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The accident shut down filming for several days.
The safety crew got chewed out by the producers. Every set piece and prop got torn apart and rechecked. The two lighting techs who nearly got crushed walked away with extra cash and signed NDAs. In Hollywood, money fixes almost anything. If it doesn't, it just means they didn't offer enough.
Jennifer's agent flew in, locked herself in a room with the producers for two hours, then came out and laid it on thick. "No more screw-ups. You're at the ten-million-per-movie level now. One stain and you're done." Jennifer nodded, but her mind kept flashing back to Cassius's bandaged arm.
A week later they were back at it. Today's scene was the electric tree trap—one of the new lethal obstacles added for the sequel. The effects team built a working model that shot high-voltage arcs and whipped around with spinning branches. The actors still had to sell the real fear and pain on camera.
"Jennifer, this one's rough," the stunt coordinator warned. "The wires yank you up, spin you three full rotations at high speed, then drop you. We can use a double if it's too much."
"I got it," Jennifer said without hesitation. She glanced at Cassius standing by the monitor, arm still wrapped but back on set for dialogue scenes. She refused to be the reason they fell behind again.
They strapped her into a reinforced harness and hoisted her three meters up. The motor kicked in. She started spinning—fast. One rotation. Two. Three. The world blurred into a sickening smear. Cassius watched on the monitor as her face went from tight to twisted.
They kept rolling for fifteen long seconds before the wires lowered her. The second her feet hit the ground she doubled over and threw up everything she'd eaten that morning. Real vomit, not acting. The medical team rushed in while an assistant shoved a bucket under her face.
Cassius walked over and handed her a bottle of mouthwash. Her hands were still shaking. "You didn't have to do that. We have doubles for a reason."
"I know," she said, rinsing and spitting. "But you came back with a fucked-up arm and kept working. I'm not letting people call me soft."
Their eyes met. Neither looked away.
Right then a golden orb dropped from Jennifer and floated toward Cassius.
[Body Control Resistance +12]
He absorbed it without moving a muscle. The system pinged in his head: Acting Realm progress +1%. Current: 74%.
A rush of practical knowledge hit him—how to steady breathing, lock core muscles, and fight off vertigo through controlled movement. Useful as hell for future spinning or disorienting shots.
"Need another take?" Jennifer asked the director, voice still shaky.
Francis checked the playback and shook his head. "We're good. That reaction was real. Take thirty and we'll grab coverage."
An assistant helped Jennifer to the rest area. Cassius followed and sat beside her. "How bad is it?"
"Like someone stuffed me in a washing machine on spin cycle for ten minutes," she muttered, eyes closed. "Everything's still moving."
"Inner ear got slammed. Close your eyes, breathe slow. It'll settle."
She did. A few minutes later her eyes opened, clearer. "Holy shit. It actually worked. How do you know all this stuff?"
Cassius just shrugged. The upgraded panel kept surprising him.
Most of Cassius's scenes for Catching Fire were already done—only a handful left in District 12 and the volcano park. Once those wrapped he flew back to Los Angeles. Rob had returned two days earlier to prep the Fast & Furious 5 press tour.
Rob was waiting at the terminal when Cassius walked out. "Arm better?"
"Stitches came out. As long as I don't do any naked scenes, nobody'll notice the scar."
Rob handed him his phone. "Watch this first."
It was the first official trailer for Fast & Furious 5. Two and a half minutes of pure adrenaline. Vin and Paul tearing through Rio streets. Gal on the Ducati, hair whipping. Then Cassius appeared—side-elbow strike in the parking-garage fight, running through favela alleys, sliding the Hellcat around a corner in a cloud of tire smoke. The shot froze on his eyes in the rearview mirror.
Cassius felt a weird rush seeing himself in the middle of it all.
They drove toward Beverly Hills while Cassius scrolled Twitter. Three of the top five trending topics were about the trailer. Then he saw the real storm.
An anonymous account claiming to be a crew member had posted: "Everyone knows the Rio attack happened. What nobody's saying is who organized the counterattack. It was Cassius."
Photos followed—grainy phone shots of Cassius holding a gun, covering Gal, standing over rubble with blood on his arm. The account laid it out: two groups attacking, security getting wiped, Cassius taking charge, professional movement, saving multiple people.
The replies exploded.
Some called it bullshit. Others dug into the photos and swore the tactics looked real. More "insiders" chimed in confirming he'd shot people and moved like he'd done it before. TMZ ran a piece with the headline "From Actor to Rio Gunman: Cassius's Hidden Past."
Conspiracy threads multiplied. Some painted him as ex-special forces. Others claimed he was a plant. A few conservative voices started asking why a citizen with "military-level skills" was rising so fast in Hollywood. Political angles crept in fast.
Rob glanced at the screen and nearly swerved. "This isn't gossip anymore. This is turning into a fucking national-security talking point."
Cassius stayed quiet, watching the numbers climb. He knew exactly what was happening—they were trying to lift him up just to slam him down harder.
"Call Warner's PR head," he told Rob. "And get the lawyers on the line. We need a response before this turns into hearings."
Rob started dialing as they pulled into the driveway. Cassius leaned back in the seat, staring at the flood of speculation about who he really was.
He was just an actor who'd picked up the right orbs at the right time.
But the internet had already decided he was something else entirely.