Four cops in one house.
Samuel hadn't realized how much it stressed him out until they were gone. Sure, they were nice — surprisingly so — but having four trained officers in his living room had made his skin itch in ways he couldn't explain.
Lucy Chen had stood out the most. Calm, sharp, absolutely stunning — not just her looks, but the way she moved, the way she observed. Everything about her was controlled, deliberate, but never cold. He'd caught himself glancing her way more than once.
Jackson West had been polite. Respectful. Easy to like.
But Nolan… Nolan had been different. The way he talked, the way he listened — steady, warm, like someone who actually saw him. Not as a kid, not as some curiosity, but as a person.
Like he actually gave a damn.
That stuck with him.
Now, Samuel was back in motion, biking through a neighborhood just starting to wake up. Kitchen lights flicked on behind half-drawn curtains. A few parents shouted from porches or driveways, coffee cups in hand.
"Get moving! We're already late!"
"Shoes! Where are your shoes?!"
He passed a kid being scolded while dragging a lopsided backpack, and smirked. His legs moved easily beneath him, but his thoughts were already out of reach.
His mind was sailing.
In my old world, everyone knew Blackbeard. The demon pirate. The myth with smoke in his beard. But here, Long John Silver had taken that throne. Revered, quoted, treated like history itself.
This world twisted fiction in a way that made it feel truer than fact. And Samuel was starting to understand how to use that.
He veered off the main road, taking his shortcut — a gravel-lined alley between two aging office buildings, half-forgotten and silent in the morning light.
And even as the air turned colder, his thoughts burned hotter.
What if Sparrow wasn't a drunk, but a strategist? What if the compass was real, and still out there?What if the Black Pearl had never sunk — just vanished, waiting to be found?
Act I: the ship stolen. Act II: the storm. Act III: the rise of the Black Pearl — not the Disney version. The real one.
He cut through the alley, the bike bumping gently beneath him, and let the wind cool his face. His legs moved on instinct — but his mind wasn't here.
If Flint was real, if Silver was real… then someone, somewhere, knows what happened to the Pearl.
The compass. The charts. The ship no storm could sink.They had to come from somewhere.
He blinked, narrowed his eyes as he passed a low-hanging branch without ducking — eyes forward, brain miles away.
If I follow the right threads — the ones behind the fiction — maybe I could find it all.And if I do… it won't be a movie. It'll be a map.
The school came into view, kids gathering near the gate. Some glanced his way. No whispers this time. Just stares — like they didn't know whether to admire or question him.
He didn't return the looks.
Let them stare.
He had something real now.
And he wasn't about to let go of it.
He chained his bike at the rack, slung his bag over his shoulder, and walked through the main entrance without slowing down. Students filled the courtyard and front hallway — chatting, half-awake, buzzing with the kind of energy that came with the last days of summer heat clashing with school routine.
As Samuel passed the first cluster of lockers, he caught it.
"That's the kid that hangs out with Vinny Chase."
He didn't turn his head.
But he heard it again, further down the hall. No laughter. No disbelief. Just quiet recognition. Like his name had made its way into people's conversations overnight.
Well… now the whole school probably knows.
He kept walking, not acknowledging anyone. The stares were no longer whispers behind his back — they were just there, following him openly. Curious, cautious. Maybe waiting for something else to go viral.
He barely noticed.
His mind was still in the storm — somewhere off the coast of Antigua, chasing the outline of a ship swallowed by time.
By the time he sat down in his first class, the teacher was already scratching through a lesson on the board. Something about economic patterns. Useless, at least for him.
He flipped to a blank page and started sketching a deck layout — cannon placements, sails, crew positions. Then beneath it, he jotted a note: "Act II: betrayal during the squall."
The ideas poured in.
Flint's voice drifted in his head — gravel and venom. He scribbled lines of dialogue, rewrote them, crossed them out. The ship wasn't just a setting anymore. It was a character.
I never thought digging through lore would be fun, he realized. But this... this is different.
He was three paragraphs deep into a scene where Sparrow stashed a compass in a broken rum barrel beneath the deck, every line tangled in legend and half-truths. He'd already rewritten the dialogue twice and cut a reference to Barbossa that no one would even understand.
