For the first time in this life — and maybe the longest time in either — Samuel felt excited.Not just entertained. Not just amused.Excited.
No static in his head. No quiet boredom gnawing in the background.No small, stupid thing ruining the day like it usually did — someone being too loud, someone saying something fake, a lesson dragging on for no reason.
None of that.
Just a hum in his chest, steady and light, like something real had finally started.
The Hummer's engine faded down the block behind him as he stepped inside the house.He let the door swing shut, dropped his bag by the stairs, and just stood there for a second.
Still riding it.
The pitch hadn't just gone well — it had landed.
He'd gone in thinking he might say a few clever things, maybe drop a smart reference, nothing serious.But then he started talking. Connecting dots. Describing the ship. The myth. The man.
And Vinny — Vinny actually leaned in.Ari stopped pacing.E looked up from his stack.
"This is it," Vinny had said. "This is the guy I've been looking for."
Samuel could still hear it, clean and steady in his mind.
He hadn't even meant to pitch Jack Sparrow — not at first. It just came out while he was building the feel of the character. And yeah, fine — it was basically Pirates of the Caribbean 1, stripped down, darker, but still recognizable.
But it had worked.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew:It might not even be fiction.
He remembered the night it all started — back when he was casually digging through stories about Long John Silver, expecting dramatized nonsense or cleaned-up naval records. He was bored. Killing time.
But then he found a weird side note — barely a line — buried in a footnote from an old explorer's journal.
A brief mention of a man, strange in speech and behavior, reportedly banished from Nassau. No name given in the original entry... but one later annotation, scribbled in by some amateur historian, included a whispered possibility:
"Some accounts suggest this may have been the pirate Jack Sparrow."
At first, Samuel didn't buy it.Jack Sparrow? Real?
He'd seen the movies.The ship with dead crew.Davy Jones with his squid face.A compass that didn't point north.It was entertainment. Ridiculous and fun. He liked those movies — but he never thought twice about them.
Still... the name stuck.
He started digging.
And what he found wasn't solid — not in any academic sense — but it was consistent.Scattered mentions across unrelated logs and reports. Rumors of a man who spoke in riddles, stumbled like he was drunk, but always slipped away.
Internet forums were worse — or better, depending on the mood.Conspiracy threads linked him to vanishing ships, ghost sightings, even ancient maps that shouldn't exist.Some lunatics said he wasn't in history books because he'd sailed off the edge of the world.Others made slightly more grounded claims — one described an island full of cannibals where a man fitting Sparrow's description lived for two weeks before escaping on a raft made of bones and palm wood.
No photos. No first-person accounts.Just fragments.But the same man. The same legend.
And now?He'd pitched that man — his version of him — and they listened.
He smirked, almost laughing under his breath.
For once, the day hadn't unraveled.It had stacked up — perfectly.
And now?
He had a pirate to write.
The house greeted him with silence.
Michael was still gone. No traffic outside. No voices, no hum of the TV. Just the soft press of late-afternoon heat slipping through the windows.
He dropped his bag near the stairs and headed up.
There was no hesitation now. No distractions.Only a laptop. A blank page. A name echoing in his head.
He slid into his chair, cracked open the screen, and stared at the blinking cursor.
Jack Sparrow.
He already knew what he wanted to write — not from scratch, not invented, but something better: remembered.A version of a story that had always lived somewhere in the background of his brain.
Still, the words didn't come.Not yet.
He unlocked his phone, half out of habit, and scrolled through the mess of playlists without thinking.Then he stopped.
Klaus Badelt – "He's a Pirate."
He tapped play.
The strings hit first — tight, fast, like the build of a perfectly timed con. Then came the horns. Swagger. Confidence.The sound of a man who didn't run from trouble — he walked right into it smiling.
Samuel let it play.
He didn't type right away. He let the music drag the memory out.
A ship barely floating into port — not sailing, but sinking.A man stepping off at just the right second, coat soaked, hat still on.He nods like nothing's wrong. No one knows what to do with him.
Jack Sparrow.
He didn't have to explain him again. He'd already done that.Now he just had to show him.
He started typing. Not a script — not yet. Just raw description. Pacing. Movement.Elizabeth Swann on the balcony, watching.Will Turner in the forge.The first time Jack gets caught — and slips away.
It started slow.
Then faster.
