "child."
---
In North Hollywood Studios' mixing room, the dim light was broken only by the flickering of an unsettling screen. The air carried the anxious tang of caffeine from late-night work. Eli Roth paced like a caged beast, eyes sunken, stubble thick, but his gaze burned with near-obsessive excitement.
As Leon pushed open the door, the screen showed a close-up of the actress's terrified face, her eyes wide with fear. A second later, a chainsaw's roar drowned her scream, blood splattering the lens in a chillingly realistic spray, dripping down the screen.
"Leon! You're finally here!" Eli grabbed him, pointing at the screen, his voice hoarse with excitement. "Check out the last ten minutes! We added three quick cuts and boosted the heart-stopping sound effect by 30%! At the test screening, some guy nearly crushed his popcorn bucket, hands shaking!"
At the console, the editor, sound mixer, and sound designer looked haggard but wired, buzzing with the thrill of a mission accomplished. Seeing Leon, they glanced up, their eyes a mix of anticipation and nerves. They knew his input was critical to the film's final impact.
The final cut of Texas Chainsaw Massacre: Next Generation had just screened for a select group of industry insiders and lucky fans. "What's the data say?" Leon asked, scanning the console's sliders, buttons, and scattered scorecards.
"It's a damn explosion!" Eli shoved a crumpled report into Leon's hands. "Audience heart rates spiked 40 points on average! Peaked when the chainsaw burst out of the closet—nearly broke the meter! Satisfaction scores? See for yourself!"
Leon flipped through the report. Scorecards were almost all "A+" and "highly recommend," with comments like "suffocating," "never been this scared," "this is real horror," and "the shots are brutal." The box office projection, based on feedback, promised numbers far exceeding the budget.
"The crowd loved your addition," the editor said, setting down his coffee, admiration clear on his face. "The heroine doesn't just run like in every other horror flick—she uses the trap she bought to outsmart the killer, pinning him with a nail board and rope, then grabs the chainsaw for a counterattack. The screening room erupted in cheers! They said it flipped the horror formula—total rush!"
The sound mixer chimed in: "And the sound! Your idea to mix real slaughterhouse recordings with engine noise? Freaked people out. Some said they're scared to use their electric razors now!"
Eli slapped Leon's shoulder. "Man, we did it! This isn't some cheap jump-scare B-movie anymore. It's got brains, guts, and blood splattered everywhere! This is gonna break horror box office records!"
The mixing room erupted in tired but ecstatic cheers and laughter. Beer cans popped open, foam spraying across the console—nobody cared. They clinked cans, the metallic clangs blending with their laughter.
Eli shoved an ice-cold beer into Leon's hand, the can's chilly condensation snapping him out of the low from Scarlett's departure. He stared at the screen's frozen final frame: the heroine standing before a burning house, chainsaw still spinning in her hands, blood on her face, her eyes holding not fear but a steely resolve.
Amid the crew's unfiltered excitement, a surge of achievement dulled the ache of Scarlett's absence. Texas Chainsaw Massacre: Next Generation was a savage weapon he'd honed to perfection, now gleaming and ready to stun the world. This success wasn't just about tickets or fame—it proved his vision and control transcended this era.
He knew what audiences craved, how to weave depth into horror, how to manipulate emotions with shots and sound. He could feel his place in Hollywood's food chain rising—quietly but swiftly.
"What's Fox saying?" Leon took a swig of beer, the cold liquid sharpening his focus.
"Harvey, that stingy bastard, called himself!" Eli grinned, showing coffee-stained teeth. "Total 180! He called us 'bloody garbage' on set, but now it's 'this year's most promising horror.' Tomorrow's marketing meeting's been upgraded to A-level, with a 50% boost in promo budget. And get this—he hinted Fox wants to talk about the next project. They're asking if you've got new script ideas."
Leon smirked. No surprise there. In Hollywood, success was the ultimate pass and apology.
He stayed in the mixing room a bit longer, weighing in on final tweaks, then left amid congratulations. Outside, night had fallen, Los Angeles's neon lights tracing the outline of the dream factory.
The next morning, his phone rang. Scarlett's name flashed on the screen, followed by a text: [Landed. Tokyo's rainy. Miss you.] A crying emoji trailed it.
Leon's lips curved. He typed back: [Miss you too. Turn on the hotel heater, don't catch a cold. Chainsaw's test screening blew up—everyone's toasting with beers. We'll celebrate big when you're back.]
Seconds later, Scarlett replied with three exclamation points [!!!] and: [My Leon's the best! When I'm done, I'm claiming all the hugs you owe me!] A heart emoji followed.
Staring at the screen, a strange satisfaction filled his chest. On one hand, his career was soaring, his work poised to dominate the market, earning more industry respect. On the other, a woman halfway across the world was thinking of him.
This dual-threaded fulfillment erased the sting of separation, leaving him brimming with ambition and strength.