The flight back from Rome landed at LAX at 9:30 PM on a rainy Tuesday in March.
Adrian went through immigration, picked up his suitcase—heavier now with gifts Marco had insisted he buy for his mother—and headed out to the arrivals area where Rebecca was waiting for him.
She saw him first. She smiled, the kind of smile mothers save for when their children come home in one piece.
"Hi."
"Hi, Mom."
They hugged. A real hug, not the awkward, quick kind from years ago. Rebecca smelled of hospital soap and coffee. Familiar. Home.
"How was it?" she asked as they walked toward the parking lot.
"Good. Different. Well, different."
"That seems to be your description for everything lately."
"It's accurate."
Rebecca laughed softly.
The drive home was uneventful. Adrian looked out the window—Los Angeles looking exactly the same as it had two weeks ago, as if Rome had been a dream. But he wasn't. He had jet lag to prove it.
"Tyler's been asking about you every day," Rebecca said. "Literally every day. I think he's sent me like 50 messages."
"Sounds like Tyler."
"I told him you were coming today. I bet he shows up tomorrow."
"Probably tonight."
Rebecca smiled. "Probably."
They arrived at the apartment at 10:45 PM. Adrian carried his suitcase upstairs, left it unpacked next to his bed, and flopped down on the mattress.
His phone vibrated before he could even close his eyes.
Tyler, of course.
ARE YOU HERE YET?
Fifteen minutes ago.
PERFECT. I'm on my way.
Tyler, it's almost 11 PM.
So? You haven't slept in two weeks. You're not going to sleep now either.
Adrian sighed, but he was smiling. Okay.
Tyler arrived twenty minutes later with pizza, two six-packs of beer he'd probably stolen from his dad again, and enough energy for three people.
"The Conqueror of Rome returns!" he announced, dropping everything on the kitchen table. "Tell me EVERYTHING. Every detail. Don't leave anything out."
"Can I at least eat first?"
"You can talk while you eat. Multitasking."
They sat on the couch—pizza between them, beer for Tyler, water for Adrian—while Adrian recounted.
The catacombs. The choreography. Marco, Élise, David. The Italian food that made everything else seem like an insult. Keanu being exactly as professional as you'd hoped. The feeling of being soaring through the air as Keanu hurled him against a stone wall.
Tyler listened with the intensity of someone watching their favorite movie.
"Wait, wait," Tyler interrupted after Adrian described the catacomb sequence. "Did Keanu literally throw you against a wall?"
"Against Marco. Technically."
"And did it hurt?"
"A little. The mats helped."
"God. You have the coolest life in the world and you don't even realize it." Tyler took a swig of beer. "Did you watch yourself on a monitor? What does it look like?"
"We wore masks. You only see the eyes."
"Still. That's cinema, bro. That's John Wick." Tyler paused. "Did you get any autographs?"
"No."
"Pictures?"
"No."
"Did you at least talk to Keanu about something other than work?"
"Not really."
Tyler looked at him in exaggerated horror. "You're the most boring person I know. You know that, right?"
"Probably."
"Definitely." Tyler shook his head but was smiling. "Well, at least you got the job done. That counts."
They kept talking until after midnight. Tyler eventually fell asleep on the couch, a half-finished beer on the table. Adrian covered him with a blanket and went to his own room. Jet lag or not, he slept like a log.
Life returned to its normal rhythm faster than expected.
Two days after returning, Adrian was back at work. A Nike commercial filming on Venice Beach. Three days, eight hours each, running on the sand while cameras followed him from impossible angles.
It wasn't glamorous. But it paid.
After Nike came background work for NCIS. Then a Netflix series that never took off. Then a car commercial where he spent two days sitting in fake traffic pretending to be frustrated.
March turned into April. April into May.
Messages from Marco arrived occasionally—photos of sets in Europe, complaints about difficult directors, invitations to jobs Adrian couldn't take because he was in LA.
Jake called him in April about a job in San Diego. A week's work on a mid-budget action film. Adrian accepted.
Jonathan Eusebio messaged him in May: There's a project in Vancouver in June. Interested?
Adrian replied as always: Yes.
The work was steady but never spectacular. Good projects mixed with mediocre ones. Twelve-hour days mixed with weeks of nothing. That was the industry.
Tyler kept him grounded. He'd show up twice a week with food, video games, or just to complain about his new job at an electronics store.
"I hate retail," Tyler declared one night in June, collapsing onto Adrian's couch. "People are terrible. Why are people so terrible?"
"Because they're people."
"Deep." Tyler closed his eyes. "I need to get out of here."
"Do you still want to act?"
"Yeah, but..." Tyler paused. "I've been to like 20 auditions this year. Nothing. Not even callbacks."
"Keep trying."