He remembered the blacksmith fight. The cannon blast.The chaos of Jack stealing the ship while everyone was still shouting about how he couldn't possibly steal the ship.
And over it all: the music. Pulling every beat forward.
He paused.
Was this genius?
Letting the soundtrack guide his fingers?Structuring the entire tone of the scene around the musics rhythm?
Or was he just stealing with style?
He didn't know.
Didn't care.
The page was filling up.The story was breathing.And for the first time in a long time, so was he.
Dunphy Pov
The Dunphy family was halfway through dinner when Phil brought it up.
"I was thinking we swing by Jay's tomorrow," he said casually, stabbing a piece of chicken with more confidence than necessary. "Hang out. Check out the new plane."
Claire didn't even look up. "Phil, no."
Phil blinked. "What? Why not?"
She sighed. "Because when you 'hang out' with Jay, he makes that face like he's being held hostage."
Phil raised his hands. "Okay, yes, maybe I've come on a little strong in the past, but this is different. This is aviation. It's guy stuff. It's mechanical and loud and potentially dangerous — he'll love that I'm interested."
Alex muttered under her breath, "He'll love it even more if you don't touch anything."
Phil pushed forward, undeterred. "I'm telling you, Claire — this could be it. The breakthrough. Me and Jay, talking nose cones, flaps, landing gear. Just two guys and a hangar dream."
Luke perked up. "Can I come?"
Claire and Phil both replied in unison: "No."
Before anyone could say more, the low rumble of an engine rolled past the house — deep, rattling, obnoxiously confident.
Phil turned toward the window. "Okay, that's…"
They all looked.
Outside, the unmistakable yellow Hummer cruised past the front lawn, slow and loud. Same as before. Oversized, dented, and way too cool for the suburbs.
Phil pointed. "That's the same one that picked him up after school."
Claire dried her hands and walked over. "You saw that?"
"Yeah. At pickup. Samuel just got in like it was no big deal. I thought maybe it was Michael's friend or something."
Alex didn't look up from her plate. "Nope. It's some guy who hangs out with Vincent Chase."
Phil froze. "Wait… Vincent Chase Vincent Chase?"
Alex smirked. "Apparently."
Haley stabbed her salad like it owed her money.
Claire crossed her arms. "And now he's getting picked up in a car like that?"
Phil tried to play it off. "Well, to be fair… I mean… it is a pretty sweet ride."
Claire gave him a look. "Phil, I've read stories. Celebrity parties, weird entourages, things going off the rails. Do you know how many times it starts with someone just being the cool kid's friend?"
Phil held up both hands. "Okay, okay. I'll go check. Just see how things are."
Luke shot up from the table. "Can I come? Maybe he'll let me shoot the bow again."
Claire gave him a quick nod. "Yes. That makes it casual."
Alex leaned back. "Oh yeah. Nothing says casual like the neighbors showing up unannounced with children."
"I'm not going," Haley muttered.
Claire raised an eyebrow. "You're not even curious?"
Haley hesitated. Just enough.
Then stood up, arms crossed. "I just don't want Dad saying anything embarrassing."
She didn't meet anyone's eyes. And if she also didn't want to run into Samuel again after earlier, well — she wasn't about to admit that either.
Alex stood too, grinning. "Too late. He's already bringing a sidekick."
Haley shot her a glare. Alex just smiled sweetly and took her plate to the sink.
"Hey," Luke said, mouth full. "I'm essential to the mission."
Phil grabbed his jacket. "Team Dunphy. Operation Neighborly Check-In."
Claire waved them toward the door. "Don't come back with tattoos or a record deal."
Phil winked. "Only if it comes with backstage passes."
Samuel Pov
The words were still coming fast.
Rhythm. Momentum. Flow.
Jack. The ship. The dock.Barely floating, taking on water with every swell —But still he stood tall on the mast as it sank beneath him, stepping off like it was all part of the plan.
Elizabeth. The corset. The gold medallion.Trapped by her name, her dress, her place —Looking out from the balcony like the sea might rescue her first.
Will. The forge. The heat. The sword.Quiet. Loyal. In love.Trying to become the kind of man who could protect her — even if she never asked.
Badelt's strings pulled through the room, light but relentless.
Samuel didn't even notice how fast he was typing.
Then—
Knock knock knock.
He froze.
Three sharp, polite taps. Then silence.
Samuel blinked, like coming up for air, and stared toward the front of the house.
