For the premiere of Final Destination, Fox Searchlight booked the iconic Theatre in Hollywood. The red carpet was a frenzy of reporters snapping photos with film cameras and rabid fans screaming. Fox spared no expense, treating it like a full-blown A-list blockbuster. Stars, directors, and producers showed up, partly to see if this movie—hyped to the heavens by Fox insiders—lived up to the buzz, and partly to support Fox Searchlight, the hotshot "horror writer" turned leading man Leon Donaldson, and the rising director James Wong.
When Leon and Anne stepped out of the stretch limo, the flashbulbs went berserk, a relentless pop-pop-pop nearly blinding. Leon wore a tailored black suit, no tie, top two shirt buttons undone, flashing a charmingly roguish smile. Anne clung to his arm in a champagne-colored halter gown, her blonde hair swept up to show off a graceful swan neck, her smile sweet but tinged with nerves.
They paused along the red carpet, fielding a barrage of reporter questions.
"Leon! Predict the opening weekend box office!"
"Let Death tell you. I'm not guessing," he quipped.
"Anne! What's it like working with Leon?"
"He's… like in the movie, super reliable!" she said, blushing.
"Any plans to collaborate again?"
"Depends on what Death's got in store," Leon cut in with a laugh, sidestepping the question.
At the signing wall for photos, Anne's fingers felt cool against his arm, gripping lightly. "God, my palms are sweating," she whispered.
Leon leaned in, voice low so only she could hear. "What's to worry about? Even if you trip, People magazine will say Death spooked you and put you on the cover."
Anne stifled a giggle, her tension easing.
Inside the theater, the lights sparkled, and the air buzzed with glamorous chatter and compliments. After rounds of small talk, their faces ached from smiling. Finally, the lights dimmed, the theater hushed, and the massive screen lit up.
Then, hell broke loose.
From the first ominous sign, the audience's screams didn't stop. Real, hair-raising shrieks rose and fell like waves. The plane explosion made the entire theater jump; Todd's bathroom death had women piercing eardrums; Terry's bus crash drew gasps from the men; and by the time Billy's head was sliced by the glass pane, the room was in a state of "panic overload."
Anne grabbed Leon's hand as soon as the movie started, clutching it tighter with every scare, her sweaty palm locked in his. Leon could feel her racing pulse and faint trembling. He let her hold on, occasionally brushing his thumb across her knuckles to calm her. But his focus was on the "symphony" behind him—the gasps, stifled "Oh Gods," and the collective silence when the final ad sign crashed down. To him, it was sweeter than any flattery.
When the lights came up, he gently let go of Anne's hand, both their palms damp. A private smirk curved his lips. Nailed it. No question.
James led Leon, Anne, and the cast back onstage to thank the audience, still reeling from shock and fear. The spotlight hit them, and after a stunned pause—as if the crowd hadn't yet escaped Death's grip—a thunderous roar of applause and cheers erupted, nearly lifting the theater's roof. Fans screamed their names, flashbulbs blazing to capture the moment.
…
Monday morning, the Los Angeles fog hadn't fully lifted when Leon, tangled in bed with a warm, sleepy Anne, was jolted awake by the phone. Cursing, he grabbed the receiver, and before it reached his ear, Alan Horn's voice—practically breaking with excitement—blasted through.
"Twenty million ! Twenty million dollars! Opening weekend! It's a hit, Leon! A goddamn massive hit! Way beyond our wildest projections!"
Leon snapped awake, sleep gone in an instant.
Twenty million .
The number buzzed in his head. In his past life, Final Destination's opening weekend was around ten million, with an impressive return on investment—but nothing like this. This time, with him and Anne as leads and Fox pouring A-list marketing and theater slots into it, the result was monstrous. It doubled the original. This wasn't just success; it was a slaughter.
"Mmm… who's that?" Anne mumbled, groggy, her voice thick with sleep as she burrowed closer.
Leon set the phone down, took a deep breath, and tried to sound calm, though his grin betrayed him. "Alan. Opening weekend numbers are in."
"How much?" she asked, eyes still closed.
"Twenty million ."
"Oh…" Anne murmured, not quite grasping it. Then, like she'd been zapped, her eyes shot open, blue pupils wide, sleep obliterated. "*How much?!*"
She sprang up, the velvet sheets sliding off, staring at Leon, her voice jumping an octave. "Twenty million ?! Dollars?! In three days?!"
Leon nodded, confirming. Anne let out a piercing squeal—"Ahh!"—and launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck, laughing and bouncing so hard they nearly fell off the bed.
"God! Oh my God! Did you hear that? We did it! We actually did it!" Her joy exploded like fireworks in the room.
But beneath the thrill, that staggering number was also a new death knell. Fox's marketing machine wouldn't let this heat die—it'd crank up tenfold. Their brief rest was over. A grueling, exhilarating whirlwind of nationwide, then global, promotion loomed as inevitable as the brightening sky outside.
For weeks, the team ran on overdrive, hopping planes, cars, hotels, and theaters in a relentless loop. Same interviews in different cities, same lines to waves of hyped fans. Exhausting, but electrifying.
To maximize buzz, the main cast was split up for separate promo stops.
…
Then, at a packed fan meet-and-greet in a Chicago theater, a small incident broke the routine. The crowd was wild, security sweating to keep order. As Leon signed a poster for a fan, a figure bolted through a gap in the security line like lightning.
It was a girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen, but with a figure far too mature for her age, rocking a tight T-shirt clearly meant to make her look older. Her long brown hair whipped as she charged Leon, blue eyes blazing with frenzied adoration.
"Leon! I love you! Alex! You're so hot!"
Before anyone could react, she leapt, wrapping her arms around his neck, hanging onto him, and planted a bold kiss on his cheek, leaving a clear lipstick mark. Security snapped into action, ready to yank the "attacker" away.
"Hey! It's fine! Relax!" Leon waved them off. He looked down at the girl still clinging to him, her face a mix of youthful charm and startling maturity… oddly familiar.
Alexandra Daddario.
Younger by years, but those rare, pale blue eyes and standout proportions clicked instantly—he recognized her from his past life as the actress known for her gaze and figure.
"Whoa, whoa, calm down, kid," Leon said, not shoving her off but giving a gentle, gentlemanly pat on her back. "Thanks for loving the movie."
Her face flushed, words tumbling out. "I… I saw the midnight show three times! Your visions are so cool! Can… can I get an autograph?"
She fumbled for a crumpled Final Destination poster and a marker.
"Sure thing." Leon took the pen, signed the poster, and added a tiny Death's scythe. "What's your name?"
"Alex! I mean… Alexandra!" she blurted, vibrating with excitement.
"Alright, Alexandra, thanks for the support, but next time, stick to the line, okay?" He handed back the poster with a wink.
She squealed again, then, out of nowhere, kissed his other cheek before security gently escorted her away. Leon caught a glimpse of a woman in her thirties, looking apologetic, waiting just beyond the security line, likely her mother.
The crowd roared with laughter and cheers at the spectacle. Leon wiped the lipstick off, flashed a grin, and kept signing. But he had to admit, that bold, doll-like girl left an impression.
The team kept grinding through North America, then Europe—London, Paris, Berlin—sparking moviegoing fever everywhere. Asia followed, with Japan and Korea's intense fan culture and the film's quality driving unprecedented hype. China? Tom Stapleton mentioned it briefly but shut it down. "Their policies on B-movies, especially ones with our level of gore, are a no-go. You know how it is." Leon got it; he knew that'd hold true for years.
The exhaustion was brutal, but watching the box office soar like a rocket kept them pumped. Leon Donaldson's name, tied to "Death," was now echoing globally.