"I'm very interested!"
Cassius answered without hesitation, keeping his voice steady. "Can I read the script?"
"Of course!" Spielberg nodded. "But I need to be straight with you—this project isn't fully greenlit yet. I'm still waiting on Warner Bros. to sign off. Budget's projected north of a hundred and sixty million. We're talking heavy practical shooting and a ton of VFX."
"If it gets made, the shoot is going to be brutal. You'll need to be ready for that."
"No problem. I can handle tough."
Cassius's tone left no doubt.
Spielberg smiled. "After what I saw in the Rio news, a guy who survived a favela gunfight probably doesn't scare easy."
At the end of dinner, Spielberg's assistant handed Cassius an encrypted USB drive.
"The third draft is on there. Send Steven your thoughts once you've read it."
Back at his Beverly Hills house, Cassius couldn't wait. He booted up his laptop, plugged in the drive, and opened the file.
Only one PDF: Interstellar – Third Draft (Confidential).
He poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and started reading.
The script was different from the movie he remembered from his last life.
Murphy was a boy, not a girl.
Cooper discovered NASA after a probe crashed nearby, not through ghostly books falling off shelves.
The story leaned harder into real science, and the elements were much stronger.
There was even an abandoned outpost with a flag still flying.
But the heart of the story stayed the same.
A father crossing a wormhole to save humanity. The heartbreaking time dilation separating him from his children. Love as a force that transcends dimensions.
Cassius read straight through until the sky outside started to brighten.
He leaned back in his chair, images flooding his mind—dust storms ripping through cornfields, the glowing accretion disk around Gargantua, the five-dimensional tesseract made of bookshelves, and that line about not going gentle into that good night.
The script would still change. Jonathan Nolan's version would differ a lot from Christopher Nolan's final cut.
If he said yes now, he could be part of the development process. Maybe even help shape the character.
This was a Steven Spielberg movie.
Even if the director changed later, it would be to a Nolan. As long as they didn't cut him, it was impossible to lose.
Spielberg's filmography was basically half of modern Hollywood history: Jaws, E.T., Jurassic Park, Schindler's List…
Getting on this ship meant stepping into the absolute top tier of Hollywood circles.
Cassius opened his email and drafted a careful reply. He expressed genuine enthusiasm for the project and asked smart, specific questions about the role.
He hit send at five in the morning.
Sleep was impossible now.
He took a long shower, threw on comfortable clothes, and sank into a lounge chair in the backyard.
The black Dodge war horse sat in the driveway, gleaming cold and hard in the early morning light.
For the first time in what felt like forever, everything was quiet. He could actually hear birds singing somewhere in the distance.
Cassius closed his eyes, just wanting to rest them for a minute.
Scenes from the Interstellar script played on loop—cornfields, dust storms, wormholes, black holes…
If he took the role, he still had a lot to work on. The script called for Cooper to actually know how to drive a tractor and farm corn. Plus playing a father at his current age would be a real challenge.
Was the role difficult?
Yes.
But Cassius wanted to try.
He drifted off.
Click.
The side gate opened with a soft sound.
Cassius opened his eyes but didn't turn around.
Light footsteps approached from behind.
Then a pair of soft hands covered his eyes.
The familiar perfume gave her away instantly.
Kristen.
Cassius relaxed, a smile spreading across his face.
"Guess who?"
Kristen stood behind the lounge chair, deliberately lowering her voice, but that unmistakable tone gave her away.
"Let me think…"
Cassius dragged it out on purpose.
"Could it be the girlfriend who secretly wrapped early and flew back just to surprise me?"
"Bingo!" She laughed and let go.
Kristen walked around the chair and stood in front of him.
She was in jeans and a white T-shirt under a black leather jacket, hair in a messy ponytail, no makeup. She looked tired from the flight, but her eyes were bright.
"Surprise?" She tilted her head.
Cassius stood up and opened his arms.
She stepped straight into them, hugging him tight.
"When did you get back?"
Cassius breathed in her familiar scent.
"Late last night. I was going to tell you, but you've been so busy lately I wanted to surprise you."
He pulled back and studied her face. "You've lost weight."
"Part of the role." Kristen shrugged. "Nice ride. Vin Diesel really came through, huh?"
She nodded toward the war horse in the driveway.
"News travels fast."
"Hollywood has no secrets," she said. "Especially when it's about you. You're the center of attention right now—every move gets watched."
Cassius poured her a glass of water.
They sat side by side, watching the sky slowly brighten.
"How's the new film going?"
"It's okay." Kristen took a sip. "It's an indie about an autistic painter. The director's a newcomer but has real vision. The location's way out in the middle of nowhere in Montana though. Not even a decent coffee shop."
"Sounds like self-torture."
