Victor arrived at the studio at seven sharp on Saturday morning, the sun barely cresting the horizon. He balanced a cardboard tray of coffee cups in one hand while fumbling with the key in the other. The musty smell of the abandoned dance studio hit him as he pushed open the door – a mixture of old sweat, dust, and possibility.
"Let's get this show on the road," he muttered, flicking on the lights.
He'd rented the place for cheap. Setting down his coffee and backpack, Victor surveyed what needed to be done. Usually, a production would have assistants, coordinators, and a casting director handling all this. Today, it was just him.
He dragged a folding table from the corner and positioned it near the center of the hall. He arranged three chairs behind it – one for himself, one for Bruce, and one for Jamie. From his backpack, he pulled out printed headshots, a stack of sign-in sheets, and a handful of pens that he'd swiped from the CAA office.
Next came the waiting area. He arranged a mismatched collection of folding chairs along one wall, creating a makeshift waiting area for actors. Victor checked his watch – two hours until the first scheduled audition. He still needed to mark the floor with tape to indicate the performance area, set up his laptop and phone for recording, and review everything one more time.
The empty studio echoed with his footsteps as he paced the space, mentally blocking out how each scene would play. This wasn't how he'd pictured his triumphant return to Hollywood – alone in a rented studio at dawn, preparing for auditions for a film with no guaranteed funding. And yet, there was something pure about it. No studio executives, no committees, no compromise. Just raw filmmaking at its most basic.
He took a sip of his coffee and got to work taping down the floor markers. One way or another, by sunset, they'd have their cast.
Victor looked up from his task at the sound of the door opening, squinting against the morning sunlight that streamed in from behind the figure standing in the doorway.
"Scarlett?" He set down the roll of tape he'd been using to mark the performance area. "What are you doing here?"
She stepped inside, letting the heavy door swing shut behind her. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a casual ponytail, and she wore jeans and a simple black t-shirt – practical clothes for a long day.
"Bruce told me about the auditions." She glanced around the studio, taking in Victor's solo operation. "Thought you might need all the help you could get."
Victor straightened up, genuinely surprised. "Don't you have work today?"
"Took the day off." She shrugged, dropping her bag on one of the folding chairs. "The café can survive without me for one Saturday. Besides, this seems more important."
Victor hadn't expected this. He'd been prepared to handle everything himself – the sign-ins, the scheduling, the recordings, all while trying to make notes on each performance. Having an extra pair of hands would make a world of difference.
"I can manage the actors when they start showing up," Scarlett offered, already moving toward the table he'd set up. "Check them in, make sure they fill out the forms, keep them from freaking out too much before their audition. I have participated in enough auditions myself to know how to handle one"
"That would be..." Victor paused, a wave of gratitude washing over him. "That would be incredibly helpful, actually."
She picked up the stack of sign-in sheets, flipping through them with interest. "How many people are you expecting?"
"About fifty seven throughout the day. First one's scheduled for nine." Victor checked his watch. "We've still got some time to get organized."
"Well," Scarlett said, rolling up her sleeves, "put me to work."
Victor glanced up from arranging the audition scripts when the door swung open again. Bruce stepped in, dressed in a fitted black t-shirt and dark jeans that highlighted his athletic build. He carried a small duffel bag over one shoulder and a focused expression on his face.
"Morning," Bruce nodded, scanning the studio with analytical eyes. "Got here early to help set up."
Victor couldn't hide his surprise. "I wasn't expecting a full crew today."
Bruce set his bag down and immediately began assessing the space like a tactician. "We're making a martial arts film. I need to understand the dimensions we're working with." He paced the floor, measuring distances with his steps. "This is where the actors will perform?"
"Right where I've marked with the tape," Victor confirmed, watching as Bruce dropped into a fighting stance, testing the floor's give.
"The wood's solid. Good spring without being too bouncy." Bruce executed a quick series of moves, his body flowing with controlled precision. "We can work with this."
The door opened once more, and Jamie Vega strode in, a backpack slung over one shoulder and a determined set to her jaw. She wore cargo pants with multiple pockets, sturdy boots, and a faded Red Bull crew jacket.
"Sorry I'm late," she announced, though she was actually early. Her sharp eyes took in the scene – Bruce testing the floor, Scarlett organizing papers, Victor arranging the space. "Brought some gear that might help."