He didn't move. Just listened.
No follow-up knock. No voice. No footsteps walking away. Just the slow spin of the ceiling fan and the strings still playing low through the speakers .
Another beat passed.
Maybe they'd give up.Maybe it was nothing.Maybe it could just… not be his problem.
But the silence stayed. Still polite. Still expectant.
He sighed — sharp, short, annoyed.
Then stood — not rushed, not eager. Just enough force behind the motion to say, fine. A quiet step away from the world he actually wanted to be in.
He opened the door.
And there they were.
Phil. Luke. Alex. Haley.
All standing in a loose, awkward line like they hadn't quite agreed on who was supposed to talk first.
Phil spoke anyway.
"Look, Claire made it sound serious," he said, hands gesturing wildly, "but honestly I just wanted to see if you were being recruited into some kind of Hollywood ninja academy."
Samuel blinked once, then tilted his head slightly.
Samuel blinked once, then tilted his head slightly."Weird day, yeah. But not that weird."
Luke stepped forward immediately. "Can I shoot the bow again?"
Samuel gave him a faint smile. "I'm guessing that's the real reason."
Phil grinned. "Well, that—and your whole… situation. You've got quite the story going, my friend."
"Situation?" Samuel asked, keeping his tone casual.
Alex stepped in, cutting through the fluff. "The Hummer. The Vincent Chase connection. Your entire vibe. Haley's been weird about it all day."
"I have not," Haley snapped, eyes darting anywhere but toward Samuel.
Samuel glanced at her, just for a second. Arms crossed. Back stiff. Still pretending this was beneath her.
"Anyway," Phil said quickly, clapping his hands once. "We figured since you're new, and things seem to be moving fast… neighborly visit. You know. Very casual. Zero agenda."
"You brought the whole squad for that?" Samuel asked, smirking now.
Luke beamed. "I'm the muscle."
Alex rolled her eyes. "And I'm the one who knows what a metaphor is."
Phil laughed. "See? We're a full-service welcome committee."
Haley hadn't said a word since snapping at Alex. But she was still standing there. Still watching. Still pretending she wasn't interested.
Samuel's eyes flicked briefly to her, then back to Phil.
"Well," he said, stepping aside just enough, "since you're already here..."
Samuel opened the door wider and stepped back, letting them in with a small nod — not quite welcoming, just... letting it happen.
They entered in a loose, hesitant shuffle — like they hadn't really planned on being invited inside and were now realizing they had no idea what to do next.
"Feels bigger than last time," Phil said, clearly stalling for something to say.
Alex muttered, "That's not a real compliment."
Samuel closed the door behind them and stood near the edge of the living room, one hand still in his pocket. He didn't offer drinks. Didn't say "make yourselves at home." Just waited.
The silence stretched.
"Michael's still out," he said, breaking it with calm disinterest. "Should be back in an hour or so."
No one sat down.
No one spoke.
Except Luke — who hadn't noticed the awkwardness at all.
"Whoa—" he said suddenly, eyes lighting up. "Is that the same bow from Saturday?"
He made a beeline for the corner and picked it up before anyone could stop him.
Phil finally laughed, filling the silence like it owed him money. "Hey, buddy, maybe don't draw it in the living room—okay. Alright. Yep, too late."
Samuel just leaned against the doorframe, arms loosely crossed. Not annoyed. Just... clearly pulled from something mid-flow.
Phil glanced at him. "You were, uh... working on something?"
Samuel gave a single nod. "Yeah. Needed a quiet hour."
Alex's gaze moved across the room. The faint music from upstairs, the open laptop still glowing — it didn't take a genius to figure out they'd walked in on something.
Haley didn't say anything, but her eyes flicked toward the stairs.
Phil was still trying to fill space. "Creative stuff, huh? Writing? Music? Both?"
Samuel opened his mouth to answer — then stopped.
Music.
His eyes flicked toward the ceiling.
Shit.
He'd left it on.
Not just ambient sound — that music. Big. Bold. Cinematic.A score that didn't belong in this world.
He turned and went upstairs without another word, footsteps quick but controlled.
The strings were climbing when he hit the door — dramatic, rising, undeniable.He crossed the room and hit pause. The track stopped mid-beat. Silence dropped like a curtain.
He stood there a moment, listening.
Not to what had been playing — but to what might've carried downstairs.
