Leon's phone buzzed intermittently on the nightstand.
He didn't answer.
He wasn't sleeping. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, his mind replaying the day's footage like a film reel—decent takes, but they could be better.
Director James was a perfectionist lunatic, grinding a single shot until everyone was mentally wrecked.
Leon kind of liked it, though. There was a masochistic thrill in the breakdown.
The ninth buzz stopped.
The screen dimmed, but the last message preview lingered:
"…You really not coming? I'd love to talk about the script…"
Anne? Claire? The lines were starting to blur.
He snorted, his fingertip grazing the cold screen.
Scared? The bait was so obvious it could double as a ruler, yet it hit that lingering itch for the craft—and that damn male urge to protect—dead on.
Talk about the script? After 9 p.m.?
One of Hollywood's oldest, lamest codes, right up there with "come up for coffee."
In this business, every "script talk" hid some other need.
He was the hunter, not the prey. At least, that's how he saw it.
A hunter's mindset: chase, but never get led by the bait.
Anne's little trick was amateur-level.
He flicked the phone to silent. The world went quiet.
The next day, on set in the "safe house" scene.
Anne showed up.
Not like he'd expected—pouting, carrying the sting of rejection.
Not at all.
She practically bounced over, her smile so bright it could've saved them a lighting rig.
What the hell?
"Morning!" Her voice was crisp, no trace of gloom. "Sleep well?"
Not a word about the texts.
As if those nine ignored messages were some collective hallucination.
Leon raised an eyebrow, sipping his coffee. "Fine. You?"
"Great!" Her eyes crinkled. "But I'm stuck on a scene. You've gotta help me out later."
Smooth. She'd flipped "script talk" from late-night innuendo to a legit daytime work request.
Clever.
Leon mentally tipped his hat.
This girl had game. Not some naive sweetheart—she was a fighter.
She'd changed tactics.
From a sneaky nighttime ambush to a bold frontal assault.
He was intrigued. "Which scene?"
"The confrontation this afternoon. I think the emotional layers could be deeper."
She leaned closer, a faint strawberry scent wafting over—bright, elegant, non-threatening, but impossible to ignore.
"Alright," he nodded. "Let's run it."
Filming rolled on.
Cameras up, tracks laid, clapperboard snapped.
"Final Destination, Scene XX, Take One, Action!"
Leon snapped into character. As Alex, he stumbled into the "safe house," panic practically tangible, words spilling out, hands trembling uncontrollably:
"It's coming… I feel it… I'm next… I know I'm next…"
Anne, as Claire, was wary at first, her body leaning back slightly, sizing up a volatile spark.
But as she watched him unravel, on the verge of breaking, a shared survivor's empathy—tied by the same rope of fate—slowly, reluctantly surfaced.
She took him in, her movements laced with resigned acceptance.
"Cut! Perfect! That's the vibe! Keep it there!"
James's voice crackled from behind the monitor, barely containing his excitement.
The close-up shots were grueling.
They huddled on a sleek sofa, lights casting their faces like they were trapped in a soft, sprawling conspiracy.
Sharing their deepest fears.
The scripted lines ran out, but the director didn't call cut.
Silence stretched, amplified by the lens.
Leon locked eyes with Anne and improvised:
"You think… we can really cheat it?"
It wasn't in the script—just Alex's desperation, or maybe Leon's own question, forced out by the eerie atmosphere.
Anne's eyelashes flickered, but she caught it, going off-script too, her voice a whisper:
"If we stick together… never let go… maybe."
Her hand rested on the sofa arm, millimeters from his, their skin close enough to sense faint warmth.
The air felt thick, suffocating.
James, behind the monitor, held his breath, frantically signaling the cinematographer to zoom in tighter.
The script's "almost kiss" moment arrived.
Their breaths tangled.
Leon could see his reflection in her pupils, smell her strawberry sweetness, feel the tension in her face.
Was it Claire's reliance on Alex? Anne testing Leon?
Or Leon's urge to conquer? Alex's longing for Claire?
The lines melted into a blurry mess.
He felt pushed by some invisible force, leaning closer.
She felt his breath graze her skin.
He saw the subtle, nervous swallow in her throat.
Her lips parted slightly, waiting—or inviting.
Bang!
The props team nailed the timed sound effect—a door slamming shut in the wind.
They jolted apart like they'd been shocked, hearts pounding, gasping, their eyes wide with genuine fear, as if Death itself had gripped their throats.
