Green and blue light clashed, accompanied by the high-pitched, abrasive shriek of polycarbonate grinding against polycarbonate.
Raphael took a step back, letting Ewan's lightsaber hiss past his ear, close enough to leave a wake of disturbed air.
"Too slow," Ewan panted, sweat already beading on his forehead.
"So are you," Raphael replied.
He was slow.
But not because he was tired. It was because he was consciously holding back.
He was forcing himself not to use the lethal, instinctual strikes he'd drilled relentlessly in the dream world. He had to keep reminding himself that he was in the real world, and his opponent was just an actor who had only picked up a lightsaber for the first time four years ago.
Raphael lowered his center of gravity.
The blades locked again.
This time, he didn't pull his punch. Ewan's lightsaber was ripped from his grip, bouncing twice on the concrete floor before rolling away into the shadows.
Ewan stood there, chest heaving, staring at his empty hand.
"Shit," he muttered softly.
It wasn't anger. It wasn't frustration.
It was awe.
He looked up at Raphael.
"You seriously expect me to believe you've never trained before?"
Raphael didn't answer.
He thumbed the ignition switch on his own blade, turning it off. He walked over, picked up Ewan's discarded hilt, and placed both weapons back on the rack against the wall.
"We've got training again tomorrow. Keep your elbow tucked in. You're lifting your arm too high on the follow-through; it leaves your centerline wide open."
With that, Raphael turned and walked out the door.
---
The official cast table read was three days later.
Raphael arrived at the conference room twenty minutes early, but he wasn't the first one there.
Someone was already sitting near the window—wearing a cream cashmere sweater, her long hair falling over her shoulders. She was reading the script, a cup of Earl Grey tea sitting untouched next to her.
Natalie Portman.
She looked up, her gaze sweeping over him coolly.
"Raphael Lee?"
"Ms. Portman," Raphael nodded.
"Call me Natalie." Her tone was strictly professional. "Do you want tea or coffee? The coffee machine is over there, and I have tea bags in my purse."
"I'm fine, thanks."
Raphael took a seat on the opposite side of the long table, keeping a polite, diagonal distance between them. He opened his script and flipped to the scenes they were scheduled to read that day.
The room was quiet for about three minutes.
"Your swordplay is impressive," Natalie suddenly remarked, not looking up from her pages.
Raphael paused halfway through turning a page.
"You saw that?"
"From the observation deck," she said. "I wasn't the only one. Ewan was there, too."
"Oh."
"He came back and told us..." Natalie finally looked up, her expression unreadable, "that he just met a nineteen-year-old Jedi Master."
Raphael stayed quiet for a few seconds.
"He's exaggerating."
"He said you disarmed him."
"...He let me win."
Natalie stared at him. She didn't argue.
But her eyes clearly said: I don't believe you.
Silence fell over the room again.
Raphael could feel it—the heightened Force perception he'd honed in the dream world bleeding over into reality. The girl sitting across from him didn't feel curious or intrigued. She wasn't giving him the usual, subtle once-over people gave newcomers.
She was evaluating him.
It felt exactly like the look opposing debate captains gave each other right before a tournament: Who are you, what are your cards, and are you worth taking seriously?
The table read went smoothly.
At 4:00 PM, Lucas called it a day and told everyone to be back tomorrow.
The cast began filtering out. Raphael stayed in his seat to organize his notes when he heard footsteps behind him.
"Raphael."
It was Natalie. She was holding her completely cold cup of tea.
"I wanted to ask you something."
Raphael turned around. "Shoot."
"The first major scene between Padmé and Anakin." She looked down at a dog-eared page in her script. "By the lake on Naboo. The confession. How are you reading that scene?"
The question caught him off guard.
Raphael thought for a second. "What do you mean?"
"I mean..." Natalie looked him in the eye, "why does Anakin say it exactly then?"
"'Because I'm in love with you'?"
"Right." Her brow furrowed slightly—not at him, but in deep concentration. "There's almost zero buildup in the script before that line. No lingering looks, no hesitation, no struggling to find the words. He just blurts it out. It doesn't track."
Raphael stayed silent for a long moment.
He thought back to the real Anakin in the dream world. The kid he'd crossed paths with in the Temple corridors, whose eyes were constantly burning with a toxic mix of anxiety and desperate hunger.
"He says it then because he's terrified, and it's the only window he's got."
Natalie watched him, waiting for him to explain.
"Jedi aren't allowed to have attachments," Raphael said slowly. "Padmé is a Senator. She's a massive public figure for the Republic. She could be pulled away from Coruscant at any second. Anakin has no idea when he's going to see her again. He doesn't know if he'll ever get another chance to say it. He doesn't have time to build up to it. He doesn't have time to test the waters. All he can do is..." Raphael paused. "...throw the words at her before the panic completely drowns him."
Natalie didn't respond immediately.
She looked back down at her script. That specific line of dialogue was highlighted in yellow three times.
"Before the panic drowns him..." she repeated softly. "Where are you getting that he's panicked?"