Then Alex's voice floated up, curious but casual:
"Hey — what song was that? Sounded kinda epic."
His heart was still racing, but his voice came out smooth.
"It's for the movie," he called down. "Just something I was using to build the atmosphere — trying to get into the right mood while writing."
A pause.
Quiet again.
He exhaled, rolled his shoulders once, and headed back down — face neutral, tone reset. Like nothing had slipped.
But inside?
It hadn't stopped playing.
Then he exhaled, reset his expression, and headed back down, face unreadable again — like nothing had slipped.
Phil perked up again. "So wait — are you actually helping them with a movie?"
Samuel shrugged like it wasn't a big deal. "Just throwing out ideas. They liked one."
"How real are we talking?" Alex asked. "Like… names in the credits kind of real?"
Samuel nodded. "I pitched a pirate story. They want to see more."
That landed heavier than anything else had so far.
Haley didn't say anything — but she wasn't looking at the floor anymore either.
Even Luke stopped fiddling with the bow.
Phil let out a low whistle. "Dang. That's... kinda awesome."
Samuel gave a polite smile, then glanced toward the clock. "Anyway... I still haven't eaten."
Phil perked up. "Oh yeah? What're you making?"
Samuel shrugged. "Whatever's in the fridge."
Luke, already settling into a chair again, lit up. "You're cooking now?"
"Figured I might as well," Samuel said, already heading toward the kitchen. "If you guys are still here and want some, I can make a bit extra."
Alex and Luke exchanged a surprised look.
Haley let out a tiny laugh under her breath — not mean, but definitely skeptical.
Phil waved it off, easing into a seat. "Nah, no pressure. We'll just hang out a bit, maybe wait until Michael gets back. Don't let us stop you."
Samuel gave a small nod and kept walking.
None of them moved to follow.None of them expected anything special.
But Samuel already had a pan in his hand, sleeves rolled up, and something quiet and precise in the way he moved.
They didn't know this part of him.
Yet.
Samuel didn't say anything when he stepped into the kitchen. He just opened the fridge, pulled ingredients without looking twice, and set them down with quiet precision. Oil hit a pan with a soft hiss. The rhythm started immediately.
No apron. No fuss. Just motion.
He moved like he'd done this a thousand times — chopping with practiced speed, garlic crushed and diced in a blink, herbs pulled and tossed in without ever checking a label. The sound of the knife on the board was clean, fast, controlled.
In the living room, conversation had slowed.
Phil glanced up first. "So… this movie thing. What are you actually doing with them? Like, are you in it? Or writing it? Or…?"
Samuel didn't even look up. "Helped shape the story. Tone. Pitched a character, they liked it."
He slid vegetables from the board into the pan with one smooth motion. The sizzle kicked up instantly — buttery, sharp, and warm. Garlic. Citrus. Heat.
Alex frowned faintly. "Wait, you're actually writing for a real studio?"
"No studio yet," Samuel said, shaking the pan with a flick of the wrist. "Just a pitch. Vinny liked it. Ari wants to see more."
Phil leaned forward. "Ari—as in Ari Gold?"
Samuel just nodded, stirring without looking.
The smells changed the air. Whatever skepticism Haley had walked in with, it started softening as the first wave hit her nose. Luke tilted his head like a cartoon bloodhound.
"Yo," he muttered, eyes narrowing toward the kitchen. "Why does that smell… amazing?"
Haley didn't answer. Neither did Alex. They were both watching him now, caught between curiosity and something else — something closer to surprise.
Haley crossed her arms, skeptical. "So what's the movie even about?"
Samuel didn't look away from the pan as he answered.
"It starts in a coastal town. One of those old-world places where everything looks clean on the surface, but it's built on rules and power plays. There's a girl — smart, sharp, stuck in a life that doesn't fit. And a guy — quiet, honest, working-class. He's in love with her, but he knows the system doesn't let that happen."
He stirred the pan once, the scent in the air shifting warmer — garlic and butter catching the edges of the flame.
"But that's just the setup," he added, flipping something with a practiced flick. "The real story's about the pirates."
Phil tilted his head, intrigued. "Yeah?"
"One in particular," Samuel said. "He's not a hero. Definitely not a role model. He lies. Cheats. Looks like he doesn't care — but he sees everything. People underestimate him because he acts like nothing's serious. But somehow, he's always two steps ahead. Or lucky. Or both."