And yet I can't stop.
This is Sam Winchester's brain at work again. The obsession. The need to connect every thread, no matter how small.It should be exhausting… but it's not.It's actually kind of addictive.
A light tap on his arm.
Tori slid into the seat beside him, already grinning. "Okay, serious question — can the captain be blind in one eye and still hot?"
Samuel blinked. "What?"
She pointed at the page. "You scratched out 'his left eye narrows' like three times. I'm just saying, a hot pirate with an eyepatch? Peak cinema."
Alex looked up from across the table. "You'd have to be accurate, though. Infection was a death sentence in that era."
Samuel nodded, writing as she spoke. "So, no eyepatch unless I'm willing to kill him by the third act."
"Or give him a surgeon with shaky morals," Dylan offered as he dropped into the seat beside Alex. "What's up, film nerds?"
Tori elbowed him. "We're shaping history."
Dylan grinned. "Cool. Just make sure it has music. Vinny's gonna want a soundtrack."
Samuel smirked. "If one of you starts singing, I'm deleting the entire project."
They laughed — and for a moment, everything felt light. Not normal, exactly, but real.
Alex leaned over slightly, eyeing his notebook. "You're really serious about this, huh?"
He nodded. "Yeah. I think I finally found something worth being serious about."
In the hallway outside, more students passed by — some slowed, some stared. There was no hiding anymore.
But Samuel didn't care.
His world had narrowed to storm-wrecked sails, blood on the deck, and a story that wasn't finished yet.
The bell rang. People spilled from classrooms like floodgates had opened. Samuel barely registered it. He packed his things, still thinking about broken compasses and betrayal at sea, and drifted with the current toward the cafeteria.
The noise hit him as soon as the doors swung open — too loud, too chaotic, too full of people pretending they weren't watching each other. His food in one hand, his notebook tucked under his arm, he moved through it like a ghost on a shipwreck.
Alex and Tori were already waiting.
"You brought it?" Tori asked, hopeful and half-teasing.
Samuel set two containers down without ceremony — one in front of each of them. "Promised."
Alex flipped hers open immediately, steam curling up like it knew it had an audience. "Okay, wow. I've been thinking about your cooking since I smelled it at your place the other night."
She took a bite and didn't say anything for a moment — just nodded like she was already planning how to bribe him for more.
Tori opened hers slower, blinking when she saw the exact toppings she liked — no onions, no pickles, extra avocado. "You remembered?"
Samuel didn't look up. "You gagged like someone hit you with a sock full of soap. Kind of hard to forget."
She blushed. "Still… thanks."
He nodded once, already flipping open his notebook. Script notes filled the page — most of them crossed out, rewritten, and circled again. He took a bite of his own food while scribbling a line of dialogue where Will promised Elizabeth he'd save her without ever saying the words directly.
The middle of the movie was starting to form: mutiny in the dark, a compass that didn't point north, and the first whisper of something much older buried in the sea.
He didn't notice the chairs scraping behind him until the table grew heavier with presence. Cassie and Maddie dropped in on either side like a coordinated ambush. Haley followed quietly and sat beside them.
Samuel glanced up, instinct more than curiosity. His eyes met Haley's for half a second. She broke the stare first.
He looked back down.
"Excited for training?" Cassie asked, voice light and friendly.
Samuel flipped a page. "Not really."
Maddie leaned in slightly. "You nervous or just not into it?"
He looked at her, then at Cassie. "I'm not nervous. I'm just… not sure it's my thing."
Cassie tilted her head. "Didn't you do great at tryouts, though?"
"Tryouts were just clean drills, no contact. It felt manageable," he said, then glanced at Cassie. "And… some cheerleaders convinced me."
He shrugged. "But I was never really in it for the game. I didn't even plan to join — it just sort of happened. Thad pulled me in, and I didn't know how to say no."
Maddie smiled like she thought he was joking. "Come on, you're not worried about Thad, are you?"
"I'm not worried," Samuel said, tone flat. "I just don't want to get body-slammed for something I don't even care about."
