The plane descended through gray clouds over Italy, and Adrian watched Rome appear outside the window—a sea of terracotta buildings stretching as far as the eye could see.
Twelve hours from Los Angeles. Three hours of interrupted sleep. One suitcase. Two weeks ahead.
Leonardo da Vinci Airport was controlled chaos even at 6:45 AM. Adrian followed the signs to immigration, passed through passport control without incident, and found his suitcase spinning on its own on the conveyor belt.
Outside, in the arrivals area, an Italian man in his fifties held an iPad with his name on it.
"Cole?"
"Yes."
The man nodded, took his suitcase without another word, and led him to a black Mercedes double-parked.
The drive downtown was silent. Adrian didn't try to force a conversation. Instead, he watched the city awaken through the window—scooters weaving between cars, elderly women strolling with shopping bags, cafes opening their doors as baristas arranged chairs on the sidewalks.
Los Angeles was expansive, horizontal, always pushing outward. Rome was vertical, compact, built upon itself over millennia.
The hotel was in Trastevere, a neighborhood of cobblestone streets and ochre-colored buildings. Nothing luxurious—three stars, functional, the kind of place a production crew stays, not the stars.
Adrian checked in with a receptionist who barely looked up from her computer, went up to the third floor, and found his room. Small. Double bed with a white blanket. Window overlooking a narrow alley. Bathroom the size of a closet.
Perfect.
He left his suitcase unpacked, showered to wash off the twelve-hour flight, and checked his phone. A message from the production coordinator: General meeting 3 PM lobby. Crew dinner 7 PM. Rest today. Filming starts tomorrow at 6 AM.
It was 8:30 AM. He had time.
He got dressed—jeans, a gray sweatshirt, comfortable sneakers—and went for a walk.
Rome in February was cold but not brutal. The sky was overcast, threatening rain that never came. Adrian walked without a map, without a plan, letting his feet decide. He crossed the Tiber on a bridge where street vendors offered counterfeit bags and selfie sticks. He passed through squares where pigeons gathered around tourists with bags of bread. He got lost in streets so narrow he could touch both walls at the same time.
Everything was old. Not "built in the fifties" old. Really old. Stones worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. Buildings that had seen empires rise and fall.
He found a café hidden in an alley—no sign, just an open door and the smell of coffee. Inside, three tiny tables and a barista who looked a hundred years old.
"Espresso," Adrian said, one of the few Italian words he knew.
The man made the coffee without replying, poured it into a thimble-sized cup, and went back to his newspaper.
Adrian sat outside at one of the metal tables. The espresso was black as oil and bitter as medicine. Nothing like the watered-down Americano he was used to.
He drank it anyway.
His phone vibrated. Tyler, of course.
"You're here already?"
"Three hours ago."
"WHAT'S ROME LIKE?"
"Old."
"Wow. Shakespeare's jealous of your eloquence."
Adrian smiled slightly. "It's different. Good, different."
"Send me pictures. And get autographs. And tell Keanu I'm his number one fan."
"I'm not going to do that."
"You're the worst friend in the world."
"Probably." He put his phone away and finished his espresso. He left a few euros on the table—probably more than he needed, but he wasn't sure how it worked here—and kept walking.
He spent the rest of the morning lost. In a good way. No pressure. No schedule. Just... existing in a place completely different from anything he knew.
At 2 PM he returned to the hotel, changed into more presentable clothes, and went down to the lobby five minutes before 3.
There were already about 20 people gathered when he arrived. He recognized some faces from training in Los Angeles. Others were new—locally hired European stunt doubles, probably with more experience than he'd have in five years.
Jonathan appeared with a laptop under his arm and the expression of someone who hadn't slept enough.
"Alright, everyone, attention." His voice cut through the conversations. "Welcome to Rome. For those who already know the city, great. For those who don't, there's Google Maps. Either way, you're here to work, not to sightsee."
He connected the laptop to a portable projector and displayed a map of Rome with several locations marked in red.