He added fresh herbs with quiet precision, barely glancing at the cutting board.
"He's chaotic, but there's something about him that makes you watch. Like… even when he's losing, he's still dangerous. Still funny. Still in control."
The room had gotten quieter.
Alex watched his hands — the speed, the movement. No measuring. No checking. It was all instinct.
"Is this something you just do?" she asked finally.
"Cooking?" Samuel didn't look up. Just nodded. "Yeah. It's easy when you know what you're doing."
The pan hissed again as he tipped in a final ingredient. A brighter smell bloomed instantly — citrus, pepper, something sweet but sharp.
Phil's stomach growled loud enough to betray him.
He laughed awkwardly. "Okay… I might've lied earlier. We're kinda fine, but... if you accidentally made a fourth plate…"
"I didn't," Samuel said, turning off the flame. "Made an extra for Michael."
He started plating without a word. He didn't rush. Just smooth, thoughtful movements — sauce spooned across the center, meat set with care, garnishes sprinkled from his fingers like instinct.
He slid one plate onto the counter and placed the second beside it — covered lightly, pushed to the side.
The Dunphys stared at the first like it was glowing.
Even Haley.
Samuel didn't look at any of them.
He just grabbed a fork, took the uncovered plate for himself, and sat down at the kitchen island — calm, unbothered, already cutting into it.
The silence said the rest.
They'd all said no.
Now they were watching like they hadn't eaten in days.
Samuel took a slow bite — clean, flavorful, hot — and didn't rush the second.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Phil glancing at the covered plate like it might slide toward him if he stared hard enough...Luke looked ready to barter his shoes. Even Alex and Haley didn't try to pretend anymore — they were locked in.
He chewed, swallowed, and thought:
Show up unannounced, turn down the food, then decide you want a bite after it's plated?Yeah... not happening.
He took another forkful.
They can watch.I'm gonna enjoy this.
5 minutes later the front door opened.
Keys jingled. Boots hit the floor with quiet weight. And a low, tired voice followed them in.
"Fridge is to the right. Couch if you need it. You can breathe now."
Samuel looked up from his plate — and for a second, everything paused.
Michael stepped in, still wearing the long day on his shoulders. Shirt rumpled, vest outline faint on his chest, and a look in his eyes that said he'd seen enough for one shift and then some. Behind him walked three rookie cops — two men and one woman — all in uniform, all quiet in that way people get when the adrenaline is gone and the crash hasn't fully hit yet.
They looked around, clearly not expecting… this.
Michael stopped dead in the entryway, eyes locking onto the unexpected crowd.
Phil was mid-sentence about the "depth of caramelization." Luke had the bow in hand again. Alex was watching Samuel like he was part of a lab experiment. Haley — leaning against the wall — snapped to attention like someone had just flipped a switch.
Michael blinked once. Slowly.
"…What the hell?"
Samuel gave him a dry look, swallowing his last bite. "You're home."
Michael glanced from Samuel to the covered plate beside him. Then at the Dunphys, who all stood like they'd just been caught in a restricted zone.
"That for me?" he asked, pointing at the extra plate.
Samuel nodded. "Was. We were gonna eat together."
Michael narrowed his eyes. "So why's the whole neighborhood standing over it like they're waiting for a blessing?"
"They thought I couldn't cook," Samuel said, deadpan.
Michael looked at the Dunphys again.
Phil raised a hand like he was surrendering. "In our defense… I mean… the smell was incredible, but he didn't say it was going to be an experience."
Alex shrugged. "Honestly, we assumed microwave."
Luke frowned. "You didn't say it was magic."
Haley didn't say anything. Just crossed her arms tighter.
Michael let out a short laugh — the kind that sounded like it had to fight its way through stress to get out.
"Of course they did."
The rookies followed Michael through the door — quiet, worn down, still carrying the weight of whatever they'd just come from.
Samuel glanced over the two men. One looked like a Boy Scout with a badge. The other had sharp eyes and a resting tension, like he was halfway through a threat assessment.
But the woman—
She didn't look like a cop.At least, not the kind you expected.
Athletic build. Defined shoulders under a standard-issue uniform. But it was her face that caught him — not because she was trying to stand out, but because she didn't have to.
Clear skin, sharp features, and eyes that hit like high-resolution — striking in a way that made everything else soften for a second. Focused, but not hardened. Not yet.
