I read in your comments about the templates Adrian has. Well, I thought I'd already included or mentioned them, but it seems I overlooked them. The templates he possesses are from Gun Park (Lookism) and Spike Spiegel (Cowboy Bebop). Honestly, it took me a while to figure out how to make it as realistic as possible, although with the templates it does look a bit surreal. But that's where Adrian's skills come from, whether with weapons or in combat. Although it's obvious he won't be able to reach the top of Hollywood with just that. If some of you found it strange, or rather, indifferent, it's because of the age at which Adrian gets these templates.
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Fake snow was falling on the set when Adrian remembered it was his birthday.
January. Canada. Seventeen.
He stood in the middle of a 19th-century trapper's camp, dressed in furs that smelled of mothballs and other people's sweat, surrounded by 50 extras pretending to warm themselves around electric fires.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. A message from Rebecca: "Happy birthday. Don't freeze."
Adrian smiled slightly and put his phone away.
The Revenant. His sixth project since Furious 7 wrapped last year. Twelve hours a day in sub-zero temperatures. Two weeks on location. Five hundred dollars a day.
It wasn't glamorous. But it was work.
"Positions!" yelled the assistant director.
Adrian went back to his mark. Just another trapper in the background. Invisible. Exactly as it should be.
The months after Furious 7 had been different than he'd expected.
There were no immediate calls from big productions. No agents knocking on his door. Danny Chen recommended him for three more projects that year, but they were small. Commercials. TV series. An independent film they shot in eighteen days on a budget that probably wouldn't have even covered the catering for Furious 7. Adrian learned quickly that Hollywood wasn't a straight ladder to the top. It was more like... a maze. Sometimes you moved forward. Sometimes you went around in circles. Sometimes you hit a wall and had to find another route.
But he kept working. Four days a week on average. Sometimes five. Rarely six.
In March, he did background work on Ant-Man. In April, stunt work for a Netflix series that never got off the ground. In May, Rick Tanaka texted him: "There's a stunt casting call in Vancouver. Interested?"
Adrian always replied the same thing: "Yes."
Vancouver turned out to be a low-budget action film starring a '90s TV actor trying to revive his career. The script was terrible. The choreography was worse. But the stunt coordinator—a veteran named Jeff—taught him more in two weeks than Adrian had learned in six months.
"The secret," Jeff told him one night as they reviewed the next day's choreography, "isn't being the best. It's being the most reliable. If a coordinator knows you'll show up on time, do the job without complaining, and not hurt yourself doing stupid things, they'll call you back. Every time."
Adrian absorbed every word. Reliability. Consistency. Professionalism.
It wasn't as exciting as "natural talent" or "destiny." But it worked.
When he returned from Vancouver, Tyler was waiting for him at his apartment with pizza and beer he'd stolen from his dad's fridge.
"The man, the myth, the legend!" Tyler unlocked the door before Adrian could even get his keys out. "Welcome home, professional stuntman."
"I'm not a pro yet."
"Dude, you get paid to fall off buildings. That's literally the definition of a pro." Tyler handed him a beer. "Tell me all about it. Was Vancouver awesome?"
"It was... Vancouver."
"Wow. How descriptive."
Adrian laughed—something he'd been doing more often lately—and plopped down on the couch. "The movie's bad. But I learned a lot."
"Learn what?"
"How not to do things."
Tyler raised his beer. "Sometimes that's the best lesson."
They ate pizza straight from the box, watched a terrible action movie on Netflix, and critiqued every fight scene. Tyler had strong opinions about everything. Adrian mostly listened, but occasionally added technical comments that made Tyler look at him with exaggerated respect.
"Look," Tyler said eventually, "I know you're busy saving the movie world and all that, but... you do remember we're still in school, right?"
Adrian blinked. "It's May."
"Exactly. Graduation in a month. Are you going?"
"Why wouldn't I?"
"I don't know, maybe because you've missed like... forty days this semester?"
"Thirty-two."
"Oh, sorry, thirty-two. Much better." Tyler gave him a light shove. "You're going to graduate, right? Because if you don't, Rebecca's going to kill me. And then you're going to have to avenge me with your stunt-study skills."
