"I heard Jodie Foster's coming tomorrow?"
Old Gun's voice broke the quiet as he stepped into Christian's tent, uninvited as usual.
It was past midnight.
Christian had just wrapped up planning the next day's shoot and was about to collapse into what passed for sleep out here.
No luxuries on a project like this. The budget was a joke, and they were deep into location work.
Everyone lived in tents—yes, even Christian, the director. A few crew members with more clout or cash had their RVs.
Old Gun, for one. Christian didn't mind roughing it. He liked the silence.
Or maybe he just didn't trust comfort anymore.
Still, sometimes he'd wander over to Old Gun's RV for a drink.
The man had good booze and even better soundproofing.
Earlier tonight, when Annika dropped by Old Gun's trailer, the thing rocked like a boat in a storm.
Not a single sound leaked out.
"Forget about Foster," Christian said, smirking without looking up.
Old Gun raised an eyebrow. "Come on. What happened last night?"
Christian tilted his head. "Last night?"
Old Gun froze, then chuckled like a man caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
"Annika said you gave her a bottle of tequila… You sly bastard."
Christian shrugged. "Don't pretend you didn't enjoy yourself."
Old Gun scratched at his beard, suddenly looking older.
"Annika's… she's a good woman. I don't know if I should—"
"You've been divorced for three years," Christian cut him off, voice low but firm.
"You're allowed to be happy. She wouldn't have walked into your trailer if she didn't want to be there."
He clapped Old Gun on the shoulder.
"Look, I'm not matchmaking. I call it like I see it. That said… maybe don't screw it up."
Old Gun let out a grunt that might've been gratitude.
Christian grinned. "Anyway. Back to the question—yeah, Foster's coming tomorrow."
"Westwood invited her?" Richard's voice shifted, moving from personal to professional.
"Anthony's finally doing something useful," Christian said, his tone dry as dust.
Anthony Westwood had been the one to hire Christian to direct.
He had the title of producer, but after a few early attempts to micromanage, he realized Christian wasn't the type to be pushed.
Health issues gave him another excuse to back off. Lately, he'd been focusing on schmoozing investors, which suited everyone better.
"Jodie showing up means he's chasing funding again," Christian added.
"About time."
Foster was a Hollywood icon—a two-time Oscar winner, still respected, still sharp.
Christian had once dreamed of casting her, but they couldn't afford dreams like that anymore.
Instead, he and Old Gun had discussed another angle: Foster as a potential backer.
She owned a production company now—Egg Films—and Egg had helped produce movies a few years back. It was a long shot, but better than no shot at all.
"You and Westwood saw her last time you pitched, right?" Old Gun asked.
"She was mid-shoot. Never got past the assistant."
"You think she'll put money into this thing?"
Christian leaned back, eyes half-closed, weighing it.
"If she sees something worth saving, maybe. If not… We'll keep crawling."
"Westwood said there's a sixty percent chance. The rest… depends on us," Christian muttered, eyes on the flickering lamp hanging from the tent pole.
He'd learned Jodie Foster wasn't just a visitor—she was a potential investor.
She'd stepped in after the original director, Alan, disappeared. What she didn't know was that Alan wasn't just gone.
He was dead.
Christian had discovered the truth weeks ago, though he hadn't told anyone. Not even Old Gun.
The night it happened, he came face to face with something old and hungry—something ancient that didn't belong to this world.
A wraith-like creature tied to the land. The locals called it the Wrath Tiger.
It had been bound here since the early colonial days, feeding on fear and memory.
When Alan vanished, Christian followed the trail… and found him. Found what was left.
"Think she'll walk after seeing the footage?" Old Gun asked. He wasn't good at hiding concern.
"She'll see the work," Christian said calmly.
"She'll feel it. And yeah, I think she'll stay."
They had shot something different—raw, unsettling, almost alive. Some of that came from Christian.
Some came from the Wrath Tiger. After that night, they struck a deal. Dangerous, maybe even damned, but effective.
The Tiger gave him power—visions, moments of impossible clarity. It reshaped what the film became.
Annika had helped with the effects, unaware of the true source.
Christian had her tweak the look of a creature in the film, something primal and haunting.
He added the final touch himself: a sigil.
An old Celtic rune, carved from bone, woven into the story's fabric. It symbolized the Wrath Tiger—binding it to the reel, hiding it in plain sight.
If Wrong Turn ever hit theaters, the fear it stirred would feed the Stag. Strengthen it. Maybe even elevate it from folklore to something real—an actual god of the wild.
Christian wasn't lying to Old Gun. He wasn't telling him everything.
"This is my leverage," he thought.
"My edge."
The Tiger had taken Alan. It had taken Eliza, the original lead actress, too. Christian saw them once after that—empty-eyed, still breathing, but puppets. Vessels. Whatever spark they'd had was gone.
And now, it was his turn to steer the wheel.
Old Gun crossed his arms, still chewing on the risk.
"What if she pulls out?"
"She won't," Christian said again.
"You've seen the work. You believe in it, don't you?"
He didn't wait for a reply. He knew the answer.
Wrong Turn wasn't just a film anymore.
It was a living thing. A ritual. A trap.
And Christian was the one holding the match.