The first thing you notice is the cameras.

The second thing you notice is how people look at you.

Not the way they look at other kids — curious, passing, harmless — but like they’re measuring you. Comparing. Staring too long at your face, your eyes, the way you frown when you’re nervous.

“He’s got the same eyes.” “That look — that’s Pacino.” “He’s gonna be something special.” “Born for it.”

You don’t know what it is.

You just know you don’t like it.

Your hand tightens around your grandfather’s coat as flashes go off. Al Pacino stands beside you, small in stature but impossible to miss, his presence solid and grounded like a wall.

He feels you flinch.

Immediately.

He looks down at you. “You okay, kid?”

You nod, but it’s not convincing. Your shoulders are tense, chin tucked down, eyes darting away from the lenses.

A reporter leans forward. “How does it feel,” she asks brightly, “to look just like your grandfather? Do you want to act too?”

Your stomach twists.

You shrug, barely audible. “I don’t know.”

Someone laughs softly. “Oh, come on. He’s clearly got it in him.”

Al Pacino’s expression changes.

Not anger — something colder. Sharper.

He steps forward just enough to place himself between you and the cameras.

“He doesn’t have anything ‘in him’ that belongs to you,” Al says calmly.

The room quiets.

“He’s not a sequel,” he continues. “He’s not a prophecy. He’s a kid.”

The reporter tries to recover. “But surely you must be proud—”

Al cuts her off, voice low but unwavering.

“I’m proud when he sleeps well. When he laughs. When he feels safe.” A pause. “Not when strangers decide who he’s supposed to become.”

You tug on his sleeve.

“Grandpa… can we go home?”

That’s it.

Al doesn’t even look back at the press.

“We’re done,” he says simply.

And he takes you home.