The line was quiet for a moment.
"Understood," Ari finally said. "I'll start working the phones and see what I can dig up. For now, just go home and get some sleep. Don't forget you have press for Fast tomorrow."
Raphael hung up and pulled the car door open.
With a roar of the engine, the Mustang tore out of the studio lot, merging seamlessly into the endless, pulsing artery of Los Angeles traffic.
In the rearview mirror, the 20th Century Fox logo slowly shrank until it disappeared completely.
Raphael didn't know what answer he'd get in three days, but he knew one thing for absolute certain:
Whether George Lucas cast him or not, Anakin Skywalker had permanently changed him.
Just like the dream world had.
---
Back at his apartment, Raphael sat down to map out his next moves.
Priority number one: money.
Originally, he hadn't been hurting for cash.
His $300,000 paycheck for the first Fast and Furious was decent, and with the movie currently blowing up at the box office, his public profile was rising by the minute.
Not to mention, he was ninety-nine percent sure his next gig was going to be Anakin Skywalker. Massive studio tentpoles didn't skimp on paychecks.
If he locked down the Skywalker role, a conservative estimate put his base salary at $3 million, maybe even higher.
That was a 10x multiplier on his quote in a single jump.
But that was Ari's job to negotiate. Securing a multi-million dollar payday for an actor barely old enough to drink was a rare feat, even in Hollywood.
The real problem was... Raphael had entirely too many things to spend money on.
In the real world, he could live frugally. But buying abilities and artifacts from the dream world required cold, hard cash.
Dom Toretto's skillset: $1,000,000.
Anakin Skywalker's Force affinity: $10,000,000.
The complete Jedi Knight training memories: $500,000.
That was eleven and a half million dollars!
Raphael sucked in a sharp breath.
If he relied strictly on his acting paychecks to cover that, the hole was only going to get deeper.
The only solution was to aggressively expand his revenue streams.
Even if he signed the Star Wars contract tomorrow, the upfront payment would likely only be around 30%. That would barely cover what he owed for Dom's skills.
The Dior sunglasses ambassadorship paid $500,000 over two years, but that was still just an offer on the table. Distant water couldn't put out a nearby fire.
After turning the problem over in his head, Raphael decided it was time to play dirty.
He pulled up the system panel and quickly located his target in the shop:
[Available for Purchase: Jedi Mind Trick — Price: $500,000]
[Description: Utilizes the Force to project vivid illusions, manipulating a target's perception or cognition. The affected target will obey the user's suggestions, provided they do not conflict with their core beliefs or survival instincts. Ineffective against individuals with strong willpower.]
As far as Raphael was concerned, he was already drowning in debt; what was another half a million?
From that afternoon straight through the evening, Raphael practiced the Mind Trick.
As he trained, a gnawing question hung in the back of his mind: Could he actually use the Force in the real world?
He had purchased Anakin's Force affinity, and his midi-chlorian count had skyrocketed from zero to over twenty thousand—but that was just a stat on a screen.
The Force was an inherently mystical, abstract concept.
He was terrified that he'd just blown ten million dollars on a stat boost and would still be completely blind to the flow of the Force in reality.
Then, he actually tried the Mind Trick.
It felt like... reaching out in pitch darkness and suddenly brushing against something solid.
It was invisible and intangible, yet undeniably real.
It felt like countless, microscopic tendrils unspooling from the deepest part of his consciousness, tentatively reaching out to map the world around him.
Raphael closed his eyes and focused his awareness on the apartment next door.
His neighbor's toy poodle was yapping—the obnoxious little rat barked at the exact same time every single day.
Raphael pushed the Force through the wall, letting it settle over the dog like an invisible, heavy blanket.
Bark.
Stop.
Bark.
Stop.
The poodle started glitching, its barking cutting in and out abruptly.
It spun in confused circles, seemingly baffled as to why it suddenly lost the urge to bark, only for the urge to snap right back a second later.
"Charlie! What is wrong with you?!" the owner yelled, storming out of her bedroom.
Raphael pulled the Force back, a slow smirk spreading across his face.
It worked.
He kept pushing, expanding his sensory range.
His eyes saw nothing but the walls of his apartment, but he could clearly sense which surrounding units had their lights on. He could even pick up the emotional static of the people inside—someone zoned out in front of a TV, someone cooking, a couple having a tense argument.
It was exactly like the "spiritual sense" described in those web novels he used to read. The feeling of pure awareness was intoxicating.
He sat by the window, feeling the Force ebb and flow like the tide, slowly pushing his senses outward. Five meters... ten meters... twenty...
His phone buzzed violently, shattering his concentration.
It was Ari.
"Raph. Get ready to pop champagne."
Raphael's heart skipped a beat. He already knew what was coming.
"Did George call?"
"His producer did!" Ari's voice was pitched so high it was practically a squeal. "Half a day! It only took them half a day to lock you in as Skywalker! I guarantee you, this is the fastest casting decision for a tentpole in Hollywood history! And get this... they're not lowballing us. Five million!"