There was a kind of beauty there that snuck up on you.No smirk. No flash. Just something quietly magnetic.
Samuel found himself holding the stare half a second too long — not enough to be noticed, but enough to register.
She didn't look like she belonged in a squad car.
And yet here she was.Worn boots. Duty belt. Same tired pace.
He looked away — but the impression stayed.
Phil finally noticed the badges. And the silence.
"Wait. These are—are you all cops?"
Michael nodded once. "Rookies. Long day."
That was enough.
Phil stepped back like someone had nudged him.
"Right. Okay. This wasn't meant to be a whole… thing. We just wanted to check in on Samuel. Maybe talk a little about what happened earlier today. But hey — you've got company. Real stuff. Uniforms. Weapons."
He gave Haley a nudge. "We should go."
Haley didn't argue.
Alex raised an eyebrow. "Probably for the best."
Luke looked like he wanted to stay, but Phil steered him out anyway.
"We'll talk another time, Samuel! Dunphy exit — stage left!"
The door clicked shut behind them.
Michael made his way to the fridge, grabbed a few beers, and passed them to the rookies without comment. They took them, grateful. No small talk. Just tired appreciation.
He sat down at the kitchen island and looked at the covered plate again.
Michael sat down at the kitchen island and looked at the covered plate.
Then at Samuel.
Then at the empty hands of the Dunphys now gone.
"You didn't make them anything?"
Samuel shook his head once, still chewing. "Nope."
Michael raised an eyebrow. "Why not? You had enough."
Samuel swallowed, set down his fork, and leaned back slightly.
"They didn't want any," he said. "Probably figured I couldn't cook — or that it'd be microwave stuff or frozen pizza or something."
He picked up the fork again, tone easy now.
"Didn't stop them from staring once it hit the table, though."
Michael let out a low laugh, leaning forward with a grin.
"Let me guess — Haley tried to play it cool, Luke looked betrayed, and Phil talked himself into being polite."
Samuel gave him a look. "You left out Alex pretending not to care while watching every single thing I did."
Michael chuckled again and finally pulled the plate toward himself.
"Well. Their loss"
One of the rookies finally cracked his beer open. The woman leaned against the counter, arms crossed, eyes distant. The third stood near the window, staring out like he hadn't fully returned to the room yet.
Samuel didn't speak. Just let the quiet settle.
And in that quiet, his eyes flicked across their faces one more time.
The tall one — calm, solid, carrying the weight of the day without needing to speak — looked familiar.
Too familiar.
At first, Samuel's mind went straight to Castle.The smile. The posture. That "I've-seen-some-things-but-I'm-still-charming" presence.
But no.
He knew Castle. Watched season one. Most of two. Nathan Fillion, right?This wasn't him.
This wasn't an actor playing a cop.
This was a cop.
And then the memory snapped into place.
A YouTube clip from his old life — short, chaotic, unforgettable. A traffic stop. Bodycam footage. And somewhere in the background, a garage band rehearsing what had to be the most unhinged song he'd ever heard.
"Is that a baton in your pocket / or are you just happy to see me?"
The officer in the footage stayed professional the whole time — deadpan, patient, pretending not to hear it.And this guy in the kitchen? Same face. Same walk. Same deadpan.
"Cop cuties, cute and on-duty / Navy Blue booties, go ahead and lock me up…"
Back then, Samuel assumed it was fake. Staged. Some viral sketch designed to look real.
"Sell me some meth please / so I can get arrested by this daddy of a cop…"
But it hadn't been a sketch.
It had been him.
The "Daddy Cop" was real — and he was now standing in Samuel's kitchen, cracking open a beer like nothing about this was strange.
Samuel didn't say anything.Didn't flinch.Just stared quietly as the pieces slid into place.
This wasn't Castle.This wasn't a cameo.This was Nolan.
And right behind him — Chen. West.
He didn't say their names out loud. Just sat there, still, fork resting on the edge of his plate.
They were in his house.Real. Breathing. Laughing.
And suddenly, Michael's job — the one that already seemed too good to be true — felt different.
Was it going to be car chases now?Explosions? Hostage standoffs?Terrorists in shopping malls?High-speed pursuits through downtown LA?
Because this wasn't just law enforcement.
This was TV law enforcement.
And now that Samuel knew that?
Yeah.
Things were about to get a lot more interesting.