The house was quiet, but there was a tension under it — like something was shifting just out of frame.
Samuel moved through the living room with low, restless energy. He wasn't rushing, but everything felt fast — fast movements, fast thoughts, fast heart. He scooped up the printed pirate script, then rifled through pages of half-formed ideas and backup pitches he scribbled late last night. Just in case.
Button-down shirt. Dark jeans. Clean hoodie folded on the table like it mattered what he looked like.
He didn't want to make a big deal out of it.
But he was making a big deal out of it.
Michael walked in with a half-full travel mug and that familiar, unreadable frown. His eyes went to Samuel's outfit first, then to the overstuffed backpack. He didn't say anything right away — just stood there like he was weighing something.
Then he pulled out his phone and tapped a contact.
"Hey, Lopez. Just letting you know I'll be in after lunch," he said, voice low. "Already cleared it with the captain. I'm bringing Samuel with me."
He listened for a second.
"Yeah. The meeting thing."
A small nod, barely more than a twitch.
"Thanks. I'll see you in a bit."
He hung up and looked at Samuel.
"You ready?"
Michael hung up. His jaw shifted like he was chewing on something he didn't plan to swallow.
Samuel zipped one of the outer pouches on his bag, then unzipped it again, double-checking for the second draft pages he swore he packed already.
Michael finally spoke. "So this is really happening, huh?"
Samuel nodded, not looking up. "Looks like it."
Michael folded his arms, leaned against the wall. "And if it doesn't go the way you think it will?"
Samuel paused. "Then I learn something. And move on."
That answer didn't sit right. Michael didn't say anything, but he stayed still for a few seconds too long — not blocking the door, but definitely not moving toward it either.
Samuel's phone buzzed.
Alex:
You've got this. Bring me a pen from Ari's desk or I'll cry.
Tori:
Good luck. Try not to outsmart the entire room — you know, leave some oxygen.
Dylan:
Show them hell. In a cool, marketable way.
Samuel smiled slightly, then dropped the phone into his side pocket and finally zipped the whole bag.
"I don't think you understand what kind of people you're walking into," Michael said quietly. "Hollywood's full of liars. Users. People who smile at you just to see how fast they can own you."
Samuel slung the bag over his shoulder. "Maybe. But I know the kind of person I am."
Michael's jaw tensed slightly, but his expression didn't change. That didn't mean he wasn't feeling something. It just meant he'd already decided not to show it.
He stepped toward the front door and opened it. Held it.
"I've seen what that world does to people who don't know what to look for. Creeps with charm. Contracts with hooks in them. Just keep your eyes open."
Samuel nodded — not dismissive, just steady.
Then he walked through the door. Not because he felt ready. But because staying still never made anything safer.
They didn't talk much in the car.
The city blurred past the windows — palm trees, cracked sidewalks, silver-gray buildings that all looked more expensive than they were. Michael drove like he always did: focused, silent, no wasted movement.
Samuel sat back and let the silence hold him.
It wasn't nerves. Not exactly. Just the weight of something beginning.
By the time they pulled up to the agency, the building already looked like it had opinions about him.
The lobby was too smooth to trust — polished marble floors, glass panels tall as ambition, and the kind of silent, icy air that made even luxury feel corporate.
Samuel followed Michael inside, backpack slung over one shoulder. He tried not to look impressed.
It wasn't working.
To his left, Gisele Bündchen stood near the reception desk, speaking rapid-fire Portuguese into a phone, her sunglasses still on indoors like she belonged to a different climate entirely. A few feet away, Usher was mid-laugh with a man in a slate-gray suit, casually holding court like it was his second office. Off by the wall, Rihanna leaned against a marble column, sipping from a paper coffee cup and checking her nails like the schedule could wait for her — and it probably would.
Samuel stared for a second too long. This wasn't TV-famous.
This was another species of fame entirely.
And yet… nobody here seemed to care.
People passed by like it was nothing — like being beautiful, famous, and ridiculously composed was just standard operating procedure. And for some reason, that made it easier to breathe.
He didn't belong here. Not really. He hadn't earned this.
But still, this place — with all its chaos and confidence — felt oddly calming. Maybe because no one was staring. Not here. Not in this crowd.
And then, just to complete the illusion, Jennifer Aniston walked by like she was headed to grab coffee — no entourage, no cameras, just casual divinity in motion.
