Leon stepped out of the Fox Searchlight building.
The Fight Club manuscript in his briefcase dug into his ribs.
Half an hour ago, Laura Thompson had signed a $1.5 million distribution deal for Midnight Scream, the red ink bleeding into the paper.
Heat rolled off the parking lot asphalt. Leon loosened his tie, his pager buzzing in his pocket.
It was Alice: "Eli Roth's at North Hollywood Studios, trashing the Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Next Generation script, says it's like blood-soaked cotton candy."
Leon fired up his Ford, the radio blaring a review of Midnight Scream.
He headed for North Hollywood Studios.
The security guard checked his name and pointed toward the props room.
Inside, Eli Roth was crouched on the floor, flipping through a script.
He looked up as Leon walked in. "You the guy who turned a fridge into a murder weapon?"
The script in his hands was littered with red-inked notes: "Awful." "Stupid."
The main character's name, "Carly," was circled and scratched out.
Next to it: "Cannon fodder, dead in 20 minutes."
"Larry says you rewrite scripts like you're dissecting a corpse," Eli said, tossing the script to Leon.
"My writer turned the killer into an eco-warrior, says he's chainsawing people to 'clean up pollution.' Is this a horror movie or a Greenpeace ad?"
Leon flipped through the script.
Scene 17: "Carly, chased by a chainsaw into a swamp, falls into a bear trap, begs for mercy, then gets sawed into three pieces."
A note in the margin: "Needs lots of blood."
"The problem isn't the blood," Leon said, his finger tapping "begs for mercy."
"A woman being hunted wouldn't cry. She'd scan her surroundings."
"Carly shouldn't be cannon fodder. Make her a ranger's daughter, raised playing with hunting knives."
"When she's caught in the trap, she doesn't beg—she cuts her ankle tendon to escape, then limps off to fight back."
"You're insane," Eli said, standing up.
"Audiences want gore. Who cares about tendons?"
"People who care will remember her for a decade," Leon shot back.
He walked over to a prop chainsaw.
"The fridge scene in Midnight Scream worked because it showed the killer's warped mind. Fear's in the details—like Carly's knife glinting with the killer's face as she cuts herself free."
A kid with a coffee tray walked in.
Eli barked at him to get out.
He lit a cigarette. "Investors gave us $500,000. Add effects and blood, we're over budget."
"No extra cost," Leon said, blowing a smoke ring.
"Have the actress fall into a real mud pit. Use an old bear trap. For the tendon scene, just show blood dripping—let the audience fill in the blanks."
He sketched a storyboard on page 23.
Swamp water with a broken chain floating. Carly's knife stuck in the mud, red cloth tied to the handle.
The camera cuts underwater: Carly holds her breath, the killer's silhouette reflected above.
"That's what I'm talking about!" Eli scrawled "Keep" next to the sketch.
"Way better than an eco-warrior."
"Who can play Carly?" he asked. "I need someone with fire in their eyes."
"Blood Moon financing?" Leon asked.
"They bumped the budget to $500,000, but only if we ditch the eco-warrior crap," Eli said.
"Find me the right actress, and I'll get them to add another $100,000."
"I want script control," Leon said, snapping the script shut.
"Change Carly's lines. No 'don't kill me.' Have her say, 'That chainsaw's chain needs oil.' That kind of calm is scarier than begging."
Eli stared at him for thirty seconds, then dragged out a metal box.
Inside were yellowed notes, the top one labeled "1974 Set Journal," edges stained brown.
"This is Tobe Hooper's notebook," Eli said. "He wrote that the best horror 'makes the audience scare themselves.'"
He pulled out a photo. "This actress let a bear trap snap her hand for realism."
"Bring an actress for a screen test tomorrow," Eli said, handing Leon the notebook.
"Props has a replica 1974 hunting knife, red cloth on the handle."
"Blood Moon's producer is coming this afternoon. Convince him to greenlight the script changes. Sell him on the Midnight Scream fridge scene."
Leon left the props room.
A girl in overalls ran up, handing him the Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Next Generation cast list.
"'Swamp survivor Carly' is still uncast. The writer wants her to be a damsel."
Leon crossed out "damsel" next to "17, raised in the forest, daughter of a ranger" and wrote "hunter."
"Tell Eli she doesn't get saved—she kills her way out."
The girl nodded.
Leon turned to leave, his pager buzzing again.
Alice: "Someone on IMDb started a 'Fridge Killer Analysis' thread. Post 47 says you studied serial killer psychology."
Leon started the car.
Tobe Hooper's notebook sat on the passenger seat.
He recalled a line from it: "The best horror films make audiences leave the theater afraid to open their fridge, linger by a swamp, or hear a chainsaw."
Outside, a video store played the Midnight Scream trailer.
Teens passing by screamed at the screen.
Leon hit the gas.
He glanced at the cast list.
Next to "Carly," Eli had scribbled in red: "In the final scene, have her say, 'This chainsaw's chain is just like my dad's old one.'"
Leon parked across from the studio at a coffee shop, picking a corner booth.
A note from Marta was tucked under the coffee cup: "Blood Moon's producer was here, asking about the 27 script changes you made for Midnight Scream."
Leon opened Tobe's notebook and wrote: "Fear formula = everyday details × unknown threat × personal memory."
Page two had a Midnight Scream set photo taped to it, dated August 25—the original start date for Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Next Generation.
Night fell.
The studio's set lights went dark, leaving only emergency lights glowing.
Leon knew Carly's role and this horror film were just getting started.
Back at his apartment, he stashed Tobe's notebook in a drawer, atop the Fight Club manuscript and a prop scalpel stained with fake blood.
In his own notebook, he wrote: "Audiences don't fear chainsaws—they fear the memories the sound evokes. Not swamps, but the suffocation of sinking with no one to save you."
Moonlight slipped through the blinds, casting shadows on the scalpel.
Leon turned on the TV.
A clip from the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre played: the killer chasing a victim into a swamp, the camera cutting underwater as bubbles rose.
He switched off the light.
A car engine cut off downstairs.
Through the curtain's gap, he saw a black sedan parked in the shadows, a red light on its antenna blinking like a beast's eye.
He reached under his pillow, pulling out the scalpel.
Its blade glinted coldly in the moonlight.
Tomorrow, he'd make Blood Moon's producer see that the best blood lives in the audience's memories.
His job was to turn those memories into chainsaw scars on the script.