The studio's tin roof baked under the July sun, each ray of light slipping through the vents like a red-hot wire, casting blinding spots on the floor.
The ventilation ducts groaned, churning out a mix of chainsaw oil and burnt cheap coffee, swirling through the makeshift audition space.
A stack of prop boxes loomed in the corner, one labeled "1974 Chainsaw Replica" left open, revealing metal parts wrapped in anti-rust cloth. Black oil stains seeped from the edges, pooling on the concrete like congealed blood.
Eli Roth reclined his director's chair three notches, the frame creaking in protest. His fingers tapped the monitor screen, knuckles still smudged with rust from yesterday's track adjustments. On the screen, the props team tinkered with a 1974 chainsaw, its rusted teeth spitting metal flecks with every spin, scattering onto a dust-covered workbench like a rusty claw scraping everyone's nerves.
"We're not looking for a scream machine," Eli said into his collar mic, his voice booming through the ceiling speakers, startling sparrows from the vents. "The script calls for a 'swamp survivor'—tempered steel, not glass that shatters at a touch. What kind of prey screams for help at the sight of a hunter's gun?"
Leon was crouched among the props, rummaging through them, when a twinge in his lower back flared—an old injury from a stunt gone wrong last year. He steadied himself, pressing his fingers to his third lumbar vertebra where a scar lingered, then tucked a flea-market hunting knife into his waistband. Its brass nameplate glinted coldly under the lights. He glanced at the resume in Mark's hand.
"Number seven already?" Leon said. "Today's batch is either Disney child-star types, flashing all their teeth when they smile, or horror-movie regulars who do nothing but gape and scream. None of them can handle the 'wildness' the script needs."
"Wildness isn't howling like a wolf," Eli said, pouring half a cup of iced coffee from a thermos, the ice clinking sharply in the noisy room. "It's the grit that seeps from your bones when you're cornered."
Mark slid over the last resume, its edges damp and curled from sweat, the printed text smudged. Leon's eyes landed on the headshot—a girl with a low ponytail, stray hairs tucked behind her ears. Her white T-shirt collar was stretched, and her jeans had frayed gray patches at the knees. Her eyes stood out, not widened or squinted, just calmly staring at the camera, like a bottomless lake.
The name below the photo had been edited with a ballpoint pen: "Scarlett" scratched out, replaced with a neutral "J." Ink bled through to the back, leaving a small blot.
"Scarlett Johansson?" Leon asked.
Mark whistled, slamming his thermos on the table. "Just wrapped reshoots for The Horse Whisperer last week. Her agency said she turned down a Disney audition for this. Word is, the Pocahontas producer threw a fit over it."
Leon tapped the resume's edge, the paper's rough texture grazing his fingertips. As the lead and writer, he knew exactly what this role demanded. The "swamp survivor" was the only character in Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Next Generation who could stand toe-to-toe with the killer—not a lamb waiting for rescue, but a lone wolf who could tangle with the predator.
He'd seen too many young actors chasing horror-movie fame, turning fear into over-the-top melodrama, flailing at nothing with ragged breathing, or freezing in front of fake blood, forgetting their blocking entirely.
But this girl was different.
When a props intern tossed a fake-blood-soaked burlap sack at her feet, the sticky-sweet mix of syrup and dye made the script supervisor wince. Scarlett, though, bent down, pinched the fabric, and rubbed it between her fingers, as if gauging how much straw was stuffed inside.
"The scene's a logging camp deep in the swamp," Eli said, hitting play on the monitor. A shaky handheld shot mimicked the killer's POV. "You've just escaped a bear trap, ankle bleeding. Thirty yards behind you, a masked killer's chasing with a chainsaw. Three seconds to get in character."
Scarlett kicked off her canvas shoes, stepping barefoot onto the sawdust-strewn floor. The mix of wood chips and grit dug into her soles, but instead of flinching like the others, she curled her toes, gripping the ground as if feeling the sting of swamp stones.
She bent her knees slightly, her right hand instinctively shielding her left ankle—not an exaggerated limp, but a subtle shift in weight, like someone used to chronic pain. When the props guy fired up the chainsaw, its deafening roar made the script supervisor cover her ears, the sound ricocheting off the tin roof. Scarlett only tilted her head, her eyes not fixed on the chainsaw itself but tracking the teeth's spin, her pupils narrowing with their rhythm.
"Stop!" Leon called, his voice cutting through the chainsaw's echo. "The backdrop's wrong." He pointed at the green screen behind her. "There should be a crooked tree, trunk leaning thirty degrees east, with old barbed wire wrapped two meters up."
The props team scrambled, hauling in a foam tree painted in uneven browns, wrapped with rusted barbed wire scavenged from storage, dried leaves caught in the loops.
Scarlett's gaze swept the tree, then she crouched, snatching a sharp wood shard from the sawdust and gripping it tightly. The edge cut her palm, but she didn't flinch, her knuckles whitening with force.
The move wasn't in the script, but Eli shot Leon a look, his crow's feet crinkling with approval. He signaled the props guy to restart the chainsaw.