"Four main locations over the next two weeks: the Catacombs of San Callisto, a piazza near the Pantheon, streets here in Trastevere, and a private museum I can't name until you sign more NDAs." He pointed to each spot on the map. "We'll film in order when possible, but we're dependent on permits and weather. Please be flexible."
He paused, looking directly at the group.
"Simple rules. One: Arrive on time. The shuttle won't wait. Two: Know your choreography. If you're unsure about something, ask before we start filming. Three: Take care of your bodies. I don't want any stupid injuries because you decided to party the night before. If anyone gets injured because they're an idiot, they're fired and they pay for their own flight home."
No one laughed. Jonathan wasn't joking.
"Tomorrow we start in the catacombs. General call at 6:00 AM. Shuttle leaves the lobby at 5:30 sharp. Dress in layers; it's cold down there. Any questions?"
Silence.
"Good. See you at dinner."
The meeting dissolved into small conversations. Adrian stood close to the wall, watching as people formed natural groups—the veterans who clearly already knew each other, the Europeans speaking in a mix of English and Italian, the Americans clustering together out of familiarity.
"Cole."
Adrian turned. Jake—the stunt double who had worked with him during the casting in LA—was approaching with a water bottle.
"First time in Europe, right?"
"Yeah."
"What do you think so far?"
"Different."
Jake laughed. "Yeah, well, wait until you try the real food. Nothing like Olive Garden." He paused. "Hey, I saw what happened during training. The reversal with Keanu."
Adrian tensed almost imperceptibly. "It was a mistake."
"A mistake that showed instinct." Jake lowered his voice, though no one was close enough to hear. "Look, everyone here wants to impress. It's natural. But there's a difference between standing out by doing good work and standing out by trying to steal scenes. You understand that difference, right?"
"Yes."
"Good. Just keep that in mind. Do your job, do it well, and don't try to be bigger than the scene." Jake patted him on the shoulder. "See you at dinner."
The restaurant was small, traditional, probably the kind of place real Romans frequented and tourists never found. The production had booked the entire space—four long, dark-wood tables, candles in empty wine bottles, the smell of garlic and tomato filling the air.
Adrian sat wherever there was room—a table with Jake, a muscular Italian named Marco, a French woman in her thirties named Élise, and a slim Brit with a Cockney accent named David.
The food arrived without anyone ordering—apparently the owner had decided what they were going to eat. First came the antipasto: prosciutto, mozzarella, olives, crusty bread. Then pasta carbonara that made any American version look like an insult. Next came the meat—Adrian wasn't sure what kind, but it was perfectly cooked.
"Aren't you drinking?" Marco asked, noticing that Adrian was only drinking water while the rest of the group shared wine.
"Not before work."
"We work tomorrow, not tonight."
"I know."
Marco studied him for a moment, then shrugged. "Disciplined. I respect that."
The conversation flowed around Adrian—stories from past sets, impossible directors, scenes that went disastrously wrong and miraculously right. Élise told of a French director who made her repeat a fall forty times because "the pain in your expression wasn't authentic." David talked about working on a Bond film where he nearly drowned because no one told him the water trap was miscalibrated.
Adrian listened more than he spoke, but when he contributed, people paid attention.
"How old are you?" Élise asked sometime between the second and third course.
"Eighteen."
"Mon Dieu. You're a baby."
"A baby with great timing," David corrected. "I saw your video audition. Jonathan showed it as an example."
Adrian didn't know Jonathan had done that. "Really?"
"Really. He said your control was almost perfect for someone so young." David took a sip of wine. "First big movie?"
"Second. Furious 7 last year. Background work."
"Ah, Furious," Marco said. "A lot of car work. This is different. John Wick is all about combat. More technical, more precise."
"I know."
"Nervous?" Adrian considered the question honestly. "A little."
"Good." Marco raised his glass. "Nerves keep you focused. Overconfidence lands you in the hospital. Cheers—to not ending up in the hospital."
Laughter rippled around the table. Adrian raised his glass of water.
"To not ending up in the hospital," the group echoed.
Adrian's phone alarm went off at 4:45 AM, cutting short a dreamless sleep.