"That's what everyone says. 'Keep trying. It'll happen eventually.' But what if it doesn't?"
Adrian had no answer for that. Silence fell between them—not awkward, just... real.
"I'm sorry," Tyler said eventually. "I shouldn't be taking it out on you."
"It's fine."
"No, it's not. You're constantly working. I'm just... stuck."
"You're not stuck. It just takes time."
Tyler looked at him. "When did you become so optimistic?"
"I'm not optimistic. Just... realistic."
"Well, your realism is annoyingly hopeful." Tyler sat up straight. "Let's change the subject. When does John Wick 2 come out?"
"February of next year."
"Are you going to the premiere?"
"I wasn't invited to the premiere."
"You're literally part of the movie."
"I'm an extra in a mask. Nobody knows who I am."
"I know who you are. That counts." Tyler pulled out his phone. "Speaking of which, we need to talk about something important."
"What?"
Tyler flipped his phone around, showing Instagram. "This. Your nonexistent social media presence."
Adrian looked at the screen. "I have Facebook."
"EXACTLY. Just Facebook. You know who only uses Facebook? Forty-year-olds and my aunt who shares motivational Minions." Tyler started typing on his phone. "You need Instagram. Twitter. Maybe TikTok when it takes off."
"I don't want social media."
"It's not about what you want. It's about networking. It's 2016, bro. Everyone's online."
"Not everyone."
"Everyone who matters professionally." Tyler gave him a serious look. "Look, I know you're an eighty-year-old trapped in an eighteen-year-old's body, but you need to adapt. Directors, coordinators, producers—they're all looking for people online now. If you're not there, you don't exist."
Adrian considered it. Tyler had a point, even if it was annoying to admit.
"What would I have to do?"
"Just create accounts. Post occasionally. Set pics—nothing that violates NDAs. Just... exist digitally."
"And that helps?"
"Maybe. Networking is how Hollywood works now. Besides," Tyler smiled, "when John Wick 2 comes out, you can post it. 'Hey, I'm in this movie.' Even if it's anonymous, it's still credit."
Adrian sighed. "Okay."
"REALLY?"
"Yes."
Tyler practically jumped off the couch. "Great! Give me your phone. I'll set everything up for you right now."
They spent the next hour creating profiles. Instagram, Twitter. Tyler took pictures of Adrian—"You need a decent profile picture, you can't use a blurry selfie"—and wrote simple bios. Stunt performer. Los Angeles.
Nothing elaborate. Nothing pretentious. Just facts.
"Perfect," Tyler said, admiring his work. "Now you just need to post occasionally. Once a week is enough."
"Post what?"
"Anything. Set pics when you can. Workouts. Food. Whatever normal people do."
"I'm not good with 'normal.'"
"Nobody is. That's why we pretend." Tyler handed the phone back. "Trust me. This is going to help eventually."
June turned into July.
The project in Vancouver turned out to be a low-budget superhero movie with terrible special effects but decent choreography. Adrian spent three weeks there, living in a cheap hotel and eating way too much poutine.
When he returned to LA at the end of July, there were two messages waiting.
One from Danny Chen: Project in Arizona in August. Western. Interested?
The other from a coordinator he didn't recognize: Jonathan Eusebio gave me your contact. I have a job in New Mexico. Call me.
Adrian replied to both: Yes.
The job in Arizona was exactly what he expected—brutal heat, dust everywhere, repeated falls from fake horses. Two weeks of hard work but well paid.
New Mexico was different.
The production was bigger. The budget higher. The coordinator—a veteran named Thomas—directed a team of twenty stunt performers with military precision.
"Cole," Thomas said on the first day, checking his clipboard. "Jonathan says you're reliable. Is that true?"
"Yes."
"Good. Because I need reliable people, not stars. Do you understand the difference?"
"Yes."
"Perfect. We start at thirty."
The three weeks in New Mexico were intense. Twelve hours a day. Complex choreography. Weapons training. Falls from heights that made the catacombs of Rome look easy.
But Adrian absorbed it all. Every technique. Every adjustment. Every piece of advice Thomas offered.
"You're good," Thomas told him on the last day, as they packed up their gear. "Better than most your age."
"Thanks."
"Jonathan was right about you." Thomas slipped him a business card. "If I ever need people in LA, I'll call you. Keep your phone on."
"I will."
Adrian returned to Los Angeles in early September with more contacts on his phone and more experience under his belt.
Tyler greeted him with pizza and beer again—apparently their established ritual.
"Welcome home, globetrotter."
"Thanks."
"How was New Mexico?"
"Hot. Dusty. Good."
"Your ability to describe things is truly Shakespearean." Tyler took a bite of his pizza. "Hey, have you posted anything lately?"
"A couple of things."
"Like what?"
