2:00 p.m.
The explosion faded, leaving only the howling wind and the crackle of flames.
On the screen, beneath a clear blue sky, wisps of black smoke dissolved, and debris drifted slowly downward.
A charred luggage tag marked "180" spun through the air, slamming against the glass in front of Alex with a dull thud before bouncing away.
Alex collapsed to the ground, his face blank, carrying the weight of unbearable trauma.
The airport terminal was deathly silent. The people who'd mocked him moments ago now stood frozen, their faces etched with disbelief and horror.
The screening room mirrored that silence. No one spoke. No one moved.
Everyone was still reeling from the hyper-realistic plane crash, its impact so visceral that breathing felt loud.
"Holy… shit… fuck… fuck…" Someone's crude outburst broke the stillness, shattering the tension.
The air in the internal screening room was taut to the breaking point.
Onscreen, Final Destination's survivors were dwindling, each death a meticulously crafted mix of cruelty and eerie coincidence.
Tod, strangled by a clothesline in his bathroom.
Terry, obliterated by a runaway bus on the street.
Ms. Lewton, her throat precisely slit by a "stray" kitchen knife in her home.
Each death drew gasps and shouts from the screening room.
"The list… the order…" Alex rasped onscreen, as he and Claire pieced together the pattern in terror, trying to predict Death's next move.
Only four survivors remained: Alex, Claire, hotheaded Carter, and jittery Billy.
Fear hung like a tangible fog, enveloping them—and the audience.
The film hit its climax.
Carter was next in Death's order.
In a breathless outdoor scene, Alex foresaw Death's trap—a massive, seemingly secure billboard about to collapse.
He sprinted toward an oblivious Carter, tackling him to the ground just in time.
A steel frame crashed where they'd stood, glass and metal shards flying everywhere.
Carter, sprawled on the ground, looked at Alex with newfound trust and gratitude for the first time.
The survivors embraced, a fleeting spark of hope piercing Death's shadow.
The screening room exhaled, murmurs and relief rippling through.
But that hope was just Death's cruel taunt.
As they gathered outside a café, debating their next move—BANG! CRASH!
The café's massive street-facing window exploded without warning.
Jagged glass shards sprayed like buckshot.
A huge, razor-sharp triangle of glass spun through the air, as if guided by an unseen hand.
Swish.
A faint, bone-chilling slice.
Billy, standing a bit farther off, didn't even react before his head separated from his body, his face frozen in confusion.
His headless form stood for a moment before collapsing heavily.
Screams and curses erupted in the screening room.
The sudden, brutal death—and its ruthless crushing of hope—sent a chill through even the seasoned Fox executives.
Death's order now pointed to Claire and Alex.
Fear peaked.
Alex hid Claire in his home, trying to turn it into a "safe house."
Meanwhile, skeptical FBI agents closed in, convinced Alex was behind it all.
The climax exploded in Alex's house.
Death's trap wasn't a single accident but a precision killing machine: a kitchen appliance sparked, igniting gas; a bookcase collapsed, blocking escape; a fallen wire hissed in a puddle.
The FBI agent, once the hunter, became prey—nearly strangled by his own handcuffs or killed in the blast—only for Alex to save him while battling Death's design.
The audience was stunned, the pace relentless.
Carter ultimately sacrificed himself, his explosion seemingly halting Death's chain reaction, saving Alex and Claire.
Onscreen, six months later.
Paris, bathed in sunlight, picturesque.
Alex and Claire, free of the shadow, dined leisurely outside a café, reclaiming life.
Soft music and scenic beauty eased the screening room's tension, but a nagging unease lingered.
Then, the omens crept back:
Alex's coffee cup vibrated for no reason, ripples forming on the surface.
A motorcycle's mirror flashed a blinding spot across Claire's eyes.
A low, distant hum, like a jet engine, rumbled faintly.
A metal scaffold's shadow, cast in the sunlight, twisted like Death's scythe.
The smiles faded from Alex and Claire's faces, fear creeping back into their eyes.
They locked gazes, seeing that suffocating, familiar dread in each other.
It… never left.
Then—CREAK! CRASH!
Across the street, a massive billboard with elegant French text groaned, its supports snapping, collapsing toward their café table.
The shadow swallowed the sunlight.
"AAAH!" The screening room erupted in terrified screams, everyone leaping to their feet.
The screen cut to black.
Dead silence. Three full seconds.
The abrupt, despairing ending left everyone speechless.
Then—BOOM!
Thunderous applause, wild cheers, whistles, and incoherent praise nearly blew the roof off the screening room.
Faces glowed with exhilaration, shock, and disbelief.
"What the hell kind of ending was that? So evil! So genius!" Alan Levin roared, red-faced, voice hoarse. "The audience is gonna lose it! They'll talk about this for a year!"
"This suspense! This marketing hook!" Tom Stapleton danced in place. "Just the question of 'did they die?' is worth a hundred million at the box office!"
Tom Rothman clapped hard, his sharp gaze sweeping the ecstatic crowd before landing on Leon and James. His voice was steady but laced with uncontainable excitement:
"Gentlemen, congratulations. This isn't just a hit movie—it's a cultural phenomenon. Fox will throw every resource behind it to ensure the world feels this… 'surprise.'"
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