The moment Samuel stepped onto the yacht, he felt it.
The buzz.
The weight of all these people — beautiful, rich, loud — like stepping into the world's most expensive aquarium.
Ahead of him, Turtle and Drama were at the front of the boat, playing greeters under a huge Victoria's Secret banner stretched across the rails. Turtle was shouting names, shaking hands, cracking jokes like he was running for mayor.
Samuel hung a step behind Vinny and E, who were walking side by side, casually talking about how the party looked better than they'd hoped.
It was surreal.
Somehow, Turtle had pulled it off.
Samuel took it all in — the string lights overhead, the champagne flutes flashing in the sun, the lazy thump of bass rolling from the DJ booth. He shifted slightly in his hoodie, feeling underdressed in a sea of designer shirts and summer dresses.
This day took a weird turn fast.
Skipped school because of a stupid viral video... Now here he was, standing next to Vincent Chase, walking onto a yacht like it was nothing.
Samuel glanced around—and spotted them.
Paparazzi.
Lurking just beyond the dock, cameras clicking in rapid bursts, lenses trained on Vinny and E as they stepped onto the yacht.
Samuel stayed close, almost blending into Vinny's shadow.
He didn't think much of it until he heard the clicks pick up — a few cameras catching him, too.
One or two even swinging toward him curiously.
He was nobody here.
Just a blurry extra in the background of someone else's movie.
At least, for now.
He pulled his hoodie a little tighter around himself.
Good thing he looked older than he was.
If anyone knew he was twelve, he wouldn't have made it within a hundred feet of this party — even with Turtle trying to vouch for him.
Maybe they thought he was sixteen. Seventeen. Good enough.
He smiled to himself, small and private.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered about Michael finishing up his first day at the LAPD.
Would he be cool with this?
Samuel wasn't sure.
Michael had never really gotten mad at him before — but then again, he'd always been a quiet, easy kid.
Maybe Michael didn't really get mad about things.
Or maybe Samuel had just never given him a reason yet.
Hopefully today wouldn't be the first.
He pushed the thought aside as the music and laughter spilled louder across the deck.
Whatever this day was turning into — he was here for it.
Samuel kept a step behind Vinny and E as they moved deeper into the yacht, weaving through clusters of people laughing over champagne and posing for pictures under the bright sky.
The farther they went, the more surreal it got.
Samuel caught flashes of faces — ones he instantly recognized.
Not from this new world he'd been thrown into, but from his old one.
Jessica Alba laughing near the bar, hair catching the sun.
Shia LaBeouf in a half-unbuttoned shirt, deep in animated conversation.
And... was that Kanye West by the DJ booth, already waving his hands like he owned the place?
Samuel slowed, his hoodie brushing the rail.
It was weird.
Really weird.
These weren't just random background people like in his new world — sitcom neighbors, TV personalities playing slightly off versions of reality.
No.
These were real stars.
People who had been famous back where he came from.
And now?
Now they were here.
Real. Solid. Breathing the same heavy California air he was.
He heard someone call out — "Jessica!" — confirming it wasn't just someone who looked like her.
It was actually her.
Samuel tucked his hands deeper into his hoodie pockets, processing it in small bites.
This wasn't some random show universe anymore.
These were the real deals.
It wasn't jarring, exactly.
More... strange.
Cool, in a weirdly grounding kind of way.
Even so, he couldn't help but wonder:
Were they the same as before?
Or... slightly different versions?
He watched Kanye laughing loudly with the DJ, tossing back champagne like he had zero cares in the world.
Samuel narrowed his eyes slightly, thinking.
At least for now, Kanye just seemed like a normal party guy — not the future headline-maker who'd rant about slavery being a choice or praise Nazis on podcasts.
Maybe in this world, things hadn't twisted yet.
Or maybe they never would.
Still, Samuel wasn't letting his guard down completely.
He let out a breath and shook it off.
For now, it was just a party.
He was just another face among hundreds.
A little out of place, maybe.
Still underdressed, still wondering what exactly he was doing here.
But standing on a yacht, surrounded by Hollywood legends, drinking in the ocean air?