"You're one to talk," she laughed.
The morning breeze was gentle, rustling the leaves in the yard.
It was rare for them to have this kind of peaceful time together.
The two days Cassius spent "recharging" with Kristen at home flew by.
Wednesday morning, Cassius stood at the front of his Beverly Hills house with a rolling suitcase.
Kristen was wearing one of his oversized T-shirts, barefoot on the floor, hair messy from sleep, but her eyes were sparkling.
"How many days in London?"
Her voice was still husky with sleep.
"Three. Premiere, press day, and a fan event."
Cassius checked his phone. Rob's car would be there in five minutes.
Kristen stepped close and straightened his collar. "It'll be cold there. Make sure you pack a jacket."
"And the British press doesn't hold back. Be ready."
"I know." Cassius smiled. "They chase the royal family for dirt. I'm just a small actor."
"You're not a small actor anymore," Kristen said.
She rose on her toes and kissed him.
A car horn sounded outside.
Rob was clearly getting impatient.
Cassius grabbed his suitcase. "I've gotta go. You—"
"I head back to set tomorrow for a few pickups, then I'm in New York for a bit." Kristen waved him off. "Award season is coming up. Gotta get ready. See you soon."
"See you soon."
On the flight to London, Cassius ran into Paul and Tyrese. The two were in first class, sharing headphones and watching the same movie.
Fast & Furious 1.
"Throwback session?" Cassius dropped into the seat beside them.
"Homework," Paul said, pulling out one earbud. "Tyrese claims he forgot how much of an asshole Roman was in the first one. I'm showing him the receipts."
Tyrese protested from the other side. "I had character! And I was barely in my twenties. You couldn't get me to play that kind of hothead now if you paid me."
The flight attendant brought drinks.
Paul ordered a beer, Tyrese a whiskey, and Cassius stuck with water.
"Sworn off drinking?" Tyrese raised an eyebrow.
"Body's been a little off lately," Cassius lied casually.
Ten hours later the plane touched down at Heathrow.
London was gray and drizzling.
The studio had arranged pickup, but the terminal exit was still packed with reporters and fans.
"Mr. Cass! Over here!"
"Paul! Can I get an autograph?"
"Gal! I love you!"
Camera flashes lit up like fireworks.
Cassius slipped on his sunglasses and followed the group out.
Rob was waiting by the car, schedule in hand.
"Welcome to London." He handed Cassius an umbrella. "Bad news: this rain might last three days. Good news: all our indoor events are locked in."
"Where's the premiere?"
"Leicester Square, Odeon Cinema. Same old spot."
Rob opened the car door. "But tonight we've got a small media meet-and-greet at the hotel."
Cassius settled into the backseat, watching London's streets roll by through the rain-streaked window.
Gray skies, red buses, ancient buildings mixed with modern glass towers.
Completely different from L.A.
"Oh, right!" Rob turned from the front seat. "Universal just sent word—they're doing a special with BBC's Top Gear called Real Driving in Fast & Furious 5. Paul specifically asked for you. Said your driving is the real deal."
That guy…
Pulling him into everything.
Cassius couldn't help smiling. Paul really was something.
"When are we shooting?"
"Tomorrow afternoon at a private test track near Dunsfold—the show's usual venue."
The next afternoon at Dunsfold.
The Top Gear set was more professional than Cassius expected.
Multiple test tracks, obstacle courses, and a full camera crew.
The hosts—Jeremy Clarkson, Richard Hammond, and James May—were waiting.
"So you're the actor who was shooting people in a Rio favela?" Clarkson opened with classic British provocation. "You drive as good in real life as you do in the movies?"
"Only one way to find out," Cassius replied, taking the keys.
The Dodge Challenger had clearly been worked on by the Top Gear mod team. It looked similar to his own, but the second he sat down he could tell it was dialed in.
The bucket racing seats locked him in tight. The center console had twice the gauges of the stock version.
"Starter dish first," Hammond said, pointing down the straight. "Emergency lane change. See those cones up ahead? When you hear the buzzer, swerve left, then immediately correct right. Standard moose test."
Cassius buckled in and adjusted the mirrors.
James May stood trackside with a tablet, ready to log data.
Jeremy stood with his arms crossed, watching.
The engine roared to life.
Cassius floored it. The speedometer climbed fast: 10, 20, 25…
Right as he hit the mark, the buzzer screamed.
His body reacted on pure instinct.
Left hand snapped the wheel left with perfect precision, missing the first row of cones by inches. At the same time his right foot brushed the brake, shifting weight forward, then he counter-steered hard right before the car could over-rotate.
The Challenger carved a sharp V, tires letting out a short squeal but never losing grip.