That landed harder than they expected.
Cassie's smile dimmed just enough to show she wasn't sure how to respond. Maddie gave a quick laugh — not mocking, just trying to smooth over the awkward beat — but she didn't press the issue.
They weren't used to someone who didn't play along.
Across from him, Alex gave a small smirk and returned to her food. Tori glanced at Samuel's notebook, saw the drawing of a compass with jagged edges, and leaned back like she didn't want to interrupt whatever he was building.
Haley stayed quiet. Still eating. Still pretending none of it mattered.
Honestly, I didn't care anymore.
She'd been a flash — a quick pull in a moment when everything felt off balance. Now, she just looked like every other kid trying to stay relevant. Obsessed with being seen. Addicted to attention.
He already had all the attention he didn't want. And he didn't care if she looked twice or not at all.
I'm not chasing a girl who lives in likes and subtweets.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Ari Gold.
He sighed once, then answered. "Yeah?"
Ari's voice exploded through the line."Samuel. I said the words 'pirates' and 'buried history' and these guys started foaming at the mouth. One of them actually yelled 'franchise.' You broke their brains. How far along are we?"
Samuel closed his notebook halfway."I'll have a draft of the pirate movie ready today. The guidelines for Medellín — or Narcos, really — are done. Just need to clean them up."
There was a beat.
Then:"Jesus Christ, are you wired into something? You're moving faster than half my writers with assistants and caffeine IVs."
Samuel gave a faint shrug."I've got football after school. If you want, come by the field — I'll bring the script."
"Football," Ari repeated, like the word personally offended him. "What is that, research or punishment?"
Samuel smirked."Bit of both."
"Alright. Vinny and I will swing by."
Samuel hesitated, then added,"My uncle wants to meet you, by the way. Just wants to make sure you're not some weird Hollywood guy who buys baby oil in bulk."
Ari barked a laugh."Tell him I'm not weird — I'm passionate. And moisturized."
Call ended.
Samuel took one last bite of lunch, pulled out his phone, and texted Michael:
Ari and maybe Vinny are coming to the field. Bringing the script.
"Heads up — Ari (maybe Vinny too) coming to practice. Wanted to call, but I'd rather not have the whole school show up just in case."
He hit send.
Still the same stares. Still the same silence. Still Haley, pretending she wasn't listening.
Fine by him.
He turned the page, drew a jagged compass in the corner, and wrote one word beneath it:
Want.
He closed the notebook, packed it away, and let the cafeteria noise fade behind him.
The rest of the day crawled. Teachers droned, the AC wheezed, and the only thing Samuel could think about was the compass sketched in the margin of his notes.
By the time school finally let out, the heat had tripled — and so had his regret for ever saying yes to practice.
Samuel coasted onto the field on his bike, five minutes late. Practice was already chaos.
Pads cracked. Helmets collided. Coaches yelled. Someone got shoved so hard they rolled. It didn't feel like school anymore — it felt like some gladiator boot camp with a dress code.
He spotted Thad Castle near midfield, shirt rolled up, dripping with sweat and enthusiasm like a frat god sent from war. The guy saw him and grinned like Christmas came early.
"Fresh meat! Let's go, Hollywood!"
Samuel sighed and dropped his bag. So much for blending in.
He jogged over. The field was packed — upperclassmen everywhere. Huge. Fast. Loud. Some looked like they hadn't been in high school in years.
Coach didn't say much. Just shoved him into a position.
Scrimmage time.
First few plays weren't awful. He got his hands on the ball, made a clean pass, even ran a decent route.
But it wasn't like tryouts.
There were no slow reps. No second chances. Just hit, run, survive. Half these guys looked like they'd been born in cleats and raised on pre-workout. Every play felt like a test — not of skill, but of nerve.
Thad was on defense. Roaming, barking, laughing. A full-blown linebacker possessed.
Samuel was just trying to survive. Not embarrass himself. Play well enough to look useful without getting broken in half.