He got up immediately—no moment of disorientation, no snooze button. He showered, dressed in layers as Jonathan had instructed, and went down to the lobby at 5:25.
There were already people waiting. Some with coffee from the lobby machine. Others sat silently with expressions of people who definitely weren't early risers. All professionals, anyway.
The vans left at exactly 5:30—two black Mercedes Sprinters that smelled of leather and spilled coffee.
The drive to the catacombs took forty minutes, leaving the center of Rome and heading out into the countryside. Adrian watched the city transform—dense buildings giving way to spaced-out villas, eventually to open fields and tall cypress trees like sentinels.
The Catacombs of San Callisto were in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by yellowing grass and bare trees. From the outside, they looked like just a stone entrance on the side of a hill. Nothing impressive.
Inside, it was a different story.
The tunnels descended into the earth—narrow passageways carved into the rock, walls with empty niches where the dead once lay. The air was cold and damp, smelling of wet stone and centuries. The lights installed by the production team created shadows that moved like living things.
It was perfect for a film about an assassin hunted by dozens of other assassins.
Jonathan gathered the entire stunt team in a larger, modified catacomb—widened, reinforced, big enough for cameras and equipment.
"Today's scene," he began, projecting storyboards on a tablet, "John Wick is being hunted through the catacombs by twelve assassins. You are those assassins. The sequence flows like this: they attack in groups of two or three, staggered. John neutralizes them and keeps moving forward. It's all choreographed, but it needs to look chaotic. It needs to look desperate."
He ran his finger over the storyboards, showing camera angles.
"The groups are already assigned. Cole, you're in group three with Marco. Your sequence is here." He pointed to a side tunnel on the diagram. "Marco attacks first from this angle, John blocks him. Cole, you attack from the opposite side while he's occupied. John grabs you, uses your momentum against you, throws you into Marco. You both fall. John continues."
Adrian visualized the sequence. "Understood."
"Important," Jonathan continued, looking at the whole group, "I need everyone to wear masks. Black half-masks covering from the nose down. It's part of the costume design—these assassins are anonymous, interchangeable. No one should be identifiable."
He passed around a box of black cloth masks. Adrian took one, trying it on. It covered his nose, mouth, and the lower part of his face perfectly. Only his eyes remained visible.
Anonymous. Exactly as it should be.
"Rehearsal in thirty minutes," Jonathan said. "Keanu arrives in an hour. Familiarize yourselves with your positions."
Adrian and Marco walked to their assigned tunnel—a side passage branching off the main corridor. Narrow, barely wide enough for two people side by side.
"Well," Marco said, studying the space, "this will be... intimate."
They practiced without Keanu at first. Marco attacking from his position. Adrian waiting for the exact timing—not too early, not too late. Jake doing Keanu for the rehearsal, blocking, grabbing, throwing.
Once. Five times. Ten times.
On the tenth repetition, Jonathan yelled from the main corridor, "That's enough. Drink water. Rest."
Adrian sat against the cold stone wall, taking a sip of water from his bottle. Marco stretched nearby, rotating his shoulders.
"Good timing," Marco said casually. "Most people take days to nail it. You had it from the first rehearsal."
"Thanks."
"Nervous about working with Keanu?"
Adrian considered it. "More... focused."
Marco smiled. "Good answer. Free tip—Keanu is precise down to the millimeter. If you're just as precise, everything flows perfectly. If you hesitate or get ahead of yourself, it's immediately noticeable."
"I won't hesitate."
"Good."
Keanu arrived at 9 AM, descending the stairs into the catacombs with the wardrobe team following behind.
He was already dressed as John Wick—perfect black suit, white shirt, tie. No jacket yet, but the rest complete. Hair slicked back. Neutral but focused expression.
There was no fanfare. No announcement. He just arrived and started working.
Jonathan greeted him, they spoke briefly near the cameras, then Keanu walked over to where the stunt team was waiting.
"Good morning," he said simply, his voice calm but clear in the tunnel.
"Good morning," the group replied.