Yeah.
There were worse ways to spend a Monday.
He caught up to Vinny and E again, sliding easily into their wake just as the two of them shifted their conversation back to something heavier.
And Samuel had a pretty good idea what it was.
Samuel kept close behind Vinny and E as they slipped past another wave of guests, their conversation dipping just low enough that Samuel had to lean in slightly to catch it.
"I mean, look around, E," Vinny said, voice rougher now. "This party's perfect. Turtle crushed it. We got Victoria's Secret models on deck. Everyone's here. It's like... everything's lining up."
E gave a half-smile. "Yeah. Big night."
But Samuel could hear it — the tension creeping under their words.
Vinny shoved a hand through his hair, the grin he wore outside cracking just a little.
"And yet," Vinny muttered, almost to himself, "I can't stop thinking about Medellín."
E's smile faded too, his jaw tightening.
Vinny dropped his voice even lower, like he didn't want the party to hear him doubt.
"What if the script really is rushed?" Vinny said. "What if it's all flash, no heart? Two hours of shootouts and drug deals but no soul?"
Samuel stayed a step behind them, hands buried in his pockets, silent.
He hadn't felt it — he knew it.
Even back in his old world, before all this crazy second-chance life started, he remembered seeing how much story Pablo Escobar's life really held.
Narcos had needed multiple seasons just to scratch the surface.
There was no way you could compress that chaos, that rise and fall, into a single movie without losing everything that made it real.
Vinny and E had fought for this movie.
Samuel remembered that from the show too — how they pushed, how they pitched it to every executive willing to listen, how they kept saying Medellín would be different, serious, career-defining.
And now?
If the script wasn't perfect — if it was just a loud, flashy mess —
all that fighting, all that pride... it would blow up right in their faces.
Samuel didn't blame Vinny for wanting it so badly.
Medellín sounded like the kind of project that could change everything — if it was done right.
But if it wasn't...
It wouldn't just fail.
It would haunt them.
It would be the thing everyone pointed at — the mistake they should have seen coming.
Vinny seemed to be feeling that fear now.
"I mean... it's a great script, Vince," E said carefully, like he didn't fully believe it anymore. "It's heavy. It's big."
"Too big?" Vinny asked, voice low.
Neither of them answered.
Samuel didn't jump in either.
He figured they needed to wrestle with it themselves.
And maybe, just maybe, they'd realize that the size of Pablo's legend wasn't something you could rush — no matter how badly you wanted it to work.
Vinny exhaled hard, his gaze skimming over the glowing deck and the shimmering water.
"I just..." Vinny muttered, "I don't want to be 'Aquaman' forever. I want something real."
Samuel understood that more than Vinny could ever know.
But for now, he just stayed quiet, letting the sounds of the party build around them.
The bass from the yacht's speakers thudded through the deck, vibrating up Samuel's sneakers.
The party was in full swing — music, drinks, flashes from cameras — and just at the edge of the crowd, Samuel spotted him.
Ari Gold.
He was easy to pick out — sharp suit, sunglasses half-pushed down his nose, and a manic energy that cut through the chatter like a blade.
But Samuel didn't just see Ari the agent —
He saw a man trying too hard.
Trying to act like nothing had changed.
Samuel remembered enough from the show to piece it together.
Ari wasn't Vinny's agent anymore. He'd lost him.
And now, tonight, he was here because he wanted him back.
Samuel leaned against the railing, watching as Ari straightened his jacket, slapped on a grin, and charged forward into the party.
He made a beeline straight for Vinny, not even hesitating.
"Happy freakin' birthday, Vince!" Ari bellowed, voice slicing through the noise.
Vinny laughed, caught slightly off-guard, but not cold.
He clapped hands with Ari, pulling him into a quick, friendly hug.
From a few steps away, Samuel could see it clearly —
Vinny smiled, sure... but he knew.
And so did E, standing stiff beside him.
Ari was trying way too hard.
Still, Ari barreled ahead like nothing was wrong.
"Look at this party!" Ari shouted. "Turtle, you magnificent bastard, how much did you extort from Victoria's Secret to slap their name on this boat?"
