Two days later, Leo Vance was on a city bus, heading west on Santa Monica Boulevard.
The bus groaned to a halt, exhaling a cloud of black smoke like a dying beast (Simile). The smell of diesel fumes and hot asphalt crept through the open windows, mingling with the scent of stale sweat inside. Leo stared out at the blur of pawn shops, grimy laundromats, and sun-bleached storefronts. This was the Los Angeles the postcards didn't show you. A city of broken dreams he knew all too well from his first life. He felt the cheap, sticky vinyl of the seat under his thighs and clutched the project proposal in his hands. It felt like the only clean thing in a dirty world.
He got off in Century City, and the change was instantaneous. The air suddenly smelled of money, a mixture of irrigated grass and expensive perfume. The sounds of the city were different here—the muted, confident thrum of luxury German sedans instead of the rattling roar of the bus.
Before him stood the CAA building. It wasn't just a structure of glass and steel; it was a temple built to the god of the 10% cut (Metaphor).
Leo pushed through the heavy glass doors, and the world changed again. The chaotic heat of the street was replaced by the cathedral-like silence of a climate-controlled lobby. Polished marble floors reflected the soft, recessed lighting above. On the walls, massive, artfully framed posters of films starring Tom Cruise and Julia Roberts served as modern-day stained-glass windows, reminding all who entered of the power contained within these walls.
The receptionist, a woman with a sleek blonde bob and a headset that seemed surgically attached, gave him a polite, impersonal smile. "Can I help you?"
"Leo Vance for Rick Dawson," he said, his voice steady. He refused to be intimidated. In his past life, Arthur Vance had been thrown out of lobbies half as impressive as this one. This time, he was here to kick the door in.
"Third floor, room 306," she said, her eyes already scanning the next call on her screen. "He's expecting you."
Leo ignored the elevator, taking the stairs two at a time. The impatience of youth was a useful mask for the calculated urgency of the 52-year-old survivor inside him.
Rick Dawson's office was not the palatial suite Leo had imagined on the bus. It was a cramped box with a window that overlooked a brick wall. The desk was cluttered with stacks of scripts, most of which looked destined for a recycling bin. This was the office of a man in the trenches, not a king on a throne. It smelled faintly of desperation and burnt coffee (Smell).
Dawson shot up from his chair as Leo entered. He was a man in his late thirties with a receding hairline he tried to hide with too much hair gel. He had the hungry, desperate look of a poker player down to his last few chips.
"Leo! Kid! Great to see you," Dawson boomed, his smile a little too wide, his handshake a little too firm. He was projecting a confidence his office betrayed.
"Rick," Leo said, taking a seat and placing his proposal on the desk between them. The crisp, white paper stood out against the clutter like a diamond in a dustbin. "I've got my movie."
Dawson's eyes locked onto the proposal. This was it. The agent had signed Leo, the "USC genius," on a promise: bring him a viable plan, and he'd move heaven and earth to get it packaged and sold. For a bottom-tier agent like Dawson, a client like Leo was a lottery ticket. An impossible long shot that could catapult him from this brick-wall view to a corner office.
"Let's see what you've got," Dawson said, trying to sound casual as he picked it up. His fingers trembled almost imperceptibly.
He read the cover page. "[CHAINSAW]. Catchy."
He flipped it open.
The first thing Rick Dawson noticed was the formatting. It was perfect. Militantly professional. Every margin, every character name, every line of dialogue adhered to the rigid Hollywood standard. This wasn't the work of some dreamy film student. This was the work of a pro who respected the craft—and more importantly, the business. It told Dawson that Leo wasn't here to waste his time.
Satisfied with the container, he began to inspect the contents. He started reading the script.
The noise from the office outside faded away. The taste of his bitter coffee was forgotten. He was no longer in his cramped office. He was in a dark, disgusting bathroom, chained to a pipe.
The story was brutally efficient. Viciously clever. But it was the villain… the villain was something else entirely. Most scripts that crossed his desk had killers who were just monsters, faceless brutes motivated by revenge or madness. They were paper-thin, forgettable (Metaphor).
But this 'Jigsaw'… he was a philosopher. A dark surgeon of the soul. He didn't kill his victims. He offered them a gruesome, bloody form of enlightenment. He found people who didn't value their own lives and presented them with a "game," a test to prove they deserved the gift they were squandering.
Survive, and you'll be reborn. Appreciate your life.Fail, and your skin will be a piece of my puzzle.
Rick felt a genuine chill run down his spine, a reaction he hadn't had from a script in years. This wasn't just gore. It was psychological torture. It was a concept so sticky, so provocatively moral, that audiences would argue about it for weeks.
A great movie needs a character you can never forget. Ten years from now, people would remember Hannibal Lecter. They'd remember Norman Bates. And Rick Dawson knew, with the certainty of a prophet, that they would remember Jigsaw.
Most scripts were dead on arrival, just paper-wrapped corpses of bad ideas (Metaphor). This one had a pulse. It was alive.
He slowly closed the proposal, his heart thumping in his chest. He looked up at the 23-year-old kid sitting calmly across from him. There was no nervous energy, no hopeful pleading in Leo's eyes. Just a quiet, unnerving confidence.
Rick Dawson leaned forward, the practiced agent-speak gone, replaced by raw, unadulterated excitement.
"Leo," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Tell me everything."