Deadline

"What? Premiering on Memorial Day?"

Christian stared at Westwood like he'd lost it.

"It's already mid-April. Memorial Day's at the end of May. That gives us what—a month? And that's not even counting theatre bookings or promotion."

"I know it's tight," Westwood said carefully.

"Tight?" someone cut in—an old hand from post-production.

"It's a surgeon-on-a-crash-victim kind of tight.

No space for polish. Forget fancy effects. You want a full post-production turnaround in thirty days. You out of your damn mind, Tony?"

"Maybe," Westwood said without flinching.

He didn't argue because deep down, he knew it was reckless.

But the timing... the timing was gold.

"Right now, the headlines about Alan are working in our favor," he added.

"I want to ride that wave before it crashes."

Christian raised a brow. "So this is about striking while the corpse is still warm?"

Westwood gave a slow nod.

"Exactly."

Christian leaned back in his chair, weighing it.

"Honestly, I think even getting it done before Independence Day would be a miracle."

"But wait too long," Westwood said, "and we lose the window."

He was right. Hollywood had the attention span of a gnat.

Alan's case wasn't some sprawling saga—it was a flare.

Hot now, cold tomorrow. Christian exhaled and offered the only card he had.

"Fine. We'll push. I'll handle the edit myself. Cut out the back-and-forth, keep the process lean."

Westwood didn't hesitate. He knew Christian was angling for final cut privileges, but he didn't care.

Right now, speed mattered more than ego. And Christian's rough cuts were solid—maybe not Alien-level, but good enough for what they were making.

Even so, Richard, the assistant director, looked worried.

"Even with that, best-case we finish in early June. Then there's the matter of theatre schedules."

"Already handled," Westwood said.

"Fox is on board. As soon as Alan's name hit the news, they saw dollar signs. Distribution's covered."

He locked eyes with them all. "We move fast, we own this. Memorial Day might be pushing it, but if we hit before July 4th, we're in good shape."

Christian nodded once. "You'll have it."

Westwood seemed relieved.

"Also... they might find Eliza Kunis' body in the next few days. If that happens, this thing could stay in the headlines for months."

Christian didn't flinch. He'd seen worse—heard worse.

And if the world wanted to gorge on tragedy, he'd give them something to choke on.

"Do you think serial killers are that common?"

Westwood looked ready to argue, then paused, brow furrowed.

"Wait… are you serious?"

Christian gave him a crooked smile, all teeth and shadows.

"Of course not—it's a joke. I'm not a murderer. How the hell would I know that?"

"Right. Of course."

Westwood wiped his forehead. He was sweating now, and not from the heat.

Christian tilted his head.

"That reminds me—Sally called. Said an FBI agent's been sniffing around about Alan, and that you told them I wasn't available. You don't actually think I've got anything to do with this, do you?"

Westwood forced a dry laugh. "Why on earth would I think that?"

But his face said otherwise.

Christian wasn't the killer. That much was true. But his hands weren't clean either.

He'd made a deal with something that was a killer—a shapeshifter of sorts—an old pagan spirit reborn through blood and silence.

It called itself the Wrath Tiger, borrowing names like masks.

He hunted along the edges of forgotten woods and hollow towns, feeding on the broken.

In return for secrecy and silence, it gave Christian what he needed: the corpses of its victims, timed and staged to stir the press into a frenzy.

Christian didn't lose sleep over it. He got what he wanted—attention.

And as far as he was concerned, the dead were already beyond help.

With that deal in place, he focused on the film.

Post-production moved at a brutal pace.

He worked late nights in the editing bay, stitching together the madness while outside, Los Angeles slipped further into hysteria.

First, it was Alan McElroy.

Then Eliza Kunis.

Then, two more bodies were found dumped in the foothills of northern California.

Every other week, another missing person was found—bruised, buried, broadcast.

A pattern formed. The press ran with it.

"This is classic serial killer behavior. Brazen, escalating. We urge the LAPD and FBI to act swiftly—before more lives are lost."

The Los Angeles Post ran it like a front-page war bulletin. Other outlets followed suit.

News anchors swapped evening pleasantries for grim autopsy summaries. Public outrage simmered, and behind it, fascination.

One headline from the American Sentinel read: How Many More Are Out There?

It didn't take long before comparisons to the Black Dahlia case surfaced.

Some networks even called it The Dahlia Reborn.

For the media, it was gold. For Christian, it was oxygen.

He didn't have to promote the movie. The news was doing it for him.

Alan McElroy—dead, disgraced, infamous—was now being lionized in death.

His twisted habits with his co-star leaked out, courtesy of a few quiet whispers from Westwood's team.

A posthumous star was born.

It was said that Harvey, one of the old studio heads, muttered, "What a revolting bastard." But even that played well in the press.

By now, the entire country knew about it.

Coast to coast, people were tuning in to the madness.

The FBI scrambled to keep up. LAPD, ever diplomatic, shifted blame to underfunding and jurisdictional overlap. None of it mattered.

Morbid curiosity had become a national pastime.

Even Vinales Valley—the site of one of the body dumps—saw a bizarre uptick in tourism. A 40% rise in visitors by May.

Christian didn't know what was worse: the killings or the people coming to snap photos.

Somewhere, the Wrath Tiger stirred, feeding off the fear. It didn't like the attention. Predators prefer silence.

"People aren't afraid of death," it had told Christian once.

"They're afraid of being forgotten."

Westwood, meanwhile, was both horrified and ecstatic.

The chaos had driven up awareness of Wrong Turn far beyond their modest budget.

Despite the inevitable R-rating, he landed over 2,000 screens for opening weekend.

Theatres smelled blood in the water—and profit.

And if the hype dies down later? So what? They'd cut the run short—standard practice.

Time marched on. Memorial Day passed in a blur of headlines and candlelight vigils. Now it was mid-June, and opening day was here.

Wrong Turn was about to hit the big screen.