The air at Brad Pitt's LA estate carried a warmth unique to California nights — equal parts ocean breeze and expensive whiskey. The pool lights painted the water in shifting blues, music pulsed in the background, and every conversation seemed to hum with either power or scandal.
Izaac moved through the crowd with practiced subtlety, sometimes at Henry's side, sometimes with Tom Cruise, who had taken an unexpected liking to him. Tom navigated the party like a king on familiar ground, waving Izaac over to introduce him to names that didn't just own LA — they shaped it. One producer, half-drunk and leaning on a glass balustrade, squinted at Izaac and chuckled, "You could be James Gunn's next Bruce Wayne. The brooding, silent type. Just get you in a suit, and we're done."
Tom grinned, clapping Izaac on the shoulder. "Careful — this guy knows how to fight. Tokyo, two years ago. Different scene, different story, but trust me, you wouldn't want to be on the other end."
Before Izaac could respond, the energy in the party shifted. Near the marble bar, two men in sharp, open-collar suits drew a small crowd. Both were large, broad-shouldered, with the kind of cauliflower ears you only got from years of punishment. B-tier MMA fighters — not Hollywood famous, but famous enough in sports circles to be feared. They were loud, already drunk, and laughing too hard at their own jokes.
Brad Pitt leaned toward Izaac with a low murmur, "Stay clear of those two. They're a mess when they drink. No one here wants to get into it with them."
Tom, standing nearby, gave a knowing glance. "He's right. If they get started, you just let it slide."
Izaac nodded — until he saw who they'd cornered.
Elizabeth Olsen. She was poised as always, in an understated cream silk dress, but her eyes were flat with discomfort. The MMA pair had gotten far too close, their grins sharp, their words crossing into things better left unsaid.
Normally, Elizabeth would have walked away — she'd learned long ago not to give predators an audience. But here, they blocked her path, using their size and fame like a wall.
From across the patio, Madelyn Cline and Madison Beer were watching from a lounge couch, half-hidden by potted palms. Sydney Sweeney, perched beside Ben Affleck at a corner table, swirled her drink slowly, her gaze flicking toward the scene with detached curiosity.
Brad caught Izaac's eye. "Seriously. Let it go."
But he didn't.
Izaac walked over, not fast, not challenging — just closing the gap until his presence was undeniable. "Evening, gentlemen," he said evenly. "She's not interested."
One of them laughed, a low, mocking sound. "And you are?"
"I'm the guy telling you to back up," Izaac replied, his voice flat as steel.
The other fighter stepped in, crowding the space. "You know who we are?"
"Yeah," Izaac said. "And I know what you're about to regret."
The first punch came from the left — heavy, fast. It caught Izaac on the cheek, snapping his head back. The second came right after, slamming into his ribs hard enough to rattle him. Gasps went up around the patio, a ripple of disbelief that anyone had dared swing here.
Izaac straightened. Didn't move back. Didn't flinch.
He grabbed the nearest thing — a heavy-bottomed cocktail glass — and smashed it against the bar's wood edge, sending the top shattering harmlessly while keeping the solid base in his hand. The first fighter stepped in again, and Izaac drove the edge into his solar plexus, folding him forward with a choked wheeze.
The second fighter lunged, but Izaac sidestepped, grabbed a loose plank from the serving cart, and swung it hard into the man's jaw. The crack of impact was sharp and final.
They came together then, both of them. Izaac moved like the Tokyo rumor Tom had hinted at — a jab to one throat, an elbow to the other's ribs, pivoting before either could recover. A spinning kick caught the second man across the temple, sending him crashing into the side of the pool with a splash.
Silence. Then a few muffled cheers.
Elizabeth exhaled slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "You didn't have to do that," she said quietly, though the flicker in her eyes wasn't disapproval.
"I couldn't watch it," he said simply.
From her table, Sydney Sweeney smirked over the rim of her glass, murmuring something to Ben Affleck that made him chuckle. Madelyn and Madison, still on the couch, exchanged a glance that was equal parts amusement and something sharper — as if both had just decided, without speaking, I'm going to get him.
Tom Cruise clapped Izaac on the back, laughing loud enough for the whole patio to hear. "Now that's the guy I was telling you about."
Henry Golding grinned from across the bar, lifting his glass in salute.
And somewhere behind them, Brad Pitt muttered to himself, "Well… guess he's on the invite list for the next one."