As the roar erupted again, an accident happened. The chainsaw's cord, dragged across the floor, snagged on a nail, tearing the insulation. Exposed copper sparked against a metal stand, the blade freezing mid-spin, leaving only the motor's whine.
The props guy went pale, dropping a spare battery with a clang, but Scarlett was already moving—not toward the planned exit but charging at the fake tree, her left foot leading, right foot following at a blistering pace, nothing like someone "injured."
As the stuntman playing the killer raised the stalled chainsaw, she slid low, dodging like a deer, and drove the wood shard toward his wrist. It didn't pierce, but the ferocity made the stuntman flinch.
"That's it," Leon thought, his fingers brushing the knife's brass nameplate.
He noticed her eyes shift—calm pools now ablaze, nostrils flaring from exertion, a faint smirk on her lips.
His mind drifted. Years from now, this girl would stand on the Tokyo Film Festival stage, in a couture gown, her eyes still sharp but softened by time. She'd clutch an Oscar, delivering a confident speech to roaring applause, a global star crafting iconic roles—tough agents, tender mothers, all brought to life with depth.
But right now, this seventeen-year-old in a dingy studio was unleashing raw star power.
When she grabbed a sturdy branch, assuming a batter's stance, her right arm's taut muscles rippled with strength. The grit in her move made Mark sit up straight at the monitor.
"Cut!" Eli stood, the chainsaw's burnt-plastic stench lingering. "Why didn't you follow the script? Scene three says retreat to the lumber shack."
Scarlett dropped the branch, her palm red and bleeding slightly. She didn't answer right away, instead pointing to the barbed wire on the tree. "You can't outrun a chainsaw in a swamp. The shack's a dead end. But that wire—I saw it. It could be a trap."
Her voice, breathless from exertion, was clear, each word precise.
Leon grinned, pulling the script from his back pocket, a coffee stain smudging the cover. "Know why that thing broke?" He nodded at the chainsaw. "I had props loosen the cord yesterday to see who'd spot weapons in the environment. The last six either ran blind or froze and cried."
Scarlett's eyelashes flickered like startled wings, but she showed no surprise, asking, "Is the wire real? How much tension could it take if wrapped around a wrist?"
"Fake, but your reaction was real," Leon said, flipping open the script. Red-inked revisions stood out, margins packed with notes. "The original character just hid. I changed that. She's lived in the forest three years, daughter of a ranger, knows how to start a fire with broken glass, make traps with vines—like you just did."
When Scarlett took the script, her fingers brushed Leon's. Wood chips were lodged under her nails, her palm hot from exertion. She scanned the marked pages, then looked up. "So she's not just a survivor?"
"She's a hunter," Eli cut in, nodding at Leon, cigarette glowing between his fingers. "He insisted on that change for tension. You two have three scenes together—can't let Leon steal the show."
He paused, exhaling a smoke ring. "Also, we need you barefaced. Two hours of makeup daily to smear mud on you, maybe rolling in a ditch."
Scarlett laughed, her youthful crow's feet mixing with a steely resolve. "No problem." She wiped her face, revealing a sweat-streaked forehead. "Real fear doesn't need pretty. Messy's how you survive."
Backstage, Alice frowned at her computer, the screen's glow highlighting her acne scars. Scarlett's profile showed a red-flagged Pocahontas audition invite, rejected with three words: "Not suitable."
Alice folded a printed schedule into a square and slipped it to Leon as he sipped water. "Ditching a princess flick for a horror movie? She's either crazy or brilliant." Her deep purple nails tapped the paper, leaving a faint mark. "The Horse Whisperer's director said she broke her collarbone riding, then redid the scene the next day, matching her expression perfectly."
Leon tucked the note into his jeans, the fabric rustling. He glanced up as Scarlett packed her worn canvas bag, its straps frayed, a rusted compass pin stuck on it, its needle frozen. A crooked red cord hung from the zipper, tied with a small wolf's tooth, supposedly hand-carved by Alaskan natives.
As she left, the chainsaw's burnt smell mingled with a faint sage scent from her hair, evoking the script's swamp morning, damp with dew and earth.
The studio lights dimmed, leaving only the monitor's glow on Leon's face. He sank into a folding chair, his back aching but his face smooth.
As he closed the script, he found a sticky note on the title page. The handwriting was scrawled, youthful and reckless, ink smudged by sweat: "Your green screen's more real than Disney's castle." A phone number followed, with a tiny compass doodle, its needle stubbornly pointing left.
As Leon typed the number into his phone, Eli clapped his shoulder, reeking of tobacco and aftershave. "You sure about this bet?" Eli's voice carried a grin. "She's not eighteen yet, and acting opposite you's no small feat. Her agency says she's got a GG shoot in New York next month—scheduling's a mess."
The phone pinged with a green checkmark, bright in the dark. Leon pulled his cowboy hat low, hiding a smile. "I'm not betting on her age. It's that fire. I wrote this role—nobody knows better what it needs."
He paused, touching the note in his pocket. "As for the schedule, let Mark handle it."
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