Adrian showed him his Instagram. Three photos since Tyler set it up: one from the set in Vancouver, one of a sunset in Arizona, one of stunt gear in New Mexico. No faces. No details that violated NDAs. Just... existence.
Tyler nodded approvingly. "Good. Basic but good. Any new followers?"
"Like 20."
"That's something. Keep it up."
They talked for hours. Tyler told me about failed auditions and difficult customers at the electronics store. Adrian listened, offering occasional comments.
At one point, Tyler fell silent.
"What?" Adrian asked.
"Nothing, just..." Tyler paused. "I'm proud of you, man. I really am. You're doing what you love. Not many people can say that."
"You will be, too."
"Maybe. Eventually." Tyler smiled slightly. "But for now, I'm glad at least one of us is making it."
September was quiet. Just two projects—both local, both short. Adrian used the extra time to train. His nightly routine had never stopped: push-ups, sit-ups, stretching, practicing falls. But now he added more. Work with prop knives. Full fight sequences he'd learned on different sets.
His body responded in ways that still occasionally surprised him. The templates—Gun Park and Spike Spiegel, fused with him for over thirteen years—had molded his physique and abilities in ways that were difficult to quantify.
He wasn't superhuman. He never had been.
But he was exceptional. And every day he became a little more so.
Rebecca noticed it one night when she came home from work and found him practicing in the living room.
"Do you always train this much?"
Adrian stopped, putting down the prop knife. "Yes."
"Why?"
"Because if I don't, I rust. And if I rust, they don't call me back."
Rebecca watched him for a moment. "Do you ever rest?"
"I rest when there's no work."
"Adrian, that's not resting. That's being unemployed."
He smiled faintly. "I guess."
Rebecca sighed, but she was smiling too. "Just... don't hurt yourself, okay? I already lost your father. I can't lose you too."
Something tightened in Adrian's chest. "You're not going to lose me."
"Promise."
"Promise."
Rebecca nodded, satisfied, and went to the kitchen to make coffee.
Adrian returned to his training, but his mother's words lingered.
I can't lose you too.
Thirteen years ago, he had lost his father. Thirteen years ago, he had received orthotics that changed him.
Thirteen years later, he had finally learned to feel again.
He wasn't going to waste that.
October arrived with sporadic work. A commercial here. Background work there. Nothing exciting.
Adrian took it all anyway. Work was work.
In mid-October, Rebecca mentioned something during dinner.
"Your birthday is in two weeks."
Adrian blinked. He'd completely forgotten. "Oh. Yeah."
"Nineteen. Almost twenty."
"Yeah."
"Want to do something? Dinner? You and Tyler?"
Adrian considered it. "Dinner sounds good."
"Same Italian place?"
"Yeah."
Rebecca smiled. "Okay. I'll make a reservation."
His nineteenth birthday arrived on a rainy Tuesday in October.
There was no work that day—rare, but welcome.
Tyler showed up at 10 AM with donuts and coffee.
"Happy birthday, old man!"
"Thanks."
"Nineteen. One year closer to the twenty-something existential crisis."
"How comforting." They spent the day playing video games and eating terrible food. At 7 PM, they went to the Italian restaurant where Rebecca was already waiting.
They ate pasta. They talked. They laughed. Tyler told exaggerated stories that were probably half-truths. Rebecca shared anecdotes from the hospital. Adrian contributed when he had something to say.
It was simple. Calm. Perfect.
When dessert arrived—tiramisu, which Tyler insisted on ordering—Rebecca raised her glass of water.
"A toast. To Adrian. To nineteen years. To everything that's to come."
Tyler raised his glass. "To my favorite brother. Even though you're boring."
Adrian raised his. "To you two. Thank you."
They clinked glasses.
In that moment, Adrian realized something.
Two years ago, his birthday had passed without anyone noticing except Rebecca.
Now he had Tyler. He had friends in the industry. He had a career.
He had a life.
It wasn't perfect. But it was his.
And that was enough.
November brought more work. So did December.
The days blended together—different sets, different cities, different people. But all part of the same journey.
Adrian worked steadily until the end of December, then took a week off for Christmas.
He spent Christmas with Rebecca—just the two of them, a simple dinner, no elaborate gifts. Tyler joined them for dessert, bringing cookies he'd clearly bought at a store but claimed to have baked himself.
New Year's came quietly. Adrian spent it on the roof of his building, smoking a cigarette—a habit he'd almost kicked but still indulged in occasionally—watching distant fireworks over Los Angeles.
His phone vibrated. A message from Tyler.
Happy New Year, bro. 2017 is going to be our year.
Adrian smiled slightly.
Happy New Year.
He put his phone away and looked out at the city.
2016 had been... good. Not spectacular, but solid.
2017 would be more of the same.
Or so he thought.