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Five minutes later, Raphael's phone buzzed on the Miami beach.
It was a text from Madeline.
Take care of yourself.
Raphael felt a flicker of embarrassment. Mom's concern hit different when you were literally sandwiched between two Victoria's Secret Angels.
He really wanted to reply: It's not me being reckless, Mom. They're the ones who won't let me sleep.
But with his current body stats, he could've gone another round and still shown up for breakfast fresh. He just put the phone down and didn't answer.
---
Three days later, Raphael flew back to Los Angeles alone.
Lima and Ambrosio both came to the airport to see him off.
"Call me when you wrap… or us," Lima said, looking pleasantly wrecked. Not from emotion—pure physical exhaustion.
"Or we can fly out and visit set," Ambrosio added with a wicked little smile.
Raphael looked at the two of them and felt, for the first time in a while, that this vacation had ended way too soon.
But work was work.
He boarded the plane, settled into first class, and the second the wheels left the runway his brain already shifted gears to the next project.
The Matrix Reloaded.
Keanu Reeves.
The Wachowskis and Yuen Woo-ping.
---
The moment he landed in L.A., Ari's call came right on time.
"Back?"
"Just touched down."
"Larry and Andy are breathing down our necks. You start tomorrow. They condensed all your scenes into the next two weeks—finish and you're free."
"Perfect."
"Oh, and Jessica Alba's schedule finally cleared. Honey starts principal photography on the 10th next month. You know how to dance?"
Raphael thought back to his awkward high-school prom moves.
"I can… get by?"
"That's a no. I'll loop in Philip. He'll handle the dance boot camp."
Ari laughed.
---
The Matrix Reloaded was shooting on Warner Bros. soundstages.
When Raphael walked onto the set, the first person he saw was Keanu Reeves.
The man was sitting in the corner wearing a full-length black coat, reading—not the script, but an actual philosophy book.
He looked up, eyes landing on Raphael for two full seconds.
Then he smiled.
"You're here?"
Raphael raised an eyebrow. "You waiting for me?"
Keanu closed the book and stood. "Master Yuen said your moves are insane. Told me I had to see it myself."
Master Yuen? The respect in Keanu's voice made Raphael raise an eyebrow again.
"Now?"
"Right now."
Five minutes later the two of them were in the training area.
Yuen Woo-ping stood off to the side, holding a prop sword, grinning like a proud grandpa.
"Keanu, you first. Show the kid what real sword work looks like."
Keanu took the sword and fell into a clean stance. He'd been training with Yuen since the first film—four years of brutal work. He wasn't some poser anymore.
Raphael took his own sword.
They locked eyes for three seconds.
Then they moved.
Steel clashed. Shadows blurred.
Keanu's strikes were crisp, powerful, every cut carrying real weight.
But Raphael was faster.
His blade always arrived half a beat early, intercepting every attack like it could read Keanu's mind.
Thirty seconds later Keanu stepped back, breathing hard, staring at him.
"How long have you been training?"
Raphael thought about it.
"Less than six months."
"Bullshit!"
Keanu laughed, clearly not buying it.
Then he grinned wider.
"Impossible."
Raphael grinned back.
"I know, right?"
Their first meeting ended with both men deciding the other guy was pretty cool.
Keanu was eighteen years older, but they had a lot in common—mixed heritage, both liked their quiet time, both didn't give a damn what the tabloids wrote.
The local papers immediately dubbed Raphael "Baby Keanu."
Keanu himself just rolled his eyes when he heard it.
"Baby Keanu?"
Raphael shrugged. "Media loves a hook."
Keanu thought about it. "I don't mind."
Raphael laughed. "Neither do I. Not many people have lived through the shit you have. Maybe 'Baby Keanu' can shoulder some of the curse for you. Hope your luck turns around from here on out."
Keanu blinked, then burst out laughing—loud, genuine, the hardest he'd laughed on set in months.
Compared to Keanu, Raphael's relationship with Laurence Fishburne (Morpheus) was just polite nods in the hallway.
And Carrie-Anne Moss (Trinity)? Even colder. She actively seemed to dislike him.
Raphael had no idea why. He just chalked it up to her not liking his face.
It was the first time in his nineteen years a woman had straight-up disliked him on sight.
He didn't lose sleep over it. Carrie-Anne's career trajectory was… fine. And her jawline was somehow even sharper than Gisele's. Raphael had never been into that tomboy energy anyway.
What actually stung was missing out on Monica Bellucci.
Her role as the Merovingian's wife was tiny, and the second her scenes wrapped she flew straight back to Italy.