He caught flashes of movement on the sideline — cheerleaders stretching near the fence, ponytails swinging, pom-poms glinting in the sun. Cassie and Maddie stood out, all legs and posture, laughing like this was just another Friday show.
Samuel wasn't focused on the field. Not really.
His eyes drifted. His mind wandered.
He wasn't here because he loved the game. He didn't even like it. But for whatever reason — peer pressure, Thad's hype, Cassie's smile — he was here. Sweating. Waiting to be flattened.
By the third set of downs, Thad was lined up across from him.
Bigger. Older. Built like a bouncer. Grinning like the hit was already decided.
Snap.
Samuel tried. He really did. Lowered his stance. Threw himself at Thad like it mattered.
It didn't.
Thad barely slowed. Samuel hit the turf hard — the wind knocked out of him — but he got up without complaint. That wasn't pride. That was reflex.
Thad looked back, a little impressed. Most guys didn't stand up after that.
Next play.
The hit came harder. Meaner. Like Thad wanted to test what Samuel was really made of.
It wasn't a tackle — it was punishment.
And for a second, Samuel thought something cracked.
But it didn't. Somehow, he absorbed it. Still standing. Still pissed.
"What the hell is this sport?" he muttered."What the fuck is this game?"
Thad just laughed. "Still standing! I like you!"
Snap.
Another hit.
This one wasn't football. It was war. And Samuel had no armor left.
Thad crashed into him like a wrecking ball in cleats, driving him straight into the ground with full force.
Samuel's ribs lit up. His vision blurred.
He barely hit the grass before Thad stood over him and roared:
"BOOM! Castle kills another one!"
That was the signal.
A chorus of voices erupted from the defense —"LET'S GO!""Big man eats!""Castle's a goddamn truck!"
One teammate smacked Thad on the helmet. Another slapped his butt. A third chest-bumped him like they'd just won the Super Bowl.
Samuel lay there.
Not in pain — not really.Just... staring.
Up at the sun. The sky. A couple birds overhead that didn't give a single shit about this fake war on grass.
He wasn't winded. He wasn't injured.
He was just done.
Done with the noise. The fake glory. The testosterone parade.
He sat up slowly, spitting out turf, and said it without any heat — just truth:
"Fuck this game."
The coach blew the whistle. Subbed him out.
The sideline buzzed — whispers, stares, wide eyes. Some with respect, most with confusion.
Samuel didn't sit. He didn't look back.
He walked straight off the field, toward the stands.
And that's when he saw them.
Vinny. Ari. The entourage.
Watching everything.
High in the back row, behind sunglasses and baseball caps, a squad of adults pretending to blend in.
Turtle. Drama. E.
And Vinny Chase, half-buried under a hoodie, dark shades, and a low baseball cap — the kind of outfit that screamed "Please don't recognize me," which naturally made him look even more suspicious.
And there, standing like he owned the sky above the bleachers: Ari Gold.
No one else had noticed them.
Samuel exhaled, shook off the dirt, and just… walked.
Coach yelled. Someone waved. He didn't look back.
He wasn't going back in.
Not for Thad. Not for glory. Not for the team.
He reached the base of the bleachers. Ari gave him a lazy wave.
Samuel reached the top of the bleachers, still rolling his shoulder like it might pop back into alignment if he just moved right.
Ari raised an eyebrow. "You dead or just concussed?"
Samuel dropped onto the bench beside them with a groan."I joined football to impress some cheerleaders. Now I'm pretty sure I cracked a rib for some walking steroid in cleats."
That set them off.
Drama slapped his leg. Turtle wheezed. Even E cracked a smirk.
Vinny laughed, shaking his head. "Man, that hit… guy came at you like you owed him rent and child support."
Samuel exhaled. "And people do this for fun?"
Drama leaned in, grinning. "Nah, bro — for glory. Or CTE. One of those."
Ari waved a hand. "Alright, enough trauma bonding. We didn't come here for head injuries. Tell me you brought the script."
Vinny leaned forward. "You finished it, right? Not just an idea — an actual draft?"
Samuel gave a small nod. "First draft's done. It's rough, but the spine's solid."
Ari clapped once, sharp and loud. "Then what the hell are we waiting for?"