She unzipped her backpack and pulled out a small handheld camera. "Figured we should record these auditions properly. Phone cameras are shit for evaluating movement."
Victor felt a surge of gratitude as he watched the three of them take initiative. No one had asked them to come early. No one had told them to bring equipment or help organize. They'd simply shown up, ready to work.
"This is..." Victor cleared his throat, momentarily overcome. "This is great. With the four of us, we can actually run this thing properly."
Jamie was already setting up her camera on a small tripod. Bruce continued testing different areas of the floor, marking the best spots with small pieces of tape. Scarlett had created an efficient check-in system and was arranging the waiting area for maximum comfort.
By eight-thirty, everything was ready. The four of them gathered behind the table, reviewing the day's schedule one final time before the first actors would arrive.
Victor cleared his throat as he addressed the impromptu team gathered around the table. The unexpected support from all three of them had energized him, but now they needed focus.
"Before our first actor arrives, let me clarify what we're looking for today," Victor said, spreading out five character descriptions he'd prepared. "We're only casting five specific roles. The rest of our fighters will come from Bruce's martial arts connections—real practitioners who can deliver authentic action."
Bruce nodded approvingly. "Smart. Actors who can't fight will slow us down."
"Exactly." Victor tapped the first character sheet. "Our main villain is a drug lord who owns the building. He's calculating, vicious, but never does his own dirty work. We need someone with presence who can project menace without throwing a single punch."
Jamie leaned forward, examining the description. "So he's the puppet master pulling all the strings?"
"Precisely," Victor confirmed. "Next, we have the corrupt Lieutenant, the inside man who betrays his police unit. He's cold, ambitious, and willing to sacrifice anyone. This character needs to balance authority with moral bankruptcy."
Scarlett studied the notes. "And the Sergeant?"
"The Sergeant is our secondary protagonist—the experienced cop who's seen it all. He's the counterbalance to our rookie hero. Weathered, practical, with a strong moral compass despite his cynicism."
Bruce picked up the fourth description. "Mad Dog. This one's crucial."
Victor nodded enthusiastically. "Mad Dog is our secondary villain, The drug lord's enforcer. He's the most dangerous fighter in the building—a pure martial artist who loves combat for its own sake. This role needs someone with real physical presence and martial arts experience."
"And the brother?" Jamie asked, examining the final sheet.
"Our hero's younger brother who's been undercover in the criminal organization. He's conflicted, hardened by his experiences, but still has a core of decency. The brothers' relationship drives much of the emotional weight of the story."
Victor gathered the sheets back into a neat pile. "These five roles will interact directly with our lead, so they need to be solid actors who can hold their own opposite Bruce. The fighting is important, but these characters need to feel real."
The door chimed as their first auditioner arrived. Victor checked his watch—still fifteen minutes early.
"Alright," he said, straightening his notes. "Let's find our cast."
*****
Victor leaned back in his chair, exhaustion settling into his bones. The clock on the wall showed nearly six in the evening—they'd been at this for over nine hours straight. The stack of headshots and resumes had dwindled to almost nothing, with four roles essentially cast.
But Mad Dog remained elusive.
"Anyone need coffee?" Scarlett asked, returning from her third coffee run of the day. She'd stayed through the entire process despite having no obligation to do so.
"Thanks," Victor said, accepting a cup. He glanced at Bruce, who sat with arms crossed, disappointment evident in his posture. They'd seen twenty-seven potential Mad Dogs, and not one had impressed him.
Jamie flipped through her notes. "That last guy had decent technique."
"Decent doesn't cut it," Bruce replied, his voice flat. "Mad Dog needs to be exceptional. The audience has to believe he could kill me."
Victor understood the problem. The role demanded someone who could match Bruce's intensity and skill while projecting a genuine threat. So far, they'd seen actors who could fight a little or fighters who couldn't act at all.
"Last audition in five minutes," Scarlett announced, checking her phone. "Some guy named Scott Adkins."
"Never heard of him," Jamie muttered, rewinding footage from the previous audition. Victor felt the name was a little familiar.
Bruce stretched his neck. "Let's just get through it."
Victor studied the nearly empty waiting area, then checked his watch again. One more to go, then they could call it a day. They'd figure out Mad Dog somehow—maybe expand their search, hold another round of auditions, or pull someone from Bruce's martial arts connections.