"I'm going to graduate."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Tyler nodded, satisfied. "Okay. Because Sarah, Carlos, and I have a bet about whether you'll make it to June alive or fall out of a building first."
"Who bet on what?"
"I bet you'll survive. Sarah says you'll break a leg before May. Carlos thinks you'll fall out of a helicopter."
"I haven't worked with helicopters."
"Not yet."
June came faster than Adrian expected.
One day he was doing background work on The Nice Guys, pretending to be a passerby on a 1970s Los Angeles street. The next, he was standing in the Culver City High School auditorium, dressed in a blue gown and ridiculous mortarboard, waiting to hear his name called.
"Adrian Cole."
He walked up the stairs. The principal handed him his diploma. They shook hands. A quick photo. He walked back down.
Twenty-five seconds total.
Rebecca wept from her seat in the fifth row. Tyler yelled something incomprehensible that sounded like "THAT'S MY BROTHER!" mixed with a wolf howl. Sarah clapped. Carlos whistled.
Adrian smiled. A small but genuine smile.
He didn't feel the surge of emotion you're supposed to feel at graduation. There was no cosmic revelation about the future. Just... quiet satisfaction. He'd made it. He was done.
That was enough.
After the ceremony, Rebecca hugged him so tightly Adrian thought she might break a rib.
"I'm so proud of you."
"Thanks, Mom."
"What's next?"
Adrian glanced at his phone. Two unread messages. One from Danny. Another from a new coordinator named Jeff who had contacted him a week ago.
"More work."
Rebecca sighed, but she was smiling. "Of course."
Tyler appeared with Sarah and Carlos trailing behind him, still wearing his gown but with his mortarboard lost somewhere.
"Officially graduated!" Tyler threw his arms up dramatically. "We're adults now!"
"Legally," Sarah corrected.
"Mentally, I'm still a twelve-year-old," Tyler admitted. "But that's irrelevant. Let's go to dinner. Official celebration. My dad's paying."
Carlos raised an eyebrow. "Does your dad know he's paying?"
"He'll know when the bill arrives."
They ended up at an Italian restaurant on Culver Boulevard. Six people sat around a table: Adrian, Tyler, Sarah, Carlos, Rebecca, and Tyler's mother, who looked perpetually tired but happy.
They ordered way too much food. Tyler launched into a long, probably exaggerated story about a teacher who had hated them. Sarah corrected every detail. Carlos added sarcastic comments. Rebecca and Tyler's mother exchanged "how did we survive these kids?" glances.
Adrian ate his pasta and listened.
At some point, Tyler raised his glass of Coke.
"A toast. To us. To surviving four years of bureaucratic hell disguised as education."
"Very poetic," Sarah said.
"Thanks. I wrote it myself." Tyler looked around the table. "Seriously. You guys are... well, I don't hate you. That's something."
"Your eloquence touches me," Carlos said.
"Shut up." Tyler grinned. "To us."
"To us," the group echoed.
Adrian clinked his glass against Tyler's.
"Thanks," he said quietly.
Tyler looked at him in surprise. "Why?"
"For not giving up on me."
Tyler's expression softened. "Bro. I never would have given up. You're my best friend."
Adrian nodded. "So are you."
It was a good moment. One of those moments Adrian knew—with the quiet certainty only templates could provide—he'd remember for a long time.
Summer was nonstop work.
Adrian didn't take a vacation. There was no graduation trip. No weeks off before "starting real life."
He was already in real life.
June: three days on the set of Criminal Minds, falling off a false ceiling repeatedly until the coordinator was satisfied.
July: two weeks in Arizona for a Western that probably no one would see but that paid well.
August: back in Los Angeles, doing background work on NCIS and a Hallmark movie being filmed simultaneously on adjacent lots.
The weeks blended together. Different sets. Different people. But the routine was the same: arrive early, do the work, don't complain, go home.
Rebecca worked double shifts at the hospital. Adrian cooked when he was home—plain pasta, baked chicken, salads that were more functional than delicious. They ate together when their schedules aligned, which wasn't as often as Adrian would have liked.
"How was your shift?" he'd ask as he served pasta onto two plates.
"Long. How was your day?"
"Eight hours standing in a fake elevator pretending to be in a skyscraper."
"Does that count as acting?"
"Technically."