Michael, who had spent the entire morning looking like nothing could faze him, actually blinked. Just once. Barely enough to register — but Samuel caught it.
It wasn't recognition. Michael probably didn't even know who she was.
Didn't matter.
She passed, all quiet confidence and clean lines, and for a moment, Michael looked like a man trying not to notice a sunrise. He didn't know her name — didn't need to.
Samuel smirked.Even you, huh?
Before he could say anything, the elevator dinged and chaos spilled out — tailored chaos, in the form of a man with an earpiece, a clipboard, and a voice that could organize an army or a fashion show.
"Samuel!" Lloyd sang out, clapping once, bright as a game show buzzer. "There he is! Come in, come in, don't just stand there being cute. Ari's new obsession — he talks about you more than Vinny, and that's saying something."
Samuel stepped forward slowly, half-grinning, half-spinning from the sensory overload.
Lloyd.
He always liked this guy.
Lloyd was the one person who took Ari's daily chaos and somehow stayed upright — sharp with a smile, fast on his feet, always two seconds from either quitting or getting promoted. If he'd been born fifteen years later and started in a post-wokeness workforce, he probably wouldn't have had to put up with Ari's garbage — the fat jokes, the too gay to be an agent comments, all passed off as "banter" in the show.
And that paintball episode?
Still seared into Samuel's memory.
Ari came back from suspension and went on a warpath — literally. Full suit, full rage, paintball gun in hand. Anyone who'd crossed him got splattered. Executives. Assistants. Even interns.
It was unhinged. Loud. Vicious. One of the best episodes in TV history.
But if it had happened in real life?
That would've been grounds for lawsuits. Trauma. Maybe a full company shutdown.
Still…
Samuel found himself smiling.
Yeah. It would've been insane in real life. But damn… it was funny on screen.
Now he was here, in a suit, in motion, and talking to him.
Michael kept pace behind him, silent and sharp-eyed.But Samuel could tell — he was scanning everything.
His eyes moved with intent, slow and deliberate. He wasn't just looking. He was measuring. Watching for false smiles. Waiting for someone to slip up. The place made Samuel feel invisible. It made Michael suspicious.
Lloyd noticed him too. His tone slid from excited to cordial like flipping a switch.
"And this must be the uncle. Pleasure. I was told not to be weird — which is a weird thing to tell someone — so I'll just pretend everything is normal and that you didn't just see a guy in a Chewbacca suit negotiating a shampoo deal."
Michael didn't answer, just gave Lloyd a nod that translated to I'm watching everything.
Lloyd gave a finger twirl and led them down a hallway that pulsed with energy. Voices leaked out of half-open doors — half-pitches, full-blown arguments, someone practicing lines with way too much emotion. Photos of stars lined the walls, some already fading into mid-2000s nostalgia, some still climbing.
To Samuel, it felt like walking backstage at the Emmys — only messier, louder, and way more caffeinated.
They stopped just outside a tall wooden door. Lloyd raised a hand.
"Okay. He's on a call — with someone he's either about to sign or scream into therapy. Same thing, really. He knows you're here, he's just…"
Samuel tilted his head. "Power move?"
Lloyd beamed. "You get it. Ari Gold's Greatest Hits, Track One."
Before Michael could say a word, the door slammed open so hard it nearly jumped off the hinges. Ari Gold strode out mid-rant, phone to his ear, suit immaculate, eyes electric.
"—and if I have to explain synergy to you one more time, I'll buy your company just to fire you personally!"
Click.Grin.
"There he is! My boy genius. My future Oscar liability. My cinematic badass with bone structure."
He clapped Samuel on the shoulder like they'd grown up together. Then he turned to Michael.
"Uncle Ice," Ari said with a grin. "Still got that posture like you're the only adult in the room. I'd kill for three of you around here."
Michael didn't blink. "One of me's already too many."
Ari chuckled, undeterred. "Spoken like a man who hasn't seen our craft services."
He spun, pointed toward his office. "Let's go ruin someone's day with a better idea."
As they walked, Lloyd leaned in and said quietly, "Don't try to charm him. Just be you. If he doesn't like it, he'll tell you. Loudly."
Samuel smirked, pulse finally catching up to the room around him.
Ari's office looked like a war room designed by a billionaire — floor-to-ceiling windows, movie posters covering every wall, a massive desk buried under three phones, two laptops, and at least one unopened protein bar.
