Rick Dawson stared at the proposal on his desk as if it were a bomb. A beautiful, perfectly constructed bomb that could either blow a hole in the wall separating him from the life he wanted or detonate in his hands.
"This…" Rick breathed, tapping the cover page with a finger that was now perfectly steady. "This is a monster, Leo. I've never read anything like it."
He saw it all in a flash: the gamble, the glorious, terrifying risk. Losing meant getting quietly fired, packing up his sad little office, and trying to find work at a lesser agency. But winning? Winning meant a partnership. It meant a corner office with a view of the city, not a brick wall. At 35, he was tired of swimming in the shallows; this script was his chance to hunt in the deep water .
Leo's face was calm, betraying nothing. It was the unnerving calm of a man who already knew the outcome. "So you'll back it?"
"Back it? Kid, I'm going to strap myself to it," Rick said, a manic grin spreading across his face. "But first things first." He pointed a finger at Leo. "Take this. Go straight to the Writers Guild on Beverly. Get it registered. Get it stamped. I want the copyright for Chainsaw locked down so tight it squeaks. Understand?"
Leo simply nodded. The 52-year-old man inside him smiled. Dawson saw a lottery ticket. Arthur Vance saw the deed to a gold mine. The film was just the first step. The franchise, the sequels, the merchandise… that was the empire.
Their handshake wasn't an agreement; it was two men lashing their fates together before sailing into a hurricane .
The next morning, the air in the main conference room at CAA was thick with the smell of expensive coffee and ambition. Dozens of agents in sharp Italian suits filled the chairs around a vast, polished mahogany table. It was a shark tank, and at its head sat the Great White: Michael Ovitz .
Ovitz, a founder and the undisputed king of CAA, had the unassuming look of a history professor, complete with subtle, oval-rimmed glasses. But his eyes missed nothing. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, forcing everyone to lean in, to hang on every calculated word.
He let the murmur of conversation die naturally before speaking. "The battlefield is changing," Ovitz began, his gaze sweeping across the room. "The studios think they have the power. They have the lots, the distribution. But we have the talent. We don't just need actors anymore. We need more directors. Directors who make money. Directors who are loyal to us, not to a studio logo."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "We need new blood. With sharp teeth." He looked around the table. "What have you found?"
A few senior agents pitched their latest signings—a music video director with some buzz, a European auteur looking to make an American debut. Ovitz listened with polite disinterest.
Then, Rick Dawson stood up. A ripple of surprise went through the room. Agents from the cubicle farms rarely spoke in this meeting unless spoken to. Rick's heart was a frantic drum against his ribs, but he kept his voice even.
"Michael," he said, his voice cutting through the silence. He stepped forward and placed a single copy of Leo's proposal on the polished table in front of Ovitz. "I have something."
Ovitz looked from Rick's determined face down to the proposal. He read the name aloud, a hint of curiosity in his tone. "Leo Vance. The USC kid?"
"He has a project," Rick said. "A horror film. Low budget, high concept. The plan is complete—script, budget, marketing analysis. He just needs the funding to pull the trigger."
A smirk touched the lips of a senior agent across the table, but it vanished when Ovitz picked up the proposal. The room was silent, the only sound the faint rustle of paper as Ovitz began to read.
He didn't read it; he field-stripped it like a weapon, checking every component for weakness (Simile). His eyes scanned the budget first—lean, almost brutally efficient. He noted the professional formatting of the script, a silent nod of respect for the kid's preparation. Most rookie directors came in with nothing but a half-baked idea and a sense of entitlement. This was different. This was a battle plan.
Then his eyes settled on the script itself. He didn't read every word, but he didn't need to. He absorbed the concept, the structure, the engine of the story. His expression remained neutral, but Rick, watching his every micro-expression, saw a flicker of interest when he got to the description of Jigsaw. The tests. The philosophy. The puzzle piece cut from the flesh of failures.
This wasn't just a horror movie. It was a brand.
Ovitz closed the proposal and placed it deliberately back on the table. He looked at Rick, his gaze sharp and analytical.
"The script is the foundation," Ovitz stated, his voice now directed at the whole room. "The story works. But the director is a rookie. A talented rookie is still a liability."
He looked back at Rick. "We can't let him run wild. We'll need to control the environment."
Ovitz's mind was already packaging the project. It was what he did best.
"Find him an experienced assistant director, someone who knows how to keep a set on schedule. And a producer," he continued, his voice leaving no room for argument, "a junkyard dog who will watch every single dollar. His creativity will be filtered through our budget. No mistakes. No overages."
He pushed the proposal back toward Rick. The gesture was a dismissal and a command all in one.
"CAA will find the money. Get your director ready."