He straightened in his chair when the door swung open. The man who entered filled the frame with his presence—not just physically, but with an unmistakable intensity that instantly changed the energy in the room.
Scott Adkins moved with the calculated precision of someone perpetually aware of his body. His dark t-shirt stretched across broad shoulders, revealing arms marked with scars. His eyes scanned the room quickly, taking in each person before settling on Victor.
"Scott Adkins," he stated, extending a hand. His grip was firm but controlled, like someone who knew exactly how much pressure would break bones.
"Victor Grayson," Victor replied, feeling the calluses on Scott's palm. "This is our director Jamie Vega, our lead Bruce Lee, and Scarlett Johansson, who's working on another project with us."
Scott nodded to each person, but his gaze lingered on Bruce. There was something in that look—recognition, perhaps respect—that Victor hadn't seen in any previous auditioner.
"You're here for the role of Mad Dog," Victor continued, passing him the sides. "Take a minute to—"
"I know the role," Scott interrupted, handing the pages back. "Saw your flyer three days ago. Been thinking about nothing else."
Victor raised an eyebrow. Most actors at least pretended to study the sides.
Jamie leaned forward. "You familiar with the style we're going for? This isn't about wire work or camera tricks."
"That's why I'm here." Scott rolled his shoulders. "Been waiting for someone to make something real."
Bruce uncrossed his arms, his first show of interest all afternoon. "What's your background?"
"Taekwondo, kickboxing, Krav Maga. Spent the last decade bouncing at clubs and fighting where I shouldn't." Scott's eyes hardened. "I'm tired of watching pretty boys fake their way through fight scenes when people like me are out here actually living it."
Victor caught the subtle shift in Bruce's posture—recognition of a kindred spirit. This wasn't another actor who'd taken a few classes to pad his resume. This was someone who'd fought for real, who carried the physical evidence of those battles on his skin.
"Show us what you've got," Victor said, gesturing toward the open floor.
Scott stepped to the center of the room, his movements fluid yet controlled. Victor watched with growing interest as the man took position, noticing how different his stance was from the previous auditioners. There was nothing performative about it—no flashy poses or exaggerated gestures. Scott simply stood ready, like a weapon waiting to be deployed.
"You need someone to read with you?" Victor asked.
"No." Scott's eyes found Bruce. "Unless he wants to."
The challenge hung in the air. Victor glanced at Bruce, who had been observing from his chair. For the first time that day, a hint of a smile played at Bruce's lips.
"Just show us the final fight sequence," Jamie cut in. "The part where Mad Dog realizes he might lose."
Scott nodded, closed his eyes for a brief moment, then transformed.
Victor sat forward, transfixed. Scott moved through the imaginary fight with a visceral intensity that made the empty space around him feel occupied by opponents. Each strike, block, and counter flowed with dangerous precision. But what captivated Victor wasn't just the technical skill—it was the storytelling. Scott's face reflected a character journey: from cocky assurance to growing frustration, then desperate fury as an invisible Bruce gained the upper hand.
When Scott finished, silence filled the room. He stood in the center, breathing heavily, sweat beading on his forehead.
Victor looked at Bruce, whose entire demeanor had changed. The martial artist was studying Scott with undisguised interest, as if seeing something familiar reflected back at him.
Jamie broke the silence. "Where did you train?"
"Everywhere. Nowhere special." Scott wiped his brow with the back of his hand. "Started in dojos, ended up in warehouses and parking lots."
Victor recognized the rawness in Scott's voice. This wasn't an actor who'd prepared a backstory. This was someone who'd lived it.
Bruce stood up. "Show me your kicks."
Victor leaned forward in his chair, his gaze locked on the unfolding scene. Bruce had stepped onto the mat, standing across from Scott with an evaluative intensity that Victor hadn't seen all day. The room's energy had shifted dramatically—even Jamie had stopped scrolling through her camera footage to watch.
"Your roundhouse first," Bruce instructed, his voice clipped and professional.
Scott nodded, took a half-step back, and executed a roundhouse kick that cut through the air with devastating precision. The speed was impressive, but what caught Victor's attention was the control—Scott stopped the motion precisely where it would have connected with an opponent's head, without the slightest wobble or hesitation.
Bruce nodded slightly, his expression unchanged. "Again. Higher."
Scott complied, this time lifting the kick to a height that seemed impossible for someone with his muscle mass. His form remained flawless.
