The global press tour for Final Destination finally wound down, leaving the cast and crew drained to their last drop of energy.
The air still seemed to hum with the echoes of screams, camera flashes, and interviews in a dozen languages, but at last, a few precious gaps appeared on the schedule.
The film's box office numbers were like a fever dream: $130 million in the U.S. alone, and a staggering $210 million worldwide—double what Leon remembered from his past life's version.
This low-budget B-movie had obliterated expectations, catapulting its mastermind, Leon, Hollywood's new horror prodigy, to dizzying heights.
Anne practically collapsed onto the plush couch in Leon's apartment, letting out a long, almost moaning sigh. "God, I feel like my soul's still floating on that Seoul-to-L.A. flight, not quite back in my body."
Leon kicked off his shoes, grabbed two ice-cold Cokes from the fridge, and tossed her one. "Welcome back to reality, Miss Claire. Your mission now is to remember how to walk like a normal person, not some red-carpet robot always smiling for the cameras."
Anne caught the bottle, pressing its cool glass against her flushed cheeks, her eyes glazing over. "Normal people… what are those again? Creatures who can yawn in public without getting photographed?"
"Pretty much. They can also grab coffee in pajamas without worrying about paparazzi."
Leon plopped down beside her, propping his feet on the coffee table, and took a long swig, the icy liquid washing away weeks of exhaustion and chaos.
These stolen days of downtime were like grains of sand slipping through their fingers—each one rare and worth savoring.
Leon and Anne didn't plan a thing, sinking into a blissful, aimless haze like college kids fresh off finals.
They holed up in the apartment, whiling away lazy afternoons and evenings.
The old TV hummed, playing rented classic movies, its screen occasionally flickering with static, but it didn't dampen their mood.
The couch was a nest of soft blankets, the two of them tangled up in them, laughing and mocking cheesy plots from decades past.
Pizza boxes littered the coffee table, steaming and piled high with gooey, stringy cheese.
They grabbed slices with their hands, not caring about manners, chuckling when cheese stuck to their chins, each poking fun at the other's mess.
One day, Anne got a wild hair watching a cooking show, fixating on a "simple, not actually that complicated" pasta dish.
She tied on an apron, lined up ingredients with precision, her eyes sparkling with determination.
But reality didn't follow the script.
At the critical moment—juggling sauce heat and pasta timing—she spiraled into chaos.
Leon, who should've jumped in to help, leaned against the kitchen doorway instead, tossing out snarky comments and deliberately giving terrible advice.
The result was predictable: the kitchen turned into a mini disaster zone.
Flour dusted the counter like snow, tomato sauce splattered like an abstract painting, and the pan's bottom sported a charred layer of sauce.
Afterward, Anne "punished" Leon with a playful smackdown, and he made it up to her with a candlelit dinner out.
Her pasta never quite worked out, but the laughter, little mishaps, and that dinner became their warmest shared moments.
Sometimes, they'd throw on baseball caps and sunglasses, sneaking like thieves into quiet arthouse theaters for obscure films or driving to Malibu's beaches to do nothing but stare at the waves all afternoon.
Anne would run barefoot on the sand, her blonde hair a windswept mess, her laughter clean and bright like sun-bleached light.
This simple, almost mundane peace was the perfect balm for two people crawling out of a grueling press tour.
Leon realized that, stripped of all the Hollywood glitz and character filters, just hanging out with Anne felt… pretty great.
But beneath the lazy nights, his mind was still racing on two big things.
First, one afternoon while Anne dozed on the couch during a Friends rerun, he typed the final period on a novel. He saved the file, naming it Girl with a Pearl Earring.
A strange satisfaction washed over him—not the explosive high of Final Destination's box office win, but something quieter, more personal.
He'd built an entire world, sealing Scarlett's essence and his hidden guilt into the light and shadow of 17th-century Holland.
He called his agent, Greg, right away.
"Greg, it's me. I just sent you something. A historical novel."
The line went silent for a couple of seconds, like the signal had dropped.