When Keanu casually mentioned it in the trailer, Raphael's face showed exactly how he felt—pure, undisguised disappointment.
Keanu looked surprised, then started teasing him.
"You're… what, nineteen? Monica's my age. You really think that's a good idea?"
"Love has no age!" Raphael declared shamelessly.
Keanu shook his head, laughing. "But it does have a lower half, right?"
Raphael gave him the you get me, bro look.
---
Everything else on The Matrix went stupidly smooth.
Raphael's action scenes were almost all one-take wonders.
Yuen Woo-ping's planned "special training" sessions were completely unnecessary.
Ten days later, every single one of Raphael's scenes was in the can—half a month ahead of schedule.
The Wachowskis were privately joking that maybe they'd overpaid him.
Raphael had zero guilt. His part was almost all fights, no heavy dialogue. Easiest money he'd ever made.
On wrap day, Keanu gave him a book.
Siddhartha.
"I noticed you like quiet time on set. Thought you might enjoy this."
Raphael flipped through it. He wasn't huge on German dudes writing about Indian dudes, but he accepted the gift with a smile.
"Thanks."
Keanu shook his hand.
"Next time we work together."
"Next time."
---
The second Raphael stepped off the lot, Ari called.
"Done? Perfect, got news."
"Shoot."
"Fast and Furious DVD and VHS backend just cleared. Fifty grand."
Raphael raised an eyebrow. "That much?"
"You're hot right now."
Ari chuckled. "Also, Jessica Alba's contract is signed. Honey starts principal on the 10th. Marc Platt and director Bille Woodruff have one requirement—"
"What?"
"Dance training. You need to take professional lessons before cameras roll."
"How long?"
"Two weeks. Philip already booked the studio."
Raphael thought about the last two weeks of sword fights and wire work on The Matrix.
Dance?
Should be… fine, right?
---
The next morning Raphael walked into the dance studio Philip had found—third floor of an unassuming building in downtown L.A., whole floor converted into rehearsal rooms.
The second he pushed open the door, he met his instructor.
A fifty-something Black man, graying hair, still in killer shape, posture straight as a blade.
"Raphael Lee?"
He extended a hand. "Henry Simmons. Twenty years on Broadway, twenty more teaching. Nice to meet you."
Raphael shook it. "Hey."
Henry gave him a slow once-over—shoulders to calves.
"Your file says you've never studied dance?"
"Never."
"But your agent swears your coordination is off the charts?"
Raphael thought about it.
"I won't disappoint you."
Henry nodded.
"Let's see."
For the next thirty minutes Henry put him through every basic—stretches, jumps, turns, balance.
When they finished, Henry was quiet for a long time.
Then he said, "You're sure you've never danced?"
"Positive."
"Then how the hell did you build a body that moves like this?"
Raphael shrugged.
"MMA. Sword training."
Henry stared at him like he'd grown a second head.
"Some people are born dancers. Some train their whole lives and never get it. You're the first kind."
He paused.
"No. You're better. Your body is a goddamn animal."
Raphael didn't argue.
He wasn't about to explain the Force, Dom Toretto's muscle memory, or Jedi reflexes.
"Let's start," Henry said, looking almost relieved. He'd clearly been bracing himself to teach a complete beginner in two weeks.
---
The next two weeks Raphael was in the studio every day—8 a.m. to 6 p.m.
Henry started with fundamentals, then threw every style at him: waltz, tango, hip-hop, street, contemporary.
Raphael picked it up terrifyingly fast.
Sometimes Henry would stop mid-count, stare at him for five seconds, shake his head, and keep going.
"You know something?" Henry said one afternoon.
"What?"
"I've taught for twenty years. Never met anyone like you."
"Like what?"
"You watch once, you do it perfectly the second time. Like your brain already knows the move and your body just has to catch up."
Raphael shrugged. "Maybe all the fighting helped."
Henry barked a laugh.
"Fighting and dancing are opposites. Fighting is instinct. Dancing is control. You've got both."
Raphael just kept dancing.
---
Two weeks later, Henry stood in the center of the studio watching Raphael run the full final routine one last time.
When the last beat hit, Raphael stopped, breathing perfectly even.
Henry was quiet for a few seconds, then smiled.
"I've got nothing left to teach you."
Raphael blinked. "It's only been two weeks!"
"For anyone else, two weeks is nothing. For you? You're a freak." Henry bumped fists with him. "Good luck with the movie, man."
Raphael grinned.
"Thanks, Henry."