"Jesus!" Hammond shouted into his mic. "Look at that line! Almost zero correction on the way back out. Most pro drivers would overcorrect. He didn't!"
James May stared at his tablet. "Peak lateral G: 1.2. Max steering angle 142 degrees. That's cleaner than the Porsche 911 we tested last month."
Clarkson didn't say anything, but his eyebrows were practically in his hairline.
Next came the drift course on a wet surface.
It had just rained in London—no need to water the track.
"You want to be careful with this one," Paul called from behind the barrier. He'd shown up to watch. "On wet pavement the throttle and brake work has to be surgical. A little too much and you spin."
Cassius nodded.
Paul knew what he was talking about.
He entered the wet section with slightly higher speed than normal, then flicked the wheel and brushed the brake to break the rear loose.
The moment the car started to slide, he counter-steered and danced the throttle and brake with tiny inputs, keeping the perfect slip angle.
The Challenger slid like it was doing a waltz, carving a clean arc around three cones before snapping straight again.
Tire spray caught the sunlight and made a small rainbow.
"Fuck me," Hammond muttered. "How many months of practice does that take?"
James May was already sketching force diagrams. "Watch his right foot. He's making constant micro-adjustments. Tiny throttle changes. Either this man has freakish natural talent or he's been doing this for years."
The most dangerous segment came last.
Two identical Dodge Challengers lined up side by side on the start line.
Cassius in one, Paul in the other.
They would maintain about five feet of separation while driving parallel.
"Speed will be held at thirty miles per hour," the stunt coordinator said over the radio. "No faster. Safety first. Cassius, you'll jump from Paul's car to yours, then back again. Clean movements. No hesitation."
Paul rolled down his window and grinned at Cassius. "Scared?"
"A little," Cassius admitted honestly.
This was a TV show asking people to risk their lives for entertainment.
Fucking capitalists.
"Good. I'm scared too," Paul laughed, eyes bright with excitement. "That's normal. Remember—don't look down when you jump. Eyes on the target roof. Keep your center of gravity forward and bend your knees when you land."
Both cars rolled forward slowly, staying perfectly parallel.
Speed built.
"Now!" the coordinator shouted.
Cassius took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and planted one foot on the door sill.
The wind whipped hard against him.
He locked eyes on the roof of Paul's car.
Paul had already opened the sunroof.
Jump!
Cassius pushed off, launching himself across the gap.
For a split second he was airborne.
His body instinctively twisted.
The moment his feet touched the target roof he dropped into a crouch, hands bracing to absorb the impact.
The whole sequence looked effortless, like he'd practiced it a thousand times.
"First try!" Hammond yelled, nearly dropping his mic. "And he rotated mid-air! Did you see that? He spun while jumping! What kind of coordination is that?!"
James May was already running the numbers. "Based on speed and distance, his takeoff angle had to be within three degrees of perfect or he would've missed or overshot. Plus the mid-air rotation requires insane core control—"
Paul stopped the car. Cassius jumped down lightly.
"How was it?"
"Not bad," Paul said, clapping him on the shoulder as he got out. "The spin in the air was a little extra, but it looked cool. The audience will eat that up."
After filming wrapped, the three hosts swarmed Cassius with questions.
Hammond was the most excited. "How the hell did you learn to drive like that? I've been driving for twenty years and I still spin out on drifts sometimes."
"Practice," Cassius shrugged.
Everyone laughed.
"Tell us about Rio," Clarkson jumped in. "Rumor is you showed professional-level tactical skills. Did you have prior training?"
Cassius gave the standard answer. "I trained basics for the movie. What happened in Rio was pure survival instinct, not training."
"Survival instinct lets someone pull off movements that precise?" Hammond pressed.
"When bullets are flying past your head," Cassius looked straight into the camera, "your body does things you didn't know it could."
The answer was honest enough that all three hosts nodded.
Clarkson switched to a lighter question. "Paul specifically recommended you. Said your driving is some of the best in the cast."
"From what we just saw, your skills are legitimately good. Especially that drift—the angle control was surgical," James May said, clearly impressed.
At the end of the interview, Clarkson asked, "If you could take home any car from a movie, which one would you pick?"
Cassius grinned. "Vin already gave me the Dodge Challenger, so… I'll take Gal's Ducati. Even though I have no idea how to ride a motorcycle."
The three hosts burst out laughing.
Filming wrapped.
On the ride back to the hotel, Rob was grinning at his phone. "Top Gear producers loved the footage. Especially your car jump. They might put that in the trailer."
"Good," Cassius said, leaning back and watching London's wet streets glow under the lights.
The rain had stopped.
His phone buzzed. Message from Paul: "Premiere tomorrow. Don't be late. Get some rest tonight. I saw the schedule—we fly to Shanghai the day after. Twelve-hour flight."