Turtle grinned, happy for the attention. "Classified, bro!"
Ari swung to E next, pulling him into a mock hug.
"And E — still running Vinny's life like a Jewish mother, huh?"
E just gave a dry smirk, arms folded, not biting.
Drama stepped up, ever eager.
"Ari! You see the poster for Five Towns yet? Top billing, baby!"
Ari shot him a quick glance, smirk twitching.
"Drama, if that show wins an award, I'll personally buy you a real sword to fall on."
Drama laughed like he didn't catch the burn.
They stood there for a second — the old crew loosely gathered — but it wasn't natural.
It wasn't easy like it used to be.
Samuel could feel it — the cracks between them.
The space Ari didn't know how to close anymore.
Finally, Vinny broke the silence.
He glanced around, made sure nobody was crowding them too close, and then said casually, but not without weight:
"Hey, Ari... we need to talk about my present."
Ari froze for just half a second — a micro-pause.
Samuel caught it.
Vinny caught it too.
"Did you really get Medellín revived?" Vinny asked, half-smiling, trying to play it off light — but there was hope in it.
Ari opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
Then opened it again, fumbling.
"Well... you know..." Ari started, waving a hand. "It's... complicated. Studio heads... timing... very fluid situation..."
E cut in sharply, arms crossed tighter.
"We've actually been talking about it," he said, cutting through Ari's spin.
"And we think maybe... it's something we should really sit down and figure out."
Ari's mouth tightened under his sunglasses.
He forced another laugh, too loud, too shiny.
"Of course! Yeah, yeah — we'll talk, we'll talk. Tonight's for celebrating! No boring shop talk!"
But even as he said it, Samuel could see him calculating.
Spinning plates, making promises he hadn't figured out how to keep yet.
Vinny just smiled thinly, letting it go for now.
Samuel stayed back, quiet, watching the whole thing unfold.
Ari Gold stood with Vinny and E, an energy buzzing off him — part excitement, part nerves he tried to hide.
Samuel lingered close behind them, quiet but observant.
Ari's gaze flicked toward him, doing a quick scan — a habit, almost instinct.
"You," Ari said sharply, pointing at Samuel.
"You an actor too? Or some Abercrombie model Turtle dragged in?"
Vinny and E both smirked, exchanging a look.
Samuel, without missing a beat, shrugged lightly.
"Neither," he said.
"Turtle found me singing to myself on the beach. Apparently, that counts as entertainment."
Turtle, overhearing from a few steps away, threw up his hands.
"Bro, I upgraded your whole life!"
Samuel just gave a small, dry smile.
Ari snorted once under his breath, but his real focus was already shifting — back to Vinny and E.
There was a small pause — and then Vinny said it straight:
"Actually... he's why we wanted to talk."
Ari's eyebrows lifted slightly.
"Wait. Him?"
E nodded, arms folded tight.
"After talking to him... Vinny and I started rethinking Medellín."
That finally wiped the smirk off Ari's face.
He straightened up, squinting a little like he wasn't sure if they were screwing with him.
"You're telling me," Ari said slowly, "that this guy made you doubt a movie you've been chasing for two years?"
Vinny shrugged, almost sheepish.
"Kind of."
Ari blinked again, now studying Samuel properly.
He opened his mouth — probably ready with some insult — but caught himself.
Instead, he exhaled sharply, folding his arms tighter.
"Alright," Ari said, voice sharper now. "Fine. You got my attention."
He shifted his stance slightly, full business mode snapping into place.
"So... why does Medellín suck now?"
Samuel gave a small glance toward E, letting him start.
E took the cue.
"It's not that the story isn't good," E said, careful but clear.
"It's Pablo Escobar. He's huge — a monster, a legend. But you can't fit all of that into one movie."
Vinny nodded quietly, his jaw set tight.
Samuel finally spoke, voice even and steady:
"It's too big," he said simply.
"You need time to show the man. Not just the chaos."
Ari was staring now, really listening.
Samuel kept his tone level.
"You try to rush it... it becomes a highlight reel."
"Big moments. Big explosions. But no soul."
