Dubai, Burj Al Arab.
Or, to be precise, the Burj Al Arab—named for its sailboat silhouette rising up like something out of a desert mirage.
It's the world's only true seven-star spot, perched on a man-made island 280 meters off the coast. Full 360-degree ocean views, no blind spots.
The Dubai prince rolls out the red carpet for the Spy King crew, treating Luke like he's Jackie Chan reincarnated.
Not just comping their stay and eats during the shoot—he's footing the bill for extras, props, the works.
Right now, Luke's kicking back in a swanky restaurant with director Cohen and Bob, chowing down while hashing out tomorrow's game plan.
Depp, Yuffie, and Vin Diesel are hanging on every word from the sidelines—they're all in on tomorrow's scene.
What's on deck? One of Spy King's gutsiest sequences: scaling the Burj Khalifa.
Luke cracks open an Aussie lobster, shoves a chunk in his mouth like it's a drumstick, and says, "Man, we've been nonstop all year. Just wrapped Moscow and boom—straight to Dubai. Hope the wife's not giving you grief about it."
Bob shakes his head. "Nah, we're good. After all these years of this hustle, she's used to it."
Luke gets real. "Ain't no such thing as 'used to it' with marriage. Keep checking in on her, or you'll wake up to a five-alarm fire at home."
Bob pops a lobster tail himself. "Got it. Damn, this thing's killer—worth every penny of that $150 a pop. Luke, any thoughts on tomorrow's stunt?"
"That's your fifth one," Luke ribs him. "I'm legit worried about your gut."
"Shoot first—prep's all squared away on my end," Cohen jumps in. "What's your take, Luke?"
"Feels a tad too basic to me," Luke lays it out.
"Basic? I'm already sweating bullets. Pay me all you want—I ain't touching that scene," Depp chimes in from the peanut gallery.
"For real," Vin Diesel piles on. "We're talking 600 meters up in the air. You know how nuts that is? Like stacking 200 regular buildings on top of each other."
The Burj tops out at 828 meters, but the tippy-top's no-go for filming, so Luke's picked a sweet spot at 600.
"Still not punchy enough for what I want," Luke pushes.
Bob's setup's straight out of that timeline where Tom Cruise "climbs" it—Luke plastered to the side, faking the moves while a safety line hauls him up.
Lock down the rigging, and it's low-risk. Just gotta gut through the height jitters.
Sounds like a breeze, right? Piece of cake?
Hell no.
Dangling 600 meters over oblivion, lifeline your only buddy? Most folks'd freeze up or lose their lunch.
One gust of wind up there, and you're lucky not to be screaming for mama or peeing your pants. Pulling off death-defying poses like it's ground level? That's a nope for 99% of us.
But Luke's calling it too easy?
It's not some death wish—guy just hates settling.
[This stunt's danger level: D. No rewards for host.]
System straight-up no-sells it, and Luke knows it's barely D-tier challenge.
Film it this way, and yeah, crowds'll gasp. But he'd be shortchanging himself.
He knows he can crush harder!
Gotta grind for those system points, level up his grit.
So he drops his pitch: "Ditch the ropes hauling me up. What if I free-climb it for real?"
Last life, Tom Cruise wowed 'em with magnetic gloves on screen.
Reality? Just cables yanking him skyward—no actual climbing.
Luke? Wants bare hands, no pull. Pure grit.
"You lost your damn mind? You a spider monkey now?" Bob blurts first.
"That glass is slicker than ice—how the hell you gripping that?" Vin Diesel follows up.
"I'm tall—long arms, long legs. Ditch the shoes and socks, brace hands and feet on the metal window frames, friction's your friend. Could work," Luke counters.
"Bro, that's gonna gas you out. Fine for a floor or two, but 15 stories like that?" Bob presses.
"Let's test it. Won't know till we try. I trust my stamina," Luke insists.
Can't talk him down, so Bob caves: "Your call, hotshot. We'll give it a shot. If it flops, we roll with my plan."
In his head, Luke pings the system: Rate the upgraded stunt's challenge!
[This stunt's danger level: C. No rewards for host.]
Shit!
System's still meh-ing it. Under B-tier, no attribute bumps.
Fair play, though—the real killer here's the head game, not raw peril or tech. Doesn't stack up to that mast fight in Pirates.
B-grade's a stretch, sure.
But Luke's already gone big: Spy King's gonna be the most heart-pounding action flick ever.
His benchmark? Not the field—it's his own damn highlight reel.
No fresh peaks, and he's letting down the fans... and himself.
"Gimme two more tweaks!" He doubles down.
"What? You still ramping it up?" Bob groans.
"Luke, ease off—you don't gotta push this hard," Cohen advises.
"To own next year's box office? I need perfection. Otherwise, no shot at toppling Return of the King," Luke fires back.
"Man, where's this obsession coming from? Chasing that number-two spot like it's the Super Bowl ring," Bob gripes.
"So spill—what else you tweaking?" Cohen prods.
"That mid-air slip-and-fall bit? I'm thinking double drop," Luke says.
"You off the rails?" Bob gets it instantly.
In the choreo, Luke hits the target floor, busts through the window... and whoops—tumbles.
Hundreds of feet up, free-falling four or five stories before snagging the ledge. Sweat-inducing gold.
But double drop?