"Cut! Holy shit! Perfect! My God, that improv! That tension!"
James's voice broke with excitement as he leapt from his chair, practically dancing.
The set lights blazed, shattering the ambiguity and fear, leaving only raw awkwardness.
Anne's ears burned red as she ducked her head, fingers fidgeting with the coffee table's edge.
Leon's throat tightened, his last breath feeling like pure alcohol, scorching his throat and brain.
Damn. Too deep in character. He needed a cigarette. Now.
Wrap. No one spoke.
That interrupted intimacy clung to them, heavy, sticky, unshakable.
Anne didn't mention the script again.
Some scenes, once shot, stick in the body, in the cells, deeper than any lines.
That night, hotel room.
His phone rang. Scarlett.
"Safe house feel 'safe' today?" she asked, her tone unreadable.
"Safe, my ass," Leon muttered, loosening his collar as that suppressed heat surged back. "Nearly lost it in there. Soul's still AWOL."
"Hah! Even the great Leon fumbles?" She laughed, her voice slightly distorted through the receiver.
"Cost me too much," he chuckled, stepping to the window to stare at the sea of lights. "Almost didn't snap out of it. Anne… she plays hard."
A second of silence on the line, just faint static.
"Oh? Congrats, you found a real co-star," Scarlett said lightly.
They traded a few more casual set stories before hanging up.
The room fell deathly quiet, his pulse loud in his ears.
His mind lingered on Anne's eyes—wide, startled, yet sparking with some strange thrill.
Half Claire, half Anne, layered together, doubling the impact.
Damn. The aftershock was intense. He needed whiskey. Strong.
Filming hit its final stretch. Paris scenes.
Under blazing sun lamps, a massive green screen.
They had to play relaxed and sweet, six months after cheating Death.
James called it the toughest part—harder than running, harder than fear.
He yelled "Cut!" over and over, his voice growing hoarse.
"Relax! Relax! Damn it, you're a vacationing couple, not bank robbers on the run!"
"Leon! You're holding the woman you love, not a bomb strapped to your chest! Loosen those arms!"
"Anne! Smile sweeter! From the heart! Not a cheap toothpaste ad! Eyes! Make 'em smolder!"
Take after take, NG.
The vibe got tense.
Anne looked frustrated, sweat beading on her forehead, makeup artists rushing to touch her up.
She glanced at Leon, her eyes genuinely pleading: "How do I do this? I can't find it."
Leon stared back, his hunter's instinct mixing with irritation from the repeated takes.
He grabbed her wrist—not the script's gentle touch, but with undeniable force:
"Can't find it? Fine. Watch."
He didn't use Alex's expression. This was Leon—cynical, impatient, his thumb roughly brushing the softest skin on her wrist:
"Picture it: Death's on vacation. Screw the kill order. Just us in Paris. No one knows us."
His other hand yanked her waist, pulling her flush against him, their bodies pressed tight, heat mingling, distance erased.
"Now, forget the camera. Smile for me."
Anne gasped, caught off guard, her nose nearly brushing his chin, her breath hitching.
Her face flushed, but a smile bloomed—vivid, real, tinged with the thrill of being challenged:
"Like this, Professor Leon?"
"Not bad. Barely passing," he teased, tightening his grip, holding the near-aggressive stance, feeling the electric heat of her curves through the fabric and their racing heartbeats.
"Hold it. That's the state."
James opened his mouth but didn't call cut, his eyes gleaming as he signaled every camera to capture it.
The lenses devoured the raw, explosive chemistry.
The "Paris street" scene passed in one bizarre take.
Final scene.
A sign falls, Death's shadow looming, shattering the false calm.
Action.
The fake sign swayed mechanically on the green screen (effects to be added later).
Leon (Alex) and Anne (Claire) locked eyes.
The camera zeroed in, catching every quiver.
In her shrinking pupils, Leon saw Claire's bone-deep fear of Death's return—but deeper, Anne's reckless, blazing intensity.
A wild invitation. A challenge. To Death? Or to him?
He grabbed her hand.
Not for the script.
Leon grabbed Anne. His palm burned, slick with sweat, gripping so tight his knuckles whitened, as if he could crush their bones together.
Not a hand to flee with. A confirmation. A binding.
"Cut! That's a wrap!!"
Cheers erupted, champagne corks popped, applause roared like a tsunami.
The crowd surged, but it didn't pull them apart.
Neither let go.