He shrugged lightly.
"And when you don't care about the main guy? You don't care about the movie."
The words hung there, heavy but true.
Ari didn't speak.
Neither did E.
Even Vinny stood still, chewing it over.
Samuel tucked his hands deeper into his hoodie pockets, relaxed.
Finally, Ari exhaled sharply — like someone had sucker-punched him in the ribs.
"Shit," he muttered.
Vinny clapped a hand lightly against Ari's shoulder.
"That's why we wanted to talk," he said, quieter now.
"Before we jump back into something... maybe we gotta rethink it."
Ari didn't argue.
Samuel shifted his weight slightly, feeling the yacht sway under his sneakers.
He cleared his throat.
"If Medellín's the problem," he said carefully, "then maybe it's not the movie that's wrong."
Ari turned, sunglasses sliding down his nose, eyebrows raised like Samuel had just slapped him across the face with a fish.
"Oh, fantastic," Ari snapped. "The Abercrombie kid's a producer now."
Vinny shot him a look.
"Let him talk."
E crossed his arms tighter. "Seriously, Ari. Listen."
Samuel almost smiled.
Weird feeling — getting backed by people like that.
He kept his voice even, hands stuffed deep in his hoodie pockets.
"Movies have to be fast," he said. "Big. Punchy. Especially now."
He nodded toward the yacht, the party, the flashes of champagne and celebrity. "Attention spans are short. Studios want loud, shiny. Shootouts and drug deals."
Ari gave a snort, like he couldn't argue but didn't want to admit it.
"But Pablo Escobar's story?" Samuel said, leaning in slightly. "That's not two hours. It's... everything. Family, politics, betrayal, war. You rush it, you lose it."
He paused, feeling the weight of his own words.
"So... don't rush it."
Ari opened his mouth — probably to throw a 'no one's making a four-hour movie' at him — but Samuel cut ahead:
"Make it a show."
Dead silence.
Even the DJ felt far away.
Samuel pushed through, heart beating a little harder even though he stayed cool on the outside.
"I know right now TV's not made for this. Twenty-four episodes of laugh tracks and crime-of-the-week. But what if it wasn't?"
He held Ari's stare.
"Ten episodes a season. One hour each. Tight. Focused. DEA closing in. Family falling apart. Pablo going from king to hunted animal."
He shrugged, casual like he wasn't basically pitching Narcos years early.
Of course it sounds good, dumbass.
I've seen it work before.
It's Narcos.
It's gonna win Emmys one day.
Ari blinked behind his shades.
And for the first time that night, he didn't look like he wanted to rip Samuel's head off.
He looked like he was thinking.
"You hook the audience," Samuel said, pressing in, "make them fall in love with the monster.
And when it all comes crashing down — they can't look away."
The words hung there like thick smoke.
Ari let out a slow whistle, shaking his head like he couldn't believe he was even entertaining the idea.
"Shit..." he muttered. "HBO would cream themselves over something like that."
Samuel smiled a little, letting the silence stretch.
Ari caught himself, straightened his jacket, forced the bravado back into his voice.
"Yeah, sure. Small problem, Spielberg — Vinny Chase isn't about to slum it on f***ing cable."
Samuel gave a respectful little shrug.
"Yeah, no offense..." he said lightly. "I wouldn't cast him anyway."
Vinny looked like someone had just thrown ice water in his face.
Even E shifted slightly, like he wasn't sure whether to laugh or step away.
Samuel pressed forward before anyone could blow up.
"Pablo Escobar's Colombian," he said. "Vince is... well, Vince. He doesn't fit."
There was a beat of pure, stunned silence.
And then — bless him — Vinny grinned wide, slapped his hands together, and launched into a terrible Spanish accent:
"¡Hola! Me llamo Pablo! ¿Quieres cocaína? ¡Es muy bueno, amigo!"
Everyone cracked up — even Ari, even E.
Samuel just smirked slightly, arms still folded across his chest.
Vinny gave him a mock punch in the arm.
"Yeah, okay, fair point."
Ari wiped his eyes, still chuckling.
He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a business card, and held it out.