"Thank you for being here. I know the catacombs aren't exactly comfortable." A small smile. "Let's do this right and look out for each other, okay?"
Nods of agreement rippled around the circle.
Pure professionalism. No pretense. Just an actor treating his stunt team as collaborators, not human props.
They spent the next hour doing full run-throughs. Group one—two assassins attacking from the shadows, Keanu neutralizing them with brutal efficiency. Group two—three assassins, more complex choreography, more controlled chaos.
When it was group three's turn, Keanu walked over to where Adrian and Marco were waiting in their side tunnel.
"You guys are group three, right?"
"Yes," Marco confirmed.
"Show me what you've got."
They ran through the sequence. Marco attacked from the left. Keanu blocked—precise, exactly as choreographed. Adrian attacked from the right at the exact moment. Keanu grabbed him, spun him around, used Adrian's momentum against him, and launched him straight at Marco.
Adrian flew—controlled but realistic—and crashed into Marco exactly where he was supposed to. They both landed in a convincing pile of limbs.
Clean. Precise. Perfect.
Keanu nodded. "Excellent timing. Can I ask for a small adjustment?"
"Of course," Adrian said, standing up.
"When I throw you at Marco, if you fall slightly more to your left—" he gestured with his hand, "—the camera will better capture the full impact. Can you adjust that?"
"Yes."
"Perfect. Again."
They repeated. Adrian adjusted his fall exactly as Keanu had requested—a few centimeters to the left, changing the angle of impact.
"That's exactly what we need," Keanu said. "Thanks."
Jonathan shouted from further down the tunnel, "Excellent! Next group."
At 11:30, after all the groups had completed their run-throughs and adjustments, the assistant director shouted, "Ten minutes for first take! Everyone to your starting positions."
Adrian put on his black mask, adjusting it to ensure it covered everything from his nose down. He checked his prop knife—perfectly balanced rubber, realistic enough for camera but completely safe.
He positioned himself in his side tunnel with Marco. Near-total darkness except for the set lights filtering in from the main corridor.
His heart was beating a little faster. Not panic. Pure anticipation.
This was real now. This was going to be in the movie. People in theaters around the world would see this.
They would see an anonymous, masked assassin attacking John Wick.
They wouldn't see Adrian Cole, eighteen years old, from Portland via Los Angeles.
They would see exactly what they were supposed to see.
"Quiet on set!"
Conversations died instantly.
"Cameras ready!"
"Sound ready!"
"And... ACTION!"
Temporary music began to play—just for timing, it wouldn't be in the final cut—a low, menacing pulse.
Adrian heard footsteps running. Keanu entering the main corridor.
Group one attacked from their hiding place. Sounds of combat—punches, grunts, bodies hitting stone.
Group two. More chaos. More efficient violence.
Then Marco's signal—a barely audible whisper. "Now."
Marco rushed out of the shadows, attacking from the left with a knife.
Keanu spun, blocked Marco's arm, began the disarm.
Adrian exploded from the right.
Knife forward—fast, committed, dangerous.
Keanu saw it in his peripheral vision—released Marco, pivoted, grabbed Adrian's wrist with one hand, his shoulder with the other.
Then he used Adrian's momentum completely against him.
He spun. He lifted. He launched.
Adrian flew through the air—perfectly controlled but looking completely out of control—and crashed into Marco just as he'd planned.
They both hit the stone wall with a satisfyingly brutal thud.
Keanu was already running toward the next group.
"CUT!"
Silence for two seconds.
Then the director's voice from behind the monitors: "Perfect! We print that one. Setup for the next angle in fifteen."
Adrian got up, helping Marco up.
"Good job," Marco murmured.
"You too."
They filmed the same sequence four more times—different camera angles, different lighting, an ultra-close-up of Keanu's feet, and the falls.
Every take, Adrian and Marco executed perfectly. No mistakes. No delays. No need for a sixth take.
On the fifth take, the director yelled, "We've got it! Thanks, group three, you're free. Group four, to positions."
