Three days after Raphael and Jessica officially moved in together, Ari's call came out of nowhere.
"Something you need to know."
"What?"
"Harvey Weinstein wants to meet you."
Raphael was instantly wide awake.
Harvey Weinstein.
Co-founder of Miramax. One of the most powerful producers in Hollywood.
The man whose films had racked up over three hundred Oscar nominations and seventy wins.
Pulp Fiction. The English Patient. Shakespeare in Love. The King's Speech. All his.
"What does he want?"
"To buy the rights to Step Up."
Ari's voice was tight. "He's offering twelve million."
Raphael almost laughed out loud.
Twelve million?
The whole movie cost ten. He wanted to flip it for a quick two-million profit?
"He wants to talk to you in person."
Ari sounded uneasy. "Raph… you gotta be careful. Weinstein is—"
He didn't finish the sentence, but Raphael understood perfectly.
Harvey Weinstein.
In this town the name meant power… and a very dark shadow.
Raphael had heard every rumor in his past life.
Decades of women harassed, assaulted, silenced—because he was "the most powerful man in Hollywood."
But it was still early 2002. The monster hadn't been fully unleashed yet.
"Where's the meeting?"
"A private club."
Raphael didn't hesitate.
"Send me the address."
Ari paused. "You sure?"
"Stop talking and send it."
Raphael hung up and stared out at the night sky.
Harvey Weinstein wanted to see him?
Fine. Let's meet.
---
When Raphael walked into the private club it was nine o'clock at night.
The atmosphere was heavier than the one Philip had arranged before—dim lighting, thick curtains, private booths hidden behind screens.
A waiter led him down a hallway and opened the last door.
Inside, a very fat man sat on a leather sofa, swirling a glass of whiskey.
Harvey Weinstein.
Fifty-one years old, six-foot-three, easily over two hundred and fifty pounds.
His custom suit was straining at the buttons.
He smiled, but the smile never reached his eyes.
"Raphael Lee."
Weinstein stood and extended a hand. "Call me Harvey."
Raphael shook it.
The man's hand was soft. Almost boneless.
"Have a seat."
Weinstein gestured to the opposite sofa. "Drink?"
"No thanks. I'm not old enough yet."
(And who the fuck would drink anything this pig offered?)
Weinstein chuckled and poured himself another.
"I've heard a lot about you, kid. You're hot right now."
Raphael stayed silent.
Weinstein kept going. "I also heard about your little passion project. Step Up. Ten-million budget, all your idea."
He paused.
"Twelve million. Sell it to me."
Raphael looked at him.
"No."
Weinstein froze.
"Excuse me?"
"I said no."
Weinstein's smile vanished.
The room went dead quiet for three full seconds.
Then Weinstein stood, walked over, and loomed over Raphael.
"You know who you're talking to, right?"
His voice dropped into a low threat. "I can make sure this movie never sees a theater. I can blackball your agent. I can make sure you never work in this town again."
He leaned down, breath hot and sour against Raphael's ear.
"You're too green, kid."
Raphael didn't move.
He just sat there, feeling the man's soft, boneless hand on his shoulder, smelling the whiskey on his breath.
Then he moved.
One punch.
Straight to Weinstein's gut.
Weinstein doubled over with a wet grunt.
Raphael stood and drove a second punch into his face.
Weinstein flew backward, crashing over the coffee table. Bottles shattered everywhere.
The door burst open. Two bodyguards rushed in.
Raphael looked at them, voice calm.
"Get out."
They charged.
Ten seconds later both men were on the floor, unconscious.
Raphael walked over to Weinstein, who was curled among the broken glass, bleeding from the mouth, eyes wide with shock and rage.
"You… you're finished!"
He gasped. "You're fucking done… I'll make sure you never—"
Raphael didn't wait for the rest.
He turned and walked out of the room, down the hallway, and out of the club.
The night air was cold.
He stood on the sidewalk, looking at the lights of Los Angeles, and thought one thing.
