Urban System in America

Then she chuckled again, that glimmer of heat and playfulness returning. "And let's be honest, compared to most of the creeps I've met in this industry, or those so-called elites, you could pass for a damn saint. Hell, maybe even the Virgin Mary," she teased, tapping his chest lightly, her fingers lingering a beat longer than necessary.

Rex chuckled, shaking his head. "I do admit that… I'm really nothing compared to the perverts crawling all over this industry. The bar's practically underground," he smirked, resting his arm along the tub's edge as he looked at her. "But Virgin Mary? That's pushing it."

He leaned in just a little, eyes narrowing with that teasing glint she was already getting addicted to. "I may not grope every starlet I see or throw casting couches around like business cards, but don't let that fool you. I've got my own demons. I just dress them up better."

His voice lowered, laced with a slow warmth. "Still, hearing you say that… makes me want to live up to it. At least around you."

He reached out, trailing his fingers along the length of her thigh, now slick and glistening from the warm bathwater. "Besides, if you really think I'm a saint," he murmured, drawing closer, "then I've clearly been holding back too much."

Monica smirked, her eyes lighting up with amusement as she leaned closer, her voice dropping into a sultry whisper. "Oh? Then maybe you should stop holding back, Saint Rex… I'd love to see what sins you're hiding."

She traced a finger up his chest again, deliberately slow, her lips brushing against his jaw, leaning in just enough for her breath to tickle his lips. "But fair warning," she purred, "if you're planning to corrupt me, you'll have to try really hard. I'm tougher than I look."

Despite the teasing, Rex didn't respond and looked in her eyes, thinking back to her self confession, he understood that it wasn't some pillow talk.

That's why he didn't interrupt or say anything. He didn't want to break this moment, or say something too light, too soon. That's why he stayed silent, not out of hesitation, but reverence. He was memorizing her. Every word, every flicker of vulnerability beneath that confident shell. Because despite everything, the bravado, the teasing, there was something achingly honest shining through now.

So, turning serious, he gently cupped her face, his thumb brushing along her jawline.

"I know you won't always be there," he said, voice low and steady. "I know the industry will come first sometimes, that your dreams will burn hotter than comfort ever could."

He paused, not because he doubted himself, but because he meant every word.

"It'd be hypocritical of me to ask you to abandon all that just to give your time to me. And I'm not the type to cage my woman in some golden box, either."

His fingers lingered for a second longer before he leaned back slightly, his gaze thoughtful, almost introspective.

"I've seen enough masks in this world to know how rare honesty is… real honesty. You didn't owe me anything or any kind of explanation, but you still gave it. That matters more than you think."

He reached out again, brushing a damp strand of her hair behind her ear. The touch was small, quiet, but it held more weight than most declarations.

"So…" he murmured, "I'm not gonna stand here and pretend I'm some saint. I'm not flawless, or expect some picture-perfect relationship and I won't expect perfection from you either."

Then, with a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips, he added, "But I'm not the type to abandon my woman. Especially not one like you."

Monica let out a soft laugh, tracing a lazy circle on his chest with her fingertip. "You really aren't what I expected," she said, a teasing lilt still clinging to her voice. "I thought you'd be like the rest—cocky, controlling, already rehearsing your next lie."

She tilted her head, watching him like she was seeing something unfold she hadn't anticipated. "But you're… honest. Or at least, trying to be."

For a moment, it almost looked like she was going to say something flirtatious again. But the words caught in her throat, and instead, something in her expression shifted. The laughter in her eyes softened into reflection. She drew in a slow breath.

Her fingers slid down, resting lightly over his heart. And when she spoke again, her voice was lower, steadier, as if peeling away a final layer.

"You know," she murmured, voice soft but steady, "all those rules people cling to… those moral standards, those tidy little boxes they're forced to fit into—'grow up, get a job, marry someone nice, have kids, buy a house, work until you die'—that entire cycle, it's not life. It's a program."

She didn't say it with bitterness, but with clarity, like someone who had peeled back the layers and seen the machinery underneath.

"It's conditioning," she continued, her voice almost philosophical now. "Subtle. Slow. Fed to people from the day they're born. They're taught obedience disguised as virtue, conformity dressed up as responsibility. "Designed to keep the masses docile. To drain them, pacify them, keep them distracted. Whether it's done through laws, traditions, religion—it's all the same purpose. Control."

"It's not about making you better, it's about making you predictable. Manageable. Harmless."

She tilted her head slightly, as if speaking more to the world than to Rex.

"They call it 'goodness'—to sacrifice your own dreams for the comfort of others. To follow, never question. To accept your role, even if you hate it. But that's not morality. That's slavery with a smile."

She leaned her head gently on his shoulder, the intimacy of the moment deepening. Her voice dropped to a near whisper. Not rebellion for the sake of noise, but a rebellion rooted in deep understanding.

"Even when someone has the potential to do anything, to become something extraordinary, they still choose paths carved out by someone else.The herd path. Paths that feel 'safe,' 'right,' 'normal.' Because it's easier to be accepted than to be alone. They parrot values they never chose, follow rules they never understood, chase things they never truly wanted. In the end, they play roles instead of writing their own story."

Then she lifted her head again, her eyes meeting his: steady, clear, and calm, but with an intensity that almost made the air around them tremble.

"I don't want that life. And I know you don't either."

She looked up again, and her eyes—so often dazzling—were now still, almost solemn.

"I'd rather be feared than pitied. I'd rather burn than fade politely. If that makes me selfish, ambitious, even immoral in the eyes of the masses... so be it. Because their eyes were never worth anything to begin with. They're asleep. I refuse to dream with them." First published on M|V|L!EMPYR.

Her hand found his, squeezing gently.

"So when I say I want to stand at the top, I don't mean the top of some checklist they gave me. I mean above it all. Beyond their judgment. Beyond their fake goodness. Beyond their limits."

She smiled faintly.

"Beyond good and evil."

(End of Chapter)