In the chaotic tide, that sweaty, painfully tight grip was their only anchor, their only truth.
Seconds—or maybe a century—later, Anne's fingers twitched faintly in his near-spasming palm.
Leon flinched as if burned, letting go.
The damp, lingering pressure in his palm wouldn't fade.
Wrap party. Chaos.
Alcohol, perfume, and food smells filled the air.
Everyone's faces glowed with euphoria.
Leon and Anne were both plied with drinks.
Her cheeks flushed, her eyes dazzling as she weaved through the crowd, clinking glasses, laughing—a luminous fish reveling in the afterglow of survival.
He leaned in a quieter corner, beer bottle in hand, watching her.
His hunter's instincts kicked in, but they faltered:
Dangerous, tempting, hard to control—and maybe he wasn't entirely detached either.
She suddenly cut through the crowd, ignoring others trying to chat, and stopped right in front of him.
The music was loud, forcing her to lean close, her warm breath—sweet with champagne and fruit—brushing his ear:
"Thanks… for today's 'on-set lesson.'"
"Tuition fee?" Leon shot back, alcohol blurring boundaries, his mouth faster than his brain.
Anne laughed—not Claire's relieved smile or the one she gave Alex. This was Anne's—bold, reckless, openly provocative.
She didn't answer. Instead, she grabbed his wrist with surprising strength, yanking him from the corner, pulling him through the dancing crowd toward the hotel's fire escape.
The safety door slammed shut behind them.
The noise vanished.
Only the cold, pale emergency light outlined their shapes, their heavy, uneven breathing loud in the silence.
"No Death here," Anne said, her chest heaving, her eyes burning. "No cameras. No Alex. No Claire."
Leon leaned against the icy metal door, sizing her up like an opponent showing her full hand: "And?"
"And," she stepped closer, nearly pressed against him, her breath grazing his chin, "this is just Leon and Anne. Pure. Private."
No more words. She rose on her toes and kissed him.
Not the hesitant, fear-laced kiss of Claire and Alex.
Anne's kiss—champagne-drunk, decisive, undeniable, with a sweet, reckless madness.
Leon froze for a second.
All his hunter's calculations, his actor's detachment, burned to ash.
He kissed back, taking control, pinning her against the cold fire door.
The metal bit into her back as his breath drowned hers like a dark tide.
Clouds swallowed the moon, enveloping her in deeper darkness.
They churned, now tight, now soft, a silent struggle.
Like a long-brewing storm finally breaking, no hunting or pretense—just clouds and moon entwined.
A deep, consuming urge to meld into each other.
Time blurred as the clouds slowly parted.
Anne's eyes gleamed, ravenous.
"The scene's done," she said, voice husky. "Alex and Claire wrapped today."
"So?" Leon's thumb brushed her damp lower lip.
"So," she grabbed his wandering hand, her gaze startlingly direct, "now it's Leon and Anne's extra scene. No script talk. No director. You in?"
She pulled him again, not to the fire escape but to the elevator, her fingers jabbing the button urgently.
The room door barely closed—no time to swipe the keycard for lights—before war erupted in the dark.
Fabric tore, footsteps stumbled, bodies crashed into furniture, and ragged breaths wove into a savage symphony.
Clouds settled softly, wrapping everything gently.
Moonlight spilled in, a quiet gaze.
They sank into silver silence, clouds covering moon, moon piercing clouds, entwined yet wordless.
In a haze, it was unclear whose breath stirred the night's thin veil—only warmth and exhaustion melting into an invisible embrace.
Anne curled slightly, her back to him, her smooth shoulder glowing faintly in the dim light.
Leon leaned against the headboard, shaking out a cigarette and lighting it.
He took a deep drag, the sharp smoke rolling through his lungs.
His phone screen flared in the dark, blue light catching half his face.
A text from Scarlett:
Paris safe house scene done? Fully 'safe'? (laugh)
Sent nearly an hour ago.
Probably when they were tumbling into the room.
Leon stared at the message, then glanced at Anne, her breathing now slow and steady, her bare shoulder glinting.
Cigarette between his lips, his fingers hovered over the screen, smoke clouding his expression.
Then he swiped, dousing the screen.
He stubbed out the cigarette and didn't reply.
Lying down, he wrapped his arms around Anne.
Wrapped?
Maybe.
But this unscripted, dangerous overtime match had just kicked off.
And the hunter realized he might not be as in control as he thought.
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