Harvey Weinstein.
That man cannot be allowed to live.
Not because of the threats.
Because of every woman he had already hurt and every one he would hurt in the future.
Raphael wasn't a hero.
But since he had run into this particular monster…
Might as well handle it.
---
That same night, Raphael changed into black clothes in his apartment.
At 2 a.m. he drove out of the garage.
Thanks to Weinstein's fame, finding his home address was easy.
A big Tudor-style mansion in West Hollywood. Heavy security.
None of it mattered.
Raphael's Dark Perception was at Level 3. He could sense every guard, every camera blind spot, every possible entry route.
Two hours later he stood beside Weinstein's bed.
The man was snoring heavily, a bandage still on the face Raphael had punched earlier.
Raphael raised his hand.
The Force slid into Weinstein's body like invisible fingers.
Not a mind trick.
Something darker he had read about in the restricted Jedi archives—manipulating blood flow inside a living body.
Cut off the heart's supply for a few seconds and you get a perfect heart attack.
Raphael didn't hesitate.
He closed his fist.
Weinstein's body jerked violently.
His eyes flew open, bulging, mouth opening in a silent gag.
His hand flailed toward the panic button on the nightstand.
It never reached it.
His arm dropped.
A minute later Harvey Weinstein stopped breathing.
Raphael turned and vanished into the night.
---
Three days later Jessica was doing yoga in the living room downstairs while Raphael flipped through a magazine upstairs.
Ari called, voice low.
"Seen the papers today?"
Raphael didn't look up.
"No. What's new?"
Ari picked up the New York Post and read the headline.
"Hollywood Mogul Harvey Weinstein Found Dead at Home — Heart Attack Suspected"
Raphael's eyes stayed on the magazine. His face didn't change.
Ari's breathing was audible over the line.
"Raph… this thing with you…"
Raphael cut him off smoothly.
"With me what?"
Ari hesitated, then sighed.
"Nothing."
He folded the paper. "Just keeping you posted if anything else comes up."
Raphael hung up and kept reading.
Everything was normal.
But deep down he knew those greedy, predatory eyes would never stare at another woman again.
---
That night, when Raphael closed his eyes and opened them again, he was exactly where he expected to be.
Blinding sunlight filtered through palm trees. Seagulls cried overhead. Distant hip-hop thumped from somewhere down the beach.
He looked down at himself—tight white T-shirt, faded jeans, beat-up sneakers.
A thick roll of cash in his hand.
The memories flooded in.
Brian O'Conner—former LAPD cop, kicked off the force for letting Dominic Toretto go. Now hiding out in Miami, making rent by street racing.
Raphael stood still for three full minutes, absorbing every detail.
Then he smiled.
"Nice."
Just like the first Fast movie, he had replaced Paul Walker.
He was Brian O'Conner now.
The real one—living, breathing, with twenty-plus years of memories in this world.
All his powers were still there: Dom's fighting skills, the Force, Selene's blessing.
That was all he needed.
His phone rang.
"Yo, bro!"
Tej's voice boomed over the line, background noise full of bass and women laughing. "You down for a race tonight?"
Raphael's mouth curved.
In the original story, Brian took this call, raced, won money, got busted, and was forced to go undercover.
But this time—
"Yeah," he said. "I'll be there."
He hung up and headed straight for the garage.
Brian's car sat under a dusty tarp in the corner.
Raphael yanked the cover off.
Silver-gray bodywork gleamed under the afternoon sun.
Nissan Skyline GT-R R34.
Fully built RB26DETT twin-turbo, HKS exhaust, coilovers, semi-slick tires.
Most of the money Brian had scraped together lately had gone into this car.
Raphael slid into the driver's seat.
The second his hands touched the wheel, Dom Toretto's driving instincts and Brian's own memories fused perfectly.
He closed his eyes, feeling the subtle rumble of the engine.
Tonight, this car was going to run faster than it ever had in the original timeline.