"You called just to say that?"
"Of course not."
Kate's voice dropped into that husky register. "I'm just curious—how many of them can you actually handle at once?"
Raphael's temper flared.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?!"
Kate lowered her voice even more.
"Jessica, Lima, Alessandra, Jennifer… and now Charlize on top. You really think you can keep up?"
Raphael took a slow breath.
"Who was the one begging for mercy that night?"
Silence on the other end.
Then Kate hung up with a sharp click.
Raphael stared at the phone and gave a cold inner laugh. The second Pirates wrapped, he was flying straight back to L.A. He'd show that woman exactly who was in charge.
Next morning Raphael was back on set.
The second he walked into the soundstage he felt every eye in the place lock onto him.
Depp was first to pounce.
"Little blacksmith! How'd last night go? Phone blowing up in your room?"
Raphael ignored him and headed straight for makeup.
Depp trailed right behind, still talking.
"Just saying—if you actually want to chase Charlize, I know her. I can put in a good word."
Raphael stopped and turned.
"You got that much free time?"
Depp blinked.
"More or less."
Raphael lifted his foot like he was about to boot the pirate in the ass.
Depp dodged forward, nearly tripping, but just laughed harder.
"You're totally covering, little blacksmith!"
He kept shouting as he laughed.
"Don't forget my offer—I can totally get you Charlize's number!"
Raphael walked away faster.
Depp just laughed louder.
The next week was pure hell.
Raphael spent seven straight days putting out fires with every woman in his life—even Jessica, who claimed she wasn't mad. Who knew what she was really thinking? Better to keep sweet-talking.
A week later he'd finally calmed the entire "harem" storm.
The method was simple: phone apologies, endless free-flowing sweet talk. And the women—except Jessica—couldn't actually break up with him over it, could they?
---
January 25th was Raphael's twenty-first birthday.
The crew threw him a full-blown party.
At four in the afternoon they cleared the soundstage, set up long tables and chairs, brought in champagne, cake, fruit—the works.
A giant banner hung on the wall: HAPPY 21ST BIRTHDAY, RAPHAEL!
The second he walked in, the whole place erupted in cheers.
Depp was first to tackle him in a hug.
"Little blacksmith! Happy birthday!"
Raphael laughed and shoved him off.
"You already drunk?"
Depp winked.
"Haven't even started yet."
Bruckheimer walked over with a champagne flute.
"Congratulations, Raphael. Twenty-one means you can legally take a glass from me now."
Raphael accepted it.
"Thanks."
Verbinski came next carrying a beautifully wrapped box.
"Present for you."
Raphael opened it—an antique pocket watch. Silver case, intricate engraving. Obviously expensive.
"This is…"
Verbinski explained.
"It's crew tradition. Every actor who has a birthday on set gets one."
Raphael pocketed it.
"Thank you."
Keira walked up and handed him a card.
"I drew it myself."
Raphael opened it. A hand-drawn cartoon of Will Turner and Elizabeth Swann dancing in the rain.
He looked up at her, totally confused.
"You drew this?"
Keira nodded.
"It's okay?"
Raphael nodded.
"It's great. But… why this scene? You a big Step Up fan?"
"Of course!"
Keira answered without hesitation.
When it was time to cut the cake, Raphael caught the crew messing with something under the table out of the corner of his eye.
One quick glance—spring-loaded contraption with a plate of cake on it.
Obviously the props department trying to prank him.
Raphael blew out the candles like nothing was wrong… then stepped sideways at the last second.
The spring fired.
Cake flew straight into Depp's face.
Depp froze, cream sliding down his cheeks.
The whole room went dead silent for one second—then exploded with laughter.
Depp wiped his face and glared at Raphael.
"You—"
Raphael shrugged.
"Wasn't me. It launched itself…"
Before Depp could answer, Keira grabbed a handful of cake and smashed it into his face.
Depp lost it.
He scooped up cake and chased Keira around the set.
Keira screamed and ran, laughing the whole time.
Within seconds everyone else joined in.
Full-on cake war.
Raphael got hit multiple times—and hit plenty of others.
By the end the entire crew looked like walking rainbow frosting monsters.
The party finally wrapped at nine that night.
Raphael stood at the soundstage door looking at the total mess inside.