Adrian emerged from the tunnel into the break room—a larger chamber where folding chairs and tables with water and snacks had been set up.
Jake was there, removing his own mask.
"Clean," he said as Adrian approached. "Really clean. Some stuntmen need ten takes to nail their timing. You did it in one."
"Thanks."
"Seriously. That's what separates the ones who get called back from the ones who don't."
Keanu walked past, wiping fake blood from his hands with a towel. He made eye contact with Adrian—just for a second—and nodded briefly.
Good job.
Adrian nodded back.
Unnecessary words.
They filmed until 6 PM—group after group, angle after angle, building the complete sequence piece by piece.
When the assistant director finally yelled, "That's it for today!" there was a collective but satisfied fatigue in the air.
Adrian helped move sleeping mats back to their storage area, then followed the group toward the vans.
Marco caught up with him as they climbed the stairs back to the surface.
"Hey, some of us are going out for dinner. Small place near the hotel. Nothing fancy. Want to come?"
Two years ago—even one—Adrian would have automatically said no. He would have made up an excuse. He would have gone back to his room alone.
Now…
"Yes. Thanks."
"Okay. See you in the lobby at eight."
The restaurant was so small that Adrian almost walked right past it—just a wooden door with a faded sign, no menu visible outside.
Inside: six tables, walls covered with old family photos, a grandmother in the kitchen yelling at someone in Italian.
There were six of them from the stunt team: Adrian, Marco, Élise, David, Jake, and an American stuntman named Chris who had been with Group Five.
Marco spoke to the grandmother—apparently she knew the location from previous filming—and she nodded, disappearing into the kitchen without taking an order.
"Aren't we ordering?" Chris asked.
"She decides what we eat," Marco explained. "It's better that way. Trust her."
The food arrived in waves. Bruschetta with tomatoes that tasted like real tomatoes. Cacio e pepe pasta so plain it was almost offensive, and so perfect that Adrian understood why Italians made fun of Olive Garden. Lamb that fell off the bone. Wine for those who wanted it. Sparkling water for those who didn't.
The conversations flowed naturally—stories from sets, comparing coordinators, debating which action movie had the best fight scenes.
"The Raid," Élise insisted. "Nothing compares."
"The Raid is good," David admitted, "but Mad Max: Fury Road has better vehicle choreography."
"We're talking about hand-to-hand combat," Chris said. "Cars don't count."
"Everything counts."
Adrian listened more than he contributed, but when he spoke, the group listened.
"What's your goal?" David eventually asked, looking at Adrian. "Long-term. Coordination? Acting? What?"
Adrian considered it honestly. "To keep working. To improve. Maybe coordinate eventually."
"Coordinate stunt doubles?"
"Yes."
David nodded approvingly. "Good goal. Good coordinators are gold. There's always demand."
Marco raised his wine glass. "A toast. For one day, one survived without injury."
"To surviving," the group echoed.
Adrian raised his sparkling water, allowing himself a small smile.
Back in his hotel room at 11 PM, Adrian showered, washing away catacomb dust and the day's sweat.
He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling as the distant sounds of nighttime Rome filtered through the window—scooters, conversations, laughter from some nearby bar.
His phone vibrated. Tyler.
How was day one?
Good. We filmed my scene.
ALREADY? First day and you're already done?
Five takes from different angles. It was perfect on the first one.
OF COURSE I AM because you're literally perfect.
Adrian smiled. Or I got lucky.
Luck + preparation = success. I read that in a fortune cookie. Deep.
Deep.
What's Rome like at night?
Adrian looked out the window. Orange streetlights reflecting off old buildings.
Vive. Noisy. Good.
Send me pictures tomorrow. And get me something Italian. I don't know what, just something cool.
I'll see what I can do.
I love you, brother. I'm proud of you.
Something warm expanded in Adrian's chest.
I love you too.
He put his phone on the nightstand and closed his eyes.
One full day. Thirteen more to go.
His face would never be visible in the film—just an anonymous, masked killer, indistinguishable from a dozen others.
Exactly as it should be.
For now.