Turtle looked toward the field. "You sure they're not gonna drag you back in?"
Samuel shrugged. "They could send the principal and the Pope. I'm not going back."
Drama gave him a look. Serious this time. "That's how you walk off a battlefield."
They rose together and started descending the bleachers. Samuel felt the eyes from the field — a few confused glances, a coach calling his name. He didn't turn around.
At the bottom of the stairs, they moved toward the parking lot. Vinny stayed close, asking quiet questions.
"You really wrote a full draft? Like… characters, scenes, the whole arc?"
Samuel nodded. "It's not perfect, but it's there."
Ari pointed at him. "That's what I like. No fluff. Just action."
E glanced over. "What about Medellín?"
Samuel smirked. "Renamed it. It's Narcos now."
Vinny blinked. "Dude. That's better. That's way better."
"It's not just about one city or one guy," Samuel said. "It's the whole system. The DEA agent's our way in. Episode one starts with a cartel money bust in Bogotá — the money's so clean, no one knows who it belongs to. But the agent sees the pattern. Pulls the thread."
Ari slowed down. "You start with the thread... and unravel the empire."
"Exactly," Samuel said. "Each episode digs deeper. It's about who built the drug world — and who profits from keeping it alive."
Ari looked like someone handed him a license to print money."This is prestige TV bait. HBO, AMC, FX — someone's gonna throw a bag at this just off the logline. I've seen shows greenlit with half the setup you've got here."
Drama leaned in immediately."Okay but — if this is a series, I'm seeing myself as either a DEA hardass with a mustache, or a cartel guy who gets tortured and flips. Real redemption arc. Maybe some flashbacks. Scars. Betrayal. Emmy stuff."
Samuel grinned. "I'll let you audition."
Drama fist-pumped like he'd just landed the Emmy.
They reached the cars, still laughing, still tossing ideas back and forth.
But then a voice cut through it—
"Samuel."
Michael.
He stood a few steps away, arms crossed, face unreadable. His car had just pulled in — late, but not too late to notice Samuel wasn't on the field.
The group quieted. Even Ari, for once, didn't say a word.
Michael looked at Samuel. Ignored the rest.
"Why aren't you playing?"
Samuel kept his voice even. "Because I didn't want to."
Michael narrowed his eyes. "You walked off mid-practice?"
"I never asked to join the team," Samuel replied. "That linebacker pushed me into it after tryouts. I went along because it felt like the thing to do. But I'm not gonna keep letting people tackle me like I'm a crash dummy."
"You could've told someone that before practice."
"I didn't know until I was lying on the grass wondering why people enjoy this."
Michael didn't blink. "You left the field the moment those guys showed up."
Samuel's jaw tightened, but he kept calm. "I left because I got hit twice by a human tank. And I realized I'd rather write the movie than break bones in someone else's."
Michael looked at him for a long second.
Then nodded — not in agreement, but in confirmation. Like he'd just filed something away for later.
Samuel turned slightly toward the group."Follow us to my place. Scripts are there — just a few minutes down the road. Green house, last one on the left."
Ari gave a two-finger salute."We're right behind you."
Vinny smirked."Bet it's got that screenwriter vibe. Low light, stacks of paper, whiskey somewhere."
Samuel didn't respond. Just looked back at Michael.
Michael's jaw was tight. "You're really doing this?"
Samuel nodded. "Yeah. I am."
Michael didn't say anything else. He turned and walked to the car.
Samuel stood there for another breath, then followed without a word.
Behind him: jokes, fame, and possibility.In front of him: silence, responsibility, and a steering wheel he didn't control — yet.
One car pulled out. Another followed.
Two paths. Same direction.
For now.
The car ride home was silent.
Not their usual kind — the easy kind, where thoughts filled the space between them like background noise. No, this silence was tight. Like the air itself had something to say but didn't dare speak.
Michael's eyes stayed on the road. His hands didn't move on the wheel. He didn't look over once.
Samuel didn't either.
When they pulled into the driveway, Michael cut the engine but didn't move.