"…A novel? Leon, we don't have time for—"
"Find the best literary agent. Contact the top publishers," Leon cut in, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Submit it anonymously, author name 'L.T.' Keep the copyright locked down tight. Handle it like it's a blockbuster. Money's not an issue."
Greg took a long moment to process, then sighed. "…A historical novel? This doesn't exactly fit your brand… Fine, you're the boss. L.T., got it. I'll take care of it."
Leon hung up, glancing at the file on his screen with a smile.
The seed was planted. Now to see how big a wave it could make in the literary world.
Next step: turning words into images. He started adapting Pearl Earring into a screenplay, a leaner, more visual creation.
Anne would sometimes peek over, curious. "What's this? Looks so serious."
Leon brushed it off vaguely. "Just… a side project."
The second thing gnawed at him, a mix of restlessness and regret: the tech world.
Flipping through The Wall Street Journal one day, a small headline stopped him cold: "Search engine upstart Google secures $25 million from KPCB and Sequoia Capital." Dated June 1999.
He remembered Larry Page and Sergey Brin trying to sell Google for $1 million back then, even dropping to $750,000 with no takers.
"Fuck me," Leon muttered, staring at the article, feeling like he'd missed a billion-dollar shot—no, billions upon billions.
It was like being a time traveler with the history book in hand, too busy acing one test to notice the easiest money-making question on another.
June 1999… that was when he'd just landed in this world, playing a corpse on the Scream 3 set, his head full of surviving Hollywood, not chasing Silicon Valley dreamers in flip-flops.
But things were different now.
The profits from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Final Destination were pouring into his bank account. He wasn't some struggling bit player pinching pennies anymore.
He had capital to play with.
A burning urge to make up for "lost" opportunities seized him. He'd missed Google's Series A, but history's pages were still open.
He dove into the internet's uncharted waters, researching, recalling, analyzing.
"Alice, pull data on a few companies. As detailed as you can get."
"Names?" Alice's voice came through the phone, keyboard clacking in the background.
Leon's eyes gleamed as he read off his list, like he was staring at uncut diamonds: "PayPal, an online payment company."
"Focus on the payment system guys—Peter Thiel and Elon Musk… yeah, that South African nutcase."
He was thinking about getting in before or during their merger. PayPal was set to dominate online payments, eBay's go-to vault.
He scribbled notes:
eBay: Public, but stock's got room to climb. Keep an eye on it. "Primary payment method" still up for grabs.
Amazon: Bezos and his books. Internet bubble's a chance and a trap.
Apple: Jobs is back, iMac's doing okay. Next up… iPod! Yes! Music player! Track patents and moves there.
Starbucks…
Netflix…
The next few days, Leon's living room turned into a war room.
The couch was buried under finance reports and tech magazines, his laptop open to stock charts and startup info Alice had dug up.
Beer bottles sat next to a calculator.
Anne was completely baffled.
"Why are you staring at numbers and circuit-board stuff?" She picked up a printout of eBay's interface, frowning. "Buying old baseball cards online? That's a money-maker?"
"More than making movies, sweetheart," Leon said without looking up, scribbling furiously. "And you don't have to deal with critics' moods."
"Boring." Anne rolled her eyes, flopping back to watch a home shopping channel, debating whether to buy some "instantly firming" skincare set.
Leon ignored her, his brain cross-referencing memories with real-time data.
He knew the risks—the dot-com bubble was about to burst, and countless startups would crash and burn.
But he also knew the insane returns waiting for the companies that survived and reshaped the world.
This was a high-stakes gamble with cheat codes.
He had to grab the blades that would become thrones before they fell.
He picked up the phone and called his financial advisor.
"Mike, it's me. Start tweaking the portfolio."
"Cut some short-term treasuries."
"Yeah, boost tech stock positions. I'll fax you the key names. Especially Amazon and eBay."
He hung up, stepping to the window, gazing at L.A.'s endless stream of car lights below.
Anne slipped behind him, wrapping her arms around him, resting her chin on his shoulder. "What's with the intense face? You look scary."
Leon patted her hand, smiling without answering, then scooped her up in his arms.