Urban System in America

After walking a few blocks, Aren finally reached the edge of his neighborhood where the streets opened up a little and taxis weren't afraid to circle. He raised his hand, and after a few tense minutes, a yellow cab slowed to a halt. The driver gave him a cautious glance, weighing whether to even stop for someone coming from that direction, then unlocked the door. Aren slipped inside quickly, shutting it before the man could change his mind.

Aren handed the driver the café's address, but when the driver rattled off the fare estimate, Aren's chest tightened. The number was like a gut punch. It was more than he wanted to hear, but he'd expected as much. Los Angeles wasn't built for people like him.

The city didn't have a transportation system to speak of… not like New York, with its veins of subways running under every block. LA was a city ruled by cars, spread out wide like a giant, smog-choked puzzle, each piece connected only if you had an engine to cross it. Buses existed, but they were slow, unreliable, and dangerous after dark, crawling through sketchy neighborhoods where the wrong glance could get you into trouble.

He had no car of his own. He couldn't afford one, not on his meager salary, not with the constant theft risk in his part of town. For people like him, owning a car was both a necessity and a luxury... a cruel contradiction. So, he was stuck, forced to rely on cabs when he had no other choice, even if the cost left him reeling every time.

Every dollar he had was already spoken for: rent, scraps of food, leftover change funneled into his camera equipment and film reels. A taxi ride this expensive was the kind of indulgence he usually avoided at all costs.

But tonight wasn't "usual." This was Rex calling. This was a chance. Aren clenched his jaw, forcing down the sting of hesitation, and gave the driver the café's address.

The cab pulled away, leaving the cracked sidewalks and boarded-up windows of his neighborhood behind. Aren pressed himself into the seat, feeling the faint hum of the engine through the worn vinyl. Outside, the world blurred by… neon signs buzzing against the night, shopfronts smeared with graffiti, the occasional figure huddled under flickering streetlights. It was the same city, but it felt like a different world already.

He leaned his head back, closing his eyes for a moment, then opened them again, forcing himself to do the math. Numbers ran through his head like a relentless ticker tape. Last night's money from Rex, the barebones budget he'd carved out for the film, what could be cut, what could be stretched. A cheap prop here, a reused backdrop there, maybe skip meals for a few days. He exhaled sharply through his nose. The more he counted, the thinner it all looked.

But what choice did he have? Meeting Rex was worth bleeding his pockets dry. It wasn't just money… it was a step forward, maybe the only one that mattered.

Just as the taxi merged onto a brighter street, Aren's phone buzzed. Distracted, he pulled it from his pocket and answered without checking the screen.

A voice exploded in his ear, sharp and furious.

"Hey, you little bastard! You finally picked up! If you hadn't, I would've come with my men to throw your crap out myself. You still haven't paid this month's rent! Pay me by the evening, otherwise—"

"Please, I—I just need a little more time," Aren stammered, clutching the phone tighter. His throat burned as the words stumbled out. "I swear I'll have it. Just a few days. I promise."

"Few days? You said that last week," the landlord snapped, his voice like a whip. "Do you take me for a fool? You think you can live under my roof for free? You know what happens when people don't pay me. You've seen it with your own eyes."

Aren's body tensed as the memory slammed into him, his landlord wasn't the type to make empty promises. He remembered too vividly the last time someone in the building had dared to stall on rent.

The man had been dragged into the hallway and beaten until his blood stained the concrete, his screams echoing through the building like a warning. That image still haunted Aren's nights, and now, with the landlord's voice filling his ear, it came rushing back in full force.

"I won't let it get that far. I'll get the money, I swear. Just… just don't throw me out. Please."

The landlord gave a harsh, mocking laugh. "Pathetic. Begging won't fill my pockets. Evening. That's your deadline. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Today. If I don't have the cash in my hand, you'll be out on the street, and if I'm in a bad mood…" His voice dropped into a growl. "You'll regret ever stalling me."

"I understand," Aren whispered, nodding frantically even though the man couldn't see him. His voice came out choked, words tumbling over themselves. "I'll bring it. I'll bring it tonight. Please, just… just give me until then. I promise you won't have to call me again."

"See that I don't." The line went dead, leaving a hollow silence in its wake.

"I–I understand," Aren stammered quickly, his voice trembling. He could hear his own pulse thudding in his ears. He hung up before the landlord could add anything else, his hands shaking slightly as he dropped the phone onto his lap, fingers shaking, and pressed his forehead against the taxi window, the city's glow washing over his pale reflection.

For a moment, silence pressed in. Then Aren exhaled shakily and went back to the only thing he could do… calculating and preparing for the movie. He pulled out the crumpled bills from his pocket, his fingers moving over the notes like they might multiply if he touched them enough times. But no matter how he added, subtracted, or rearranged, the numbers betrayed him. There wasn't enough. Not for the rent. Not for food. Barely even enough to get him through this meeting.

His stomach groaned loudly, as if mocking him, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since yesterday. He pressed a palm against it, trying to quiet the ache, and turned his gaze toward the window.

The taxi sped deeper into the heart of Los Angeles, and the view outside cut into him like a blade. Skyscrapers rose like gleaming monuments to wealth in the sunlight, their glass walls glittering with the reflections of a city that never slowed down. Neon signs blinked and flickered even in broad daylight, painting the sidewalks in colors that felt more alive than he did. People strolled past shopfronts with bags dangling from their arms, their designer clothes worth more than the rent he was already drowning under.

A sleek red sports car glided by, the kind of machine that seemed to hum with arrogance. The driver leaned back casually, sunglasses catching the glow of the streetlamps, one hand draped lazily over the wheel. Aren could almost imagine the smell of expensive cologne trailing after it.

To them, LA was a playground, a stage where money bought freedom, indulgence, and applause. The city dressed itself in luxury and flashed it like a taunt, daring him to even dream of stepping into that world.

But to Aren, it was a prison. He sat in the back of a battered taxi that rattled every time it stopped, stomach empty, wallet nearly drained, and life hanging by a thread. Each gleaming tower outside mocked him with everything he couldn't reach, every reflection of wealth a reminder that he was trapped at the very bottom.

The more he stared, the heavier it became… the sense that maybe the city wasn't built for people like him. It wasn't a place of opportunity. It was a machine, one that chewed the desperate and spit them onto the sidewalks, nameless and forgotten. And as the lights blurred past, Aren felt the cruel truth settle deeper: the glittering promise of the city wasn't meant for him. It belonged to another world entirely.

(End of Chapter)