Stacks of scripts leaned precariously near a leather couch. A golf club sat in the corner like it had been thrown in frustration or victory — hard to tell.
Samuel stepped in, trying to keep his shoulders relaxed. He gave the room a slow once-over, then took the chair Ari motioned to — not the soft couch, the proper seat across from the desk. The one that said I'm here for business, not comfort.
Michael stayed standing for a moment before sitting down, slower, choosing the spot near the edge of the room. Not in the center of things. Not part of the pitch.
Ari closed the door behind them and spun toward his desk like he was landing a plane.
"Alright," he said, "let's talk."
He didn't shout it. Not this time. There was energy, sure, but it was focused — honed like a spotlight.
"I already told you — I'm not trying to shove him into some straight-to-cable knockoff of a knockoff. This isn't about getting him into a mid-budget slasher or an indie drama where no one speaks above a whisper. He's not chasing the industry's leftovers — he's bringing new material."
Michael raised an eyebrow.
Ari anticipated it.
"We're not dropping him in a room with a blank page and praying for genius. We're pulling in actual screenwriters — pros — to help shape structure, pacing, dialogue, all that. He provides the vision. The spine. The soul."
He pointed at Samuel like he was highlighting a rare stock tip.
"This kid draws story like it's topography — like he's mapping it. I've had conversations with him where he casually worldbuilds better than half the writers I've paid six figures."
Samuel shifted slightly, feeling both seen and exposed.
"I just… like sketching things out," he said carefully. "Not just characters or plot. The world. Like, how things work. Why a story feels the way it does."
He looked toward Michael briefly, then back to Ari.
"The pirate movie? I've been digging into 18th-century Spanish shipping routes, smuggling networks, how real legends tie into the Black Sails era. You'd be surprised how many real names line up. It's insane."
He stopped himself. Blinked. His voice had picked up — not too loud, just too honest.
Ari didn't interrupt. He just pointed again — this time to Michael.
"See that? That right there? That's why I want him. He's not pretending — he's living in it."
Michael nodded slowly, but his tone stayed flat. "So what does that actually mean? For his time? His percentage?"
Ari didn't flinch. "Time-wise? Flexible. He writes when he wants — no fixed hours. If a studio bites, they'll want revisions, polish, some meetings — but until then, it's his world on paper."
He leaned forward now, voice even.
"As for rights? He holds the original IP. I help package it and sell it. If the studio buys, we negotiate — but he'll keep a cut of licensing, backend, and credit. And he's protected through agency contracts, not handshake deals. He's not signing his soul. He's signing control."
Michael studied him.
"And if he changes his mind?"
"Then we stop," Ari said plainly. "No trapdoors. No threats. I don't work with people who don't want it."
There was a long pause.
Samuel sat still, letting the quiet settle. He didn't know what Michael was thinking — but for once, it didn't scare him. Because for a few minutes, while he talked, the world in his head had started to feel real.
Ari leaned back, tapping the desk with both hands.
"I'm not saying he's going to be the next Tarantino. I'm saying he's not trying to be. That's better."
Michael didn't smile. But he didn't frown either.
Samuel glanced over, catching something unreadable in his uncle's eyes — pride, maybe. Or worry. Or both.
Ari exhaled through his nose, then stood.
"Well," he said, motioning to the door, "that's the pitch. You don't need to answer today. But let me leave you with this—"
He turned to Michael.
"You don't want to be the guy who held him back because he wasn't ready. You want to be the guy who backed him because he was."
He looked back at Samuel.
"And you. Keep writing. We'll meet some studios next week."
Samuel gave a small nod, unsure if he was supposed to say something more.
Ari clapped once. "That's it. No contracts yet. No signing your life away. Just momentum. And a hell of a lot of potential."
He walked them to the door, his energy already shifting to whatever fire was waiting in his next call. "I'll have Lloyd reach out. We'll set something up. Go celebrate or brood or whatever you two do in your free time."
He opened the door, then gave Michael one last look — not a smirk this time, just a firm, businesslike nod. "I meant what I said. I want what's best for him. That includes keeping you in the loop."
Michael gave a silent nod back, just enough to acknowledge it.
They stepped out into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind them, cutting off Ari's voice mid-rant — something about an "Oscar-adjacent producer who needs to be sedated."