Depp walked over and offered him a cigarette.
Raphael shook his head.
Depp lit one for himself.
"You're officially an adult now. No more kid-gloves protection. Gotta be careful, little blacksmith."
Raphael looked at him, a faint suspicion forming.
"Careful of what?"
Depp exhaled smoke.
"Just… learn to protect yourself."
Raphael forced a smile.
"Don't worry. Nobody can hurt me."
Depp waved it off, clearly not believing a word.
---
By late January Raphael's scenes were almost done.
Original schedule said another two weeks and they'd wrap.
Raphael didn't feel like waiting.
He turned the Force up again.
Second time around he was smoother, used less energy.
Every night after wrap he gave the entire crew's subconscious a gentle nudge—tomorrow they'd wake up energized, focused, unstoppable.
Results were instant.
What should've taken two more weeks flew forward at visible speed.
Verbinski sat behind the monitors every day, face cycling from shocked to numb to resigned.
Bruckheimer stared at the production board and muttered to Verbinski,
"At this rate we'll wrap around February 10th."
Verbinski nodded.
"Finally. I feel like I've shed three layers of skin."
They shared a tired grin.
But someone didn't want it to end that fast.
January 28th, several black sedans rolled up to the gate.
Doors opened. Eight suits stepped out. The leader was a bald fifty-something guy in gold-rim glasses—pure corporate shark.
Disney executives.
Raphael was in the middle of a take. He spotted them out of the corner of his eye and kept going.
When the scene finished he sat in the rest area, closed his eyes, and let Force perception stretch.
The suits were led into Bruckheimer's office. Door closed.
Raphael's mind slipped inside like invisible threads, catching every word.
"Jerry, the schedule's moving too fast."
Bald guy's voice.
Bruckheimer sounded surprised.
"Isn't that a good thing? Saves money."
"Saves your money."
The exec laughed. "What about ours?"
Bruckheimer stayed quiet.
The bald guy kept going.
"You know exactly how much Disney put in—one hundred forty million. You're telling me we wrap in early February?"
Bruckheimer's voice rose with anger.
"So we finish early, post early, release early. What's the problem?"
"Big problem."
The exec raised his voice too. "Early wrap means early post, early release—then what? Box-office splits are timed to release date. You know we need this revenue in next fiscal year for the books?"
Bruckheimer didn't answer.
Raphael listened and gave a cold inner laugh.
Accountants playing their games.
The bald guy continued.
"So slow it down. Reshoot whatever needs reshooting. Adjust angles. Add budget where we say. You understand?"
After a long pause Bruckheimer answered, voice low.
"I understand."
The door opened. The suits filed out, got in their cars, and drove off.
Bruckheimer stood in the doorway looking furious.
Next day the pace noticeably slowed.
Verbinski stared at the new schedule, brow furrowed.
"We already nailed this scene. Why reshoot?"
Assistant whispered,
"Orders from above."
Verbinski glanced toward Bruckheimer's office and answered flatly.
"Then we reshoot."
Raphael watched it all and said nothing.
He didn't care. Didn't want to know.
He just did his job, went back to the hotel, and let the suits eat each other.
The schedule dragged on.
What should've wrapped February 10th got pushed to around the 20th because of Disney's meddling.
Raphael didn't mind. Ten extra days was nothing.
His pay was locked by contract anyway—more shooting days, same money.
Let the suits play their games.
February 20th, Raphael shot his final scene.
He stood in the middle of the soundstage while the crew started tearing down the sets.
Lights clicked off one by one. Props got carried away.
Bruckheimer walked over and clapped him on the shoulder.
"See you on the next one, Raphael."
Raphael nodded.
"Next one."
Both men had total faith in Pirates of the Caribbean. The only difference was Raphael came with memories from another life, while Bruckheimer just trusted his own track record.
Verbinski shook his hand too.
"We've still got some pickup shots in the L.A. soundstage. Keep your calendar open."
Raphael nodded.
"Call me anytime."
February 21st, Raphael landed back in Los Angeles.
It was two in the afternoon when the plane touched down.
He stepped out of the gate and saw Ari waiting up front.
Once they were in the car, Ari asked,
"Home first?"
Raphael nodded.
They headed toward Malibu.
On the drive Ari started updating him on everything that had happened while he was gone.