"I don't like where this is going," he said finally. "If they're not impressed with your script, then I don't want to see you wasting your time with them."
Samuel unbuckled his seatbelt. "That's fair."
They stepped inside the house. The morning still lingered in the mess — rumpled blankets on the couch from Nolan, a few dishes in the sink, a chair pushed halfway out like someone left mid-thought. Not dirty, not clean. Just lived-in. Real.
Samuel grabbed the script from the kitchen table — a printed, dog-eared draft already filled with notes and scribbles — and set it on the coffee table.
A knock at the door. Then another.
He opened it, and in came the chaos.
Ari, Vinny, E, Turtle, Drama — voices already bouncing off the walls, eyes scanning the house like it was a scouting location.
"Alright!" Ari clapped once. "Let's see what the golden child wrote."
Samuel gestured toward the couch and handed them the script. "Here. First draft."
E and Ari took it seriously — flipping past the title page, eyes narrowing with focus.
Vinny? He skimmed. Speed-read the way someone watches a trailer before deciding to buy the ticket.
Samuel stood back, letting the moment settle. He could feel Michael behind him, hovering near the wall like a shadow. Watching.
"Okay," Ari muttered, flipping a page. "Good pacing… oh, this line is nasty — I love it."
E looked up. "Did you write all of this yourself?"
Samuel nodded.
"Feels like something that's been workshopped by a team," E said. "That's not an insult."
Vinny paused on a section and pointed."Is this where the compass changes hands?"
"Yeah," Samuel said. "That's the midpoint betrayal. It's where loyalty stops being useful."
Vinny grinned. "Whoever wrote this part's a menace. So this... Sparrow guy — is he the lead?"
Samuel nodded his head."He's clever. Unpredictable. Acts like he's making it up as he goes, but he's always two steps ahead. You think he's chaos, but he's the one steering the whole story."
Drama leaned forward. "So… like a pirate Batman."
Samuel smirked. "Sure. But drunk and cursed."
Vinny leaned back, nodding. "I like him. He's the kind of guy people remember. So what about me — who do I play?"
Samuel thought for a moment."Honestly? You've got options. Sparrow, if we anchor the chaos. Or a Will Turner type if we build around the emotional arc. But the villain's also open — if we want a surprise people talk about after the credits."
Vinny's smile widened. "That's a good problem to have."
Drama raised a hand. "And what about me?"
Samuel looked at him without hesitation."Ex-crewmate. Knows the old crew. Has a limp, but still drinks everyone under the table. Shows up when things get real."
Drama beamed. "Now that's what I'm talking about."
Then came the voice from behind them.
Michael.
"Do you guys actually think this is a good movie?"
They all turned. Michael hadn't moved from his spot near the doorframe. Arms crossed. Jaw set.
Ari looked at him. Not flinching. Not joking.
"I've seen thirty scripts this month," he said. "This is one of two I'd pitch right now without blinking."
E leaned forward, still holding the script."We would've blown it if we hadn't listened to him. This isn't just good — it's real."
Ari nodded, eyes still on the page."Your kid's a genius."
Michael didn't blink."He's my nephew."
Ari looked up, eyebrows raised."Seriously? Huh."He paused, then nodded slowly. "Didn't know that."
He didn't press it. Didn't shift into charm mode. Just adjusted — posture a little straighter now, voice more deliberate.
"Look. You clearly raised someone sharp. Tomorrow, I'd like to invite both of you to my agency. Just to observe. Sit in on some meetings. Watch how writers work. If it still feels like bullshit afterward, fine. But I think it'll help."
Michael didn't answer right away. His eyes drifted to Samuel — who hadn't moved, hadn't reacted much at all. Just stood there, steady, like he belonged in the room and didn't need to prove it.
And in that moment, Michael remembered something.
The last time he'd seen that kind of spark in Samuel — that quiet fire — was at the edge of a wrecked forest, talking to two strangers in loud shirts who claimed they could read minds. Samuel had looked... alive. Like he was finally in a world big enough to matter.
Michael exhaled.
"Alright. We'll come."
Samuel said nothing.
But for the first time that day, he felt like he didn't need to.