"Now combinations," Bruce said, stepping closer. "Show me what Mad Dog would do when cornered."
Something shifted in Scott's eyes—a predatory focus that made the hairs on Victor's neck stand up. Scott launched into a series of strikes that blended his various fighting styles, each movement flowing into the next with brutal efficiency. There was nothing showy about it, no wasted motion or theatrical flourishes. This was pure, functional violence, the kind that came from experience rather than training.
Victor glanced at Scarlett, who had unconsciously taken a step back. She caught his eye and mouthed "Wow."
When Scott finished the combination, Bruce didn't speak immediately. Instead, he moved forward and positioned himself opposite Scott.
"Attack me," Bruce said simply.
Victor tensed. This wasn't standard audition procedure by any stretch, but he held his tongue. Bruce knew what he was doing.
Scott hesitated for only a moment before launching a controlled but lightning-fast jab toward Bruce's midsection. Bruce deflected it with a subtle movement that seemed almost casual, but Victor could see the precision behind it.
"Again," Bruce commanded. "Don't hold back this time."
Victor watched with bated breath as Scott squared up against Bruce. The tension in the room was electric, like the air before a lightning strike. This was no longer just an audition—it had evolved into something far more primal. A test of respect between two fighters.
Scott's hesitation vanished. He launched into a series of attacks that would have demolished any ordinary opponent—a whirlwind combination of strikes, each one carrying genuine intent. Bruce moved like water, deflecting and redirecting Scott's energy with subtle shifts and turns. Neither man was acting now. This was real.
What impressed Victor most wasn't just Scott's technical ability—it was his adaptability. After each exchange, Scott adjusted, learning from Bruce's movements, becoming more dangerous with each passing second. His eyes remained locked on Bruce's, revealing a tactical mind working behind the physical prowess.
Jamie had abandoned any pretense of taking notes, her phone now recording the impromptu sparring session. Scarlett stood transfixed beside Victor, her hand unconsciously gripping his shoulder.
"Jesus," she whispered. "That's not acting."
"No," Victor agreed. "It's not."
The exchange lasted about five minutes before Bruce stepped back, a slight nod signaling the end. Both men were breathing harder, though neither showed any sign of fatigue. Something unspoken had passed between them—a mutual recognition.
Bruce turned to Victor, and the look in his eyes told Victor everything he needed to know. They'd found their Mad Dog—not an actor playing a fighter, but a fighter who could channel his experiences into performance.
"He's the one," Bruce said simply.
Victor felt a wave of satisfaction wash over him. The final piece had fallen into place. He stood and extended his hand to Scott.
"Welcome to The Raid," Victor said.
Jamie let out a low whistle as Scott and Bruce exchanged a few quiet words in the corner. "I feel kinda guilty, like i should have paid to watch that fight," she joked, though Victor caught the gleam of professional excitement in her eyes. "That wasn't an audition. That was the damn climax of our movie."
Victor nodded, still processing what he'd witnessed. The raw intensity between the two fighters had transformed the dance studio into something electric. It wasn't just that Scott had the technical skills—plenty of the day's auditioners could execute impressive moves. What Scott possessed was something far rarer: authentic combat experience paired with the instinct to translate it into storytelling.
"That's a wrap, people," Victor announced, checking his watch. "Scott, we'll be in touch tomorrow with details. Jamie, can you send over those forms?"
As the group dispersed, Victor gathered the scattered headshots and résumés into his messenger bag. Bruce and Scott continued their conversation as they left, their body language now relaxed but respectful—two professionals who recognized something in each other that most people couldn't see.
"Need a ride?" Victor asked Scarlett as she helped stack chairs against the wall.
"That'd be great, actually. Bus is running late tonight." She grabbed her jacket, waving goodbye to Jamie.
The drive to Scarlett's apartment was quiet, both of them drained from the long day. Victor navigated through the evening traffic, occasionally glancing at Scarlett who stared thoughtfully out the window.
"Thanks for staying," he said finally. "You didn't have to."
Scarlett turned to him with a small smile. "I wanted to. Besides, after seeing that last audition? Worth every minute." She paused. "That was... something else."
"It was," Victor agreed, pulling up to her building.
"This is me," she said, gathering her things. "Thanks for the ride."
"Thank you," Victor replied sincerely. "Your help today meant a lot."