They stepped into the LA sunlight, the agency building behind them all glass and angles and ambition. The sidewalk buzzed around them — traffic murmuring, a food truck a block down firing up its grill, someone's ringtone blaring the opening of a Lady Gaga track.
Samuel didn't say anything. He just walked beside Michael, trying to match his pace, though his mind was still half in the room they'd just left.
"That was quicker than I expected," Michael said, breaking the quiet.
"Yeah," Samuel replied. "Way quicker."
"No contracts. No pitch. Just… talk."
Samuel gave a small laugh through his nose. "I thought there'd be more chaos."
Michael glanced at him. "Disappointed?"
Samuel shook his head. "Not really. I just… thought it'd feel bigger. Like more of a moment."
Michael nodded slowly, thoughtful.
They crossed the lot in silence. Sunlight bounced off windshields, casting their shadows long across the pavement. When they reached the car, Michael stopped but didn't unlock it.
He looked back at the building — all glass, polish, and potential.
If he was being honest, it was a better deal than he expected.No handlers. No weird contracts. No fake "kid genius" narrative.Just write — and if it's good, Ari would do the rest.
He exhaled through his nose.
"I figured there'd be more noise," he said. "Slick guys with plastic grins. Someone trying to shove you into a Nickelodeon audition. Something."
Samuel looked up. "You thought Ari was gonna pitch me as a child actor?"
Michael gave him a dry look. "Wouldn't be the weirdest thing I've seen in this city."
They stood there for a moment, the agency's glossy front doors gleaming in the rearview.
"But all he talked about was the stories," Michael said, quieter now. "You. The stuff in your head."
Samuel nodded, not saying much.
Michael leaned back against the car.
"So tell me — why this? Why now?"
Samuel let the question sit. He watched a pigeon land on a nearby parking meter. The city moved on around them.
"I don't care about being noticed," he said finally. "Never have."
Michael looked at him, waiting.
"But making something... that part feels good. Talking about it — the pirate thing, the history, how it all connects — I liked that more than I thought I would."
His voice got steadier as he went on, almost like he was surprising himself with how much he meant it.
"I guess I've always done that — built things in my head. Worlds, people, stories. But I've never really talked about them. Not like that."
He looked up.
"And when I did... it didn't feel weird. It felt right."
Michael crossed his arms, thinking. "And if they make it? If it becomes a real movie?"
Samuel shrugged, but there was something steady in the way he did it.
"Then I'll be ready."
Michael's eyes narrowed just a little. "And if it doesn't happen?"
Samuel cracked a small smile. "Then I'll have written something cool. Learned something. Gotten better. It's still worth it."
Michael didn't respond right away. He watched his nephew, watched the way his shoulders had relaxed, the way he stood a little taller than before they walked into that office.
Then he unlocked the car with a click.
"Well," he said, opening the door, "we've got an hour before I need to clock in. You hungry?"
"Starving."
Michael slid into the driver's seat. "There's a diner by the station. No avocado toast. No executives. No headshots at the door."
Samuel climbed in and buckled his seatbelt, the kind of grin that wasn't for show creeping onto his face.
As they pulled out of the lot, the agency building shrank behind them — all glass and shine and pressure.
The lunch spot near the station wasn't fancy — clean tables, sun-warmed windows, and a menu that hadn't changed in a decade. Burgers, sandwiches, black coffee by default. A few uniforms sat along the back wall, quietly working through their meals. Michael ordered like he always did. Samuel skimmed the options, then just matched him.
They ate in near silence. Not awkward — just comfortable. A moment to breathe after a morning that hadn't exactly been normal.
Samuel picked at his fries, listening to the low kitchen noise behind the counter.
He still wasn't sure when things had shifted. Maybe back on the yacht. Maybe in Ari's office. Somewhere in between, the world had stopped feeling like something happening around him… and started feeling like something he might actually be part of.
"I never imagined I'd be in the middle of something like this," Samuel said, eyes still on his plate.
Michael glanced over but stayed quiet.
"I've always been the guy in the background. Quiet. Uninvolved. The one nobody remembers. And honestly… I thought I was okay with that."
He paused, unsure how to finish the thought.
Michael took a sip of his coffee, then said, "Then stop being that guy."
Samuel looked up, raising an eyebrow. "You make it sound easy."