"Take this," he said, serious now.
"Call me. We need to talk. You got a place in this business — and I don't say that lightly."
Samuel hesitated for a split second — because honestly, he hadn't planned on sticking around in the industry here.
He liked flying under the radar. Staying small.
He opened his mouth to say something — something polite, like thanks but no thanks —
But that's when he heard it.
Turtle's voice, booming across the deck like an auctioneer on free whiskey:
"Alright, ladies and gentlemen, this right here is the NEXT BIG THING! Singer, songwriter, movie writer, and — I swear to God — the reincarnation of ROBIN FREAKIN' HOOD!"
Samuel's head snapped up.
Turtle was pointing straight at him.
No — introducing him.
And the worst part?
Vinny was already clapping him on the back, laughing, ushering him forward toward the open space near the DJ booth.
Fuck.
I thought it was over.
I thought I could just ride off into the sunset after dropping my genius pitch and call it a night.
But the music swelled around him.
The crowd turned, curious, expectant.
Samuel stumbled slightly as Vinny nudged him forward.
The music dipped lower, the chatter thinning like mist, all those eyes swinging toward him.
He tightened his hoodie a little.
He didn't want to do this.
Hadn't planned to do this.
This wasn't his scene — the flashing cameras, the sparkling dresses, the swagger.
He thought about turning back — just melting into the crowd, blending into the background.
But then he saw them.
Jessica Alba near the bar, laughing, tossing her hair in the golden light.
Kanye West by the DJ booth, arms crossed, bouncing his head lazily to the beat.
Shia LaBeouf animatedly arguing with someone near the railing.
Real stars.
Real celebrities.
Nobody here gives a shit about some random kid singing.
Not with Kanye two feet away.
Not with cameras chasing Jessica.
Not with Vinny freakin' Chase throwing this party.
He exhaled once, slow.
Fine.
If they weren't going to remember him anyway — might as well go out swinging.
He stepped up to the mic Turtle had somehow snagged from somewhere, still hoodie up, hands loose but tense.
Cleared his throat once, awkwardly.
The crowd quieted, sensing something was about to happen.
Samuel leaned into the mic, voice low, steady:
"This one's about growing up...
About wasting too much time waiting for the perfect moment.
Sometimes...
You just gotta jump."
The mic was cool against his fingers.
The ocean air brushed the back of his neck.
He didn't think.
He just started.
one day/reckoning -Asaf Avidan, the Mojos
One day baby, we'll be old,
Oh baby, we'll be old,
And think of all the stories that we could have told...
The first note slipped out rougher than he wanted — a little cracked, a little tight.
Samuel winced inwardly, but he didn't stop.
He pushed through the stumble, let the words find their own rhythm.
And slowly —
steadily —
his voice caught.
It smoothed out.
Stronger.
Clearer.
Near the bar, Jessica Alba turned fully toward him now, curiosity flickering across her face.
Kanye West, arms still crossed, cracked a grin — the small, dangerous kind that said: Alright. Maybe you got something.
The yacht tilted gently with the swell, the world breathing along with the beat.
No more tears, my heart is dry
I don't laugh and I don't cry
I don't think about you all the time
But when I do, I wonder why
Vinny blinked slowly, like he couldn't believe what he was hearing.
He shook his head slightly, murmuring under his breath to E:
"He's been trying to bust out all day… I just didn't know he had this in him."
E just stared, arms folded tight, confusion written all over his face.
You have to go, I understand
But you promised you'd be back again
And so I wander 'round this house
To feel you close to me
Samuel stayed planted, voice gaining strength with each line, hoodie still shadowing his face but the words shining clean.
The deck had gone almost completely silent now.
Even the DJ, even Turtle, even Ari.
They were all watching.
Listening.
Feeling it.
One day baby, we'll be old
Oh baby, we'll be old
And think of all the stories that we could have told
Samuel drew out the final words, letting them melt into the ocean breeze.
The mic dipped slightly in his hand.
Silence stretched for half a second —
And then the deck exploded.
Cheers, loud and raw.
Claps, sharp and real.
A few whoops from the far side of the boat.