"Look at his next line." Raphael tapped his own script. "Padmé asks him, 'How do you know it's love and not something else?' And his answer is—"
"'It's the only thing I'm sure of,'" Natalie finished the quote.
"That's not something a confident guy says," Raphael pointed out. "That's something a drowning man says when he grabs a piece of driftwood."
Natalie looked up, really looking at him for the first time.
"I see." She closed her script. "Thank you."
She turned and walked out, her steps a little lighter than before.
Raphael didn't dwell on it. He packed up his bag and headed back to the hotel.
---
Later that evening, the Sydney winter rain was still hammering the metal roof of the soundstage.
Raphael was back in his hotel room. His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
He picked it up. Ari's name flashed on the screen.
"Raph," the agent's voice sounded like he'd just sprinted half a mile. "Can you talk?"
"Yeah." Raphael sat up on the edge of the bed. "What's going on?"
"I just walked out of a meeting at Universal." Ari paused, deliberately drawing out the suspense. "Want to guess what Fast is at domestically?"
Raphael didn't guess. He waited.
"A hundred million!" Ari exploded, unable to hold it in any longer. "Third weekend, and we're sitting at $107 million domestic. Universal is popping champagne right now. Neal Moritz told me to pass on a message: You are the youngest lead in the movie, and you've got the highest ROI of anyone on the cast."
Raphael didn't say anything.
"Raph? Are you there?"
"I'm here."
"Why aren't you screaming?" Ari sounded exasperated. "Do you understand what this means? The movie cost $38 million to make. We just cleared $107 million in North America alone. We're tracking to break $200 million globally. Your press tour numbers were insane. NBC cut that clip of you with the shopping cart on Leno and put it online; it's got over two million views. Right now, you are the single most valuable new face in Hollywood. Period."
Raphael looked down, a very faint smile touching his lips.
It wasn't because the news was a surprise.
It was because he already knew.
He knew The Fast and the Furious was going to be the biggest dark horse of 2001.
He knew the undercover cop in blue jeans driving a Supra was going to make an entire generation of teenagers lose their minds.
He knew that three minutes of unscripted, goofy chaos with a broken shopping cart on The Tonight Show would kill with the audience.
He knew all of it.
He'd known it since the second he woke up from the dream world.
But hearing Ari actually say the words "$107 million" out loud made it real. The numbers weren't just a debt limit on his system panel anymore, or theoretical investment capital for his stock plays.
It was undeniable leverage. For the first time in his nineteen years of life, he had the kind of weight that made the rest of the world shut up and listen.
"Raph?" Ari called out again.
"I'm listening. Tell Neal I said thank you."
"Tell him yourself. Universal is throwing a massive wrap party next week. I need you to fly back from Sydney—actually, never mind. Star Wars is the priority. I'll tell them you're tied up on set."
"Good."
The line went quiet for a few seconds.
"One more thing," Ari's voice dropped, taking on a slightly more complicated tone. "Paul Walker's team put out some PR today. Said a few things that weren't exactly friendly. The media is going to start running articles comparing the two of you. Just wanted to give you a heads-up so you aren't blindsided."
Raphael stayed silent.
"I'm not telling you to watch your back," Ari clarified quickly. "It's just..."
"I know," Raphael cut him off smoothly. "Anything else?"
"No, that's it... make sure you take care of yourself out there. Winter in Australia is no joke. Your mom told Philip to tell me to tell you to wear a jacket. Your family's communication relay is more efficient than the CIA."
Raphael's mouth twitched into a real smile. "Hanging up now."
"Wait," Ari said suddenly. "I almost forgot the best part."
"What?"
Raphael heard the sound of papers shuffling on the other end.
"CK."
"...What?"
"Calvin Klein," Ari enunciated every syllable. "Global brand ambassador for both the denim and underwear lines. Ten million dollars over three years."
"Are they insane? Since when does CK pay that kind of money? Wasn't Mark Wahlberg their last big guy?" Raphael sounded genuinely surprised.
"Wahlberg just did a few campaign shoots with Kate Moss. He was never the face of the entire global brand," Ari said, his voice hushed like he was afraid someone was listening in. "The catch is, you have to do both lines simultaneously. They don't just want you in the jeans with your shirt off. They want the full package."
Three years.
Ten million dollars.
No nineteen-year-old rookie in the history of Hollywood had ever been offered a contract like that.
"Philip already forwarded the letter of intent to my inbox," Ari continued. "We'll hammer out the official contract next week. Do you understand what I'm saying, Raph? This isn't sunglasses or cologne. This is CK underwear. You're going to be on a sixty-foot billboard in the middle of Times Square."
Raphael didn't answer.
He looked down at the hand holding his phone.
His fingers were long, and there were already thin calluses forming on his palms—the physical proof of the endless hours he'd spent swinging a lightsaber.
And right now, the voice on the other end of the line was telling him: Three years, ten million dollars, and your face is going up in Times Square.