Small smiles. Simple conversations. But constant.
Tyler visited twice a week, usually unannounced, always with food or video games or dramatic stories about his job at a coffee shop he hated.
"I quit today," Tyler announced one night in August, collapsing onto Adrian's couch.
"Again?"
"Again. But this time I mean it."
"You said that last week."
"Yeah, well, this time I really mean it." Tyler sighed dramatically. "I hate making lattes. I hate the customers. I hate the smell of burnt coffee on my clothes."
"Then quit for real."
"I can't. I need the money."
Adrian looked at him. "You still want to act?"
"Yeah. But nobody calls me back." Tyler paused. "You have steady work. How do you do it?"
Adrian considered the question honestly. "Danny recommends me. And when I'm working, I don't make mistakes."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
Tyler was silent for a moment. Then he smiled slightly. "Maybe I should be a stunt double too."
"Do you want to?"
"No. I want people to see my face." Tyler laughed. "But I'm glad you're doing well, man. I really am."
"Thanks."
September arrived without fanfare.
Adrian turned eighteen on a set in Burbank, doing background work for a romantic comedy he forgot immediately after it wrapped.
Rebecca texted him: "Happy birthday. Dinner tonight?"
"Yes. I get off at 6."
They ate at the same Italian restaurant where they'd celebrated their graduation. Just the two of them this time.
"Eighteen," Rebecca said, raising her glass of water. "Officially an adult."
"Legally."
"Mentally, too, I guess." Rebecca looked at him with something close to astonishment. "When did you grow up?"
"Gradually."
She laughed. "I guess so."
They ate in comfortable silence. Adrian ordered his usual: pasta with marinara sauce, simple and predictable. Rebecca had risotto, which she'd tried once and never ordered again.
"Have you thought about college?" Rebecca asked eventually.
"No."
"Never?"
"It's not for me."
Rebecca nodded slowly. "Is filmmaking what you want? Really?"
Adrian considered it. Two years ago, he wouldn't have known how to answer. A year ago, he would have said he didn't know. Now...
"Yes."
"Okay then." Rebecca smiled. "Just... don't forget to live, too. Work is important, but it's not everything."
"I know."
"You know?"
Adrian looked at his mother. Lines around her eyes that weren't there five years ago. Hair with a few gray strands. Hands that were overworked.
"I try," he said honestly.
"That's enough."
October was more of the same. November, too.
Adrian worked on sets he forgot the next day. He met coordinators who would remember him and others who wouldn't. He did the work. He went home. Repeated.
It wasn't glamorous. But it was consistent.
And then, in mid-November, his phone rang.
Unknown number.
Adrian usually didn't answer. But something—instinct, curiosity, the templates whispering in the back of his mind—told him to pick up.
"Hello?"
"Adrian Cole?" A male voice, professional, with a slight accent Adrian couldn't place.
"Yes."
"This is Jonathan Eusebio. I'm a stunt coordinator for John Wick: Chapter 2."
Adrian stopped in the middle of the parking lot of the set where he had just finished.
"Danny Chen gave me your name," Jonathan continued. "He says you have exceptional control and learn quickly."
"I do my best."
"Good. We have an open casting call for stunt doubles next week. We need people for action scenes in Rome. Lots of hand-to-hand combat, working with prop weapons, complex choreography. Interested?"
John Wick. Adrian had seen the first film four times. The choreography was perfect. Brutal yet elegant. Realistic yet cinematic.
"Yes."
"Great. I'll send you the information by message. I need you to bring athletic wear and prepare a 30-second fight sequence. It can be with or without weapons. You have creative freedom."
"Understood."
"See you Tuesday. 10 AM. Millennium Studios. Don't be late."
"I won't be late."
The call ended.
Adrian stood in the parking lot, holding his phone, processing.
John Wick: Chapter 2.
Marcus—the extra who had become a close friend during Furious 7—came off the set and saw him.
"Bro, are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Casting for John Wick 2."
Marcus whistled softly. "Damn. That's big leagues."
"It's just a casting call."
"Yeah, but you're good. You've got a real shot." Marcus punched him in the shoulder. "When is it?"
"Tuesday."
"Do you need help preparing?"
Adrian considered it. "Can you come tomorrow after work?"
"Of course."