Raphael closed his eyes and let out a long, shaky exhale.
"Wow," he said, his voice terrifyingly calm for a guy who had just landed the role of a lifetime. "That's a very big number."
"That's your reaction?!" Ari sounded genuinely offended. "Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how many people would kill for this? Every single actor in town your age read for this part! You are Anakin Skywalker, Raph! You're going down in cinematic history!"
"I know." A genuine smile finally broke through Raphael's calm facade. "When do we start shooting?"
"A month. They built in a buffer so you can finish the press tour for Fast. Rick McCallum specifically mentioned they're bringing in a master swordsman. You're scheduled for intensive combat training at least three times a week. Swordplay, man! You're learning how to fight with a lightsaber!"
Raphael's smile widened into a full-blown grin.
A master swordsman?
He thought back to the countless hours he'd spent in the Jedi Temple, clumsily swinging a low-power training blade, desperately trying to bat away blaster bolts.
Back then, he didn't have the Force. The lightsaber was just a glowing stick in his hands.
But now? He had the raw, terrifying potential of Anakin Skywalker.
And he had the combined combat experience of countless Jedi Masters downloaded straight into his brain.
He couldn't wait to see the look on this "master swordsman's" face when they finally stepped onto the mat.
"...Also, the pay is structured in three tiers," Ari continued, still riding the high. "The first installment of 1.5 million will hit your account in a week. Don't forget to check it."
"Perfect timing," Raphael said earnestly. "I'm completely broke."
"What the hell do you need money for so badly?" Ari asked, suddenly suspicious. "You buying a mansion? A fleet of Ferraris?"
"Neither. Not interested in that stuff."
Raphael had no intention of telling his agent about his plan to aggressively short the NASDAQ.
Ari was a great shark to have in his corner, but he wasn't exactly inner-circle family.
Raphael needed a much more secure, entirely private financial pipeline for that. It wasn't something he could rush, but he needed to lay the groundwork immediately.
After hanging up with Ari, Raphael immediately dialed his brother.
"Are you sitting down, Philip?"
"Why? What did you do?" Philip asked, the sound of shuffling papers echoing through the receiver. "Let me preface this by saying that even though I quit the firm, I can still represent you if you're in real trouble—though my specialty is corporate law, not—"
"I'm Anakin Skywalker."
Dead silence on the line for three full seconds.
Then, an ear-piercing scream.
"YES! YES! YES!" Philip yelled, his voice cracking an octave. "I knew it! I fucking knew it! I told you, little brother! You are going to run this town, I swear to God!"
Raphael held the phone away from his ear, waiting for his brother to stop hyperventilating before pulling it back.
"Alright, alright, calm down. Let's talk business. That Dior ambassadorship... think we can squeeze them for more now?"
"You mean their quote?" Philip was still panting. "Hell yes, we can! With George Lucas and Star Wars attached to your name? I guarantee I can double their offer!"
So, a million over two years? Raphael ran the numbers in his head.
Still not enough, but it was a start.
"If any other high-end brands come knocking, make sure they're paying a premium. Don't let them lowball us."
"Leave it to me," Philip said confidently. Then, his tone softened. "Hey, find some time to go see Mom soon. She misses you. She was just talking about you last week."
Raphael went quiet for a moment.
"I know."
"Don't just say 'I know.' Tell me what day you're going, and I'll clear my schedule so we can go together."
"You've got your hands full," Raphael replied. "I'll go by myself."
Philip chuckled softly. "Alright. Don't forget to bring flowers. She loves the white ones."
After hanging up, Raphael grabbed the keys to the pearl-white Mustang and hit the Pacific Coast Highway.
His mother, Madeline, lived in Malibu.
Raphael didn't exactly love Malibu. It was too quiet, too sterile. It felt deliberately isolated from the noise and grit of the real world.
He preferred the chaotic energy of San Marino—the loud haggling in the Asian markets, the sharp scent of chili oil drifting out of the local restaurants.
But he had to admit, the drive up the PCH was spectacular.
The Pacific Ocean stretched out infinitely to his left, the sunlight shattering across the water like a million pieces of gold leaf. He rolled the windows down, letting the sharp, salty sea breeze rip through the cabin and mess up his hair.
He pulled over at a small florist shop.
"For your mother?" the white-haired woman behind the counter asked, watching him stare blankly at a display of roses and lilies.
"Yeah." Raphael hesitated. "She likes white."
"White roses or white lilies?"
"...Both."
As he walked out with a massive, overflowing bouquet, the old woman leaned out the window. "Your mother must be a very beautiful woman!"
Raphael looked back and smiled. "She is."
Madeline Baker-Lee's house sat on a gentle slope in Malibu, a five-minute walk from the beach.
It was a sleek, modern, stark white structure. The minimalist lines and massive floor-to-ceiling windows framed the ocean like a living painting.
The front yard was manicured with lavender and olive trees, a crushed stone path winding its way up to the front door.
Raphael parked in the guest spot, grabbed the flowers, and walked up the steps.