Jessica Alba clapped her hands together, laughing brightly.
Kanye gave a low whistle, lifting his glass in Samuel's direction — a small but unmistakable salute.
Ari Gold stood frozen with a drink halfway to his mouth, sunglasses slipping down his nose again.
For the first time in God-knows-how-long, he was speechless.
But behind the glasses, his mind was racing.
Maybe this kid isn't just good...
Maybe he's better than Vince ever was.
Vinny just stood there grinning, wide and proud, slapping Turtle on the back hard enough to make him stumble.
"I told you he had something," Turtle shouted, beaming like he'd just won the lottery.
E just shook his head in disbelief, muttering:
"Seriously... when the hell did he even write that?"
The crowd was still buzzing — flashes of phones, flashes of smiles — but Samuel just stood there, frozen for a second longer.
Still hoodie up.
Still hands loose.
He hadn't really thought about what would happen after.
He sang because he liked the lyrics.
Because they fit.
Not because he thought anyone would actually listen.
And yet... here they were.
Clapping, cheering, staring at him like he had just done something bigger than he meant to.
I didn't pick that song to impress anyone.
I just didn't want to stand there like an idiot.
He shifted slightly, feeling the sunset wash over his face — warm and heavy and strange.
The knot of tension he hadn't even realized he was carrying started to loosen.
The yacht was buzzing now — a low, excited hum under the thump of the music.
Samuel stood there for a moment longer, hoodie up, hands loose, feeling the weight of a hundred eyes slowly drift away as the next song rolled in and the party picked back up.
Ari pushed through the crowd with manic energy, sunglasses crooked, wolfish grin wide.
He slapped Samuel on the shoulder hard enough to jolt him slightly.
"You," Ari said, voice sharp and certain, "and I are going to definitely talk."
Samuel gave a small, lopsided smile and nodded once — steady, unfazed.
Ari peeled off, already barking into his phone about "the next goddamn Springsteen."
The music kicked louder again — laughter, clinking glasses, champagne flashing under the string lights.
Samuel could've stayed.
Could've soaked in the energy, stretched the high a little longer.
But he didn't want to lose the feeling that was still fresh in his chest —
The quiet satisfaction.
The small, private win.
It was enough.
For now.
He turned toward the dock.
Vinny caught up first, a big, easy grin lighting up his face.
"You crushed it, man."
Turtle stumbled up next, breathless and wild-eyed.
"Yo — gimme your number, bro! We're calling you. Big things, swear to God," Turtle said, fumbling for his phone.
Samuel chuckled low, rattled off his number, and watched Turtle punch it in with clumsy excitement.
Vinny clapped him lightly on the back, grin wide and easy.
"Don't disappear," Vinny said.
Samuel smiled — small but real.
"Nah. But I should get going," he said, tugging at the edge of his hoodie. "If I don't get home soon, my uncle's gonna kill me."
Vinny laughed, nodding. "Yeah, yeah — smart move. We'll call you tomorrow."
Turtle threw him a thumbs-up, already shouting something about "major label deals" to a passing group.
Samuel lingered for a second longer, soaking it in — the lights bouncing off the water, the lazy roll of the yacht, the swirl of music and laughter.
It would've been easy to stay.
But it felt right to leave now — before the night swallowed him whole.
He tucked his hands into his hoodie pocket and stepped off the yacht.
The dock thudded soft and sure under his sneakers.
The ocean breeze hit his face — sharp with salt, champagne, and something electric.
He walked slow, each step pulling him away from the buzz of the party —
until something caught his eye.
Across the dark water, by the dock gates,
the flash of a camera.
Then another.
Tiny clicks in the night.
The paparazzi were still there.
Lurking.
Waiting.
He ducked his head a little deeper into his hoodie and kept walking.
No big scene. No sprint.
Just a quiet, sinking feeling settling in his chest.
Funny.
This morning, I skipped school because a song got posted without asking.
Now I just sang in front of half of Hollywood...
And I'm standing here hoping maybe, just maybe, this one won't end up everywhere too.
He almost laughed at himself.
Because deep down — he knew better.