Michael shrugged. "It's not. But choosing to show up is how it starts."
They didn't say much else after that. And honestly, they didn't need to.
The drive to the station was short. Midday LA rolled past the windows — sun on pavement, distant horns, heat rising off rooftops. Michael parked in the side lot, just beneath the familiar LAPD logo painted across the outer wall.
Samuel stepped out, eyes on the building. He'd seen it before — in glimpses, on screens — but standing here now, it felt bigger. More permanent.
He found himself wondering what kind of place it was. Was it all discipline and seriousness? Or would it be more chaotic — like Brooklyn Nine-Nine? Maybe someone cracking jokes, or yelling about a missing lunch while juggling paperwork.
That would've been fun.
As they reached the front entrance, two officers passed them heading out — uniforms crisp, sunglasses on, movements clipped and automatic.
Samuel watched them go. Then, without even realizing it, he started to sing under his breath:
"Bad boys, bad boys… what you gonna do…"
Michael stopped mid-step. "What?"
Samuel blinked. "What?"
"What are you singing?"
"Oh, uh…" He hesitated. "It's just a song. 'Bad Boys.' You've heard it."
Michael gave him a blank look. "Doesn't ring a bell."
Samuel frowned. "Wait… seriously?"
Michael's face didn't change.
And then it hit him.
"Oh. Right. I guess it's not a thing here."
He kept walking, grinning to himself.
Weird. I always thought that song existed everywhere. Feels like it should.
His smirk grew.Maybe I'll release it someday. And watch every cop in LA hate me for it.
Inside, his expectations vanished.
No chaos. No shenanigans. No Jake Peralta cracking movie quotes at his desk.
The precinct was clean, modern, focused. People moved with quiet purpose. Phones rang softly in the background. Desks clicked with keystrokes and shifting paperwork. The whole place felt like a machine — and everyone knew their part.
At the front desk, Lucy Chen sat behind a monitor, flipping through reports. She looked up briefly and offered him a small, familiar smile. He nodded back. They'd met a few days ago — but now she looked different. Sharper. Locked in.
His eyes drifted across the room — briefing glass, desk clusters, notice boards, a dozen small signs of rhythm and repetition.
And then his mind wandered.
What if someone ran in, yelling about a robbery? What if he helped stop it? Chased someone down a hallway? Wrestled a gun away in slow motion?
The fantasy lasted five seconds — broken by the loud shuffle of an officer brushing past with a pile of forms.
"Back in reality," Samuel muttered, smirking.
Michael returned, now in full uniform, duty belt clipped. West and Lopez were already there, checking something near the schedule board.
Michael nodded at them. "We're heading out in a few."
Then he turned to Samuel. "Come with me."
Samuel followed him down a side hallway and into a nearby office. Inside stood a tall woman — straight-backed, sharp-eyed, steady in every movement.
"Captain Andersen," Michael said. "This is my nephew, Samuel. He'll be here while I'm on duty. He's got schoolwork — quiet, respectful. You won't notice him."
She offered a firm handshake. "Welcome. You're fine to stay, just don't wander into the briefing rooms or the evidence locker."
Samuel nodded. "Deal."
Michael gave him a look — one part warning, one part amused.
"You good?"
"Yeah," Samuel said. "Go do cop stuff."
Michael left with Lopez and West, their boots echoing down the hallway until the sound faded into the rhythm of the station.
Samuel wandered back to the front and found an open seat by the window — tucked beside a dusty potted plant and a bulletin board layered in outdated flyers and half-torn notices.
He pulled out his notebook but didn't open it right away.
Phones rang. A printer clattered in the corner. Someone gave a quiet "copy that" into their radio. Bradford shifted behind a desk, typing one-handed with his arm still in a sling. Chen was at the front, flipping through something on her screen, calm but focused.
The station moved like a living thing — steady, practical, humming with purpose.
But Samuel wasn't really seeing it.
Not fully.
His mind was still halfway in a glass office surrounded by movie posters and fast words. He kept thinking about the moment Ari looked at him and just got it. The way people in that room actually listened. Not because he was loud. Not because he demanded it.
Just because the idea was good.
And now, he didn't know what to do with that feeling — being heard.
The clock ticked past noon.
It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't glamorous.
But something had started.
The city outside kept moving. The precinct around him kept moving.
And so would he.