Urban System in America

Of course, Rex could have chosen not to give him a single cent more. The one-dollar copyright transfer yesterday was already enough to secure the script legally. He could've walked away after that, sat back, and watched if Aren somehow managed to scrape the film together with duct tape, expired ramen, and sheer stubbornness.

But that would've been idiotic. Rex wasn't some miser counting pennies. People needed money to survive, to breathe, to keep their heads above water. And Aren… he was hanging on by threads already. Rex could see it in the exhaustion under his eyes, in the cracks at the corners of his mouth, in the way his shoulders carried hunger and fatigue as if they'd been permanent fixtures for years.

Pinching money wasn't the road to success. That was a fool's mindset. Talent with no oxygen suffocated. Drive with no fuel stalled. And if Rex had learned anything in his first life, it was this: when you invest in someone who actually gives a damn, you don't trickle resources like a stingy landlord, you drown them in it until they have no excuse but to grow.

Besides, what he was giving Aren now was nothing in comparison to what was coming. Fifty thousand, a hundred thousand… even a million, if needed. Pocket change. A seed. Because when this film hit, and Rex was certain it would… the returns wouldn't just be good, they'd be monstrous. Hundreds of millions in box office, merchandise, sequels, franchise deals, streaming rights. That was the scale he was thinking on. And against that backdrop, sliding a bundle of cash across a café table was laughably small.

It wasn't charity. It wasn't pity. It was motivation. It was pressure. It was Rex looking Aren dead in the eye and silently saying: You have no excuse anymore. Prove me right.

Across from him, Aren was still frozen, still staring at the cash as if it might explode. His fingers flexed on his knees, itching to reach out but too scared the moment wasn't real. His lips parted, closed again, no words coming out.

And that reaction only confirmed Rex's choice. Good. The boy wasn't greedy. He wasn't lunging at it like a starving dog. He wasn't already calculating how much of it would go into a new car, a new watch, some cheap dopamine fix. No. He was stunned, hesitant, overwhelmed. That meant he understood the weight of it. That meant he respected it.

Rex leaned back, expression smooth, his smile thin but sharp.

"Don't overthink it," he said casually, like he hadn't just dropped life-changing money between coffee cups. "Take it. Use it. Let it burn a hole in your pocket until the only way to get rid of the heat is to make this film."

Aren's throat bobbed. He whispered, barely audible: "I don't deserve—"

Rex cut him off with a scoff, one eyebrow lifting. "Spare me that speech. You think deserving has anything to do with success? Nobody in this town 'deserves' anything. The only thing that matters is what you do with the chance when it's shoved in your face. And right now, I'm shoving it."

…

After finishing the meal, Rex motioned to the waiter for the bill. When it came, Aren instinctively patted at his pocket, making a clumsy show of reaching for his wallet. Even though, his wallet was cleaner than his face, but still… pride demanded at least the gesture. Men's pride was funny like that.

But Rex waved him off and slid a sleek black card across the table, his expression unreadable. and signed it without even glancing twice. Then, with a casual flick of his pen, he wrote a tip so large Aren nearly choked on his own breath.

It wasn't just generous… it was absurd, obscene even. Nearly half of what he earned in a month, reduced to a flourish of ink. His throat tightened as if the figure had lodged itself there.

His eyes darted to Rex for some kind of explanation, some sign of hesitation. But Rex was already leaning back in his chair, shoulders loose, expression unreadable, as though he hadn't just rewritten the scale of generosity in a single careless stroke. No pause. No second thought.

Aren swallowed hard. To Rex, this was pocket change, money that would vanish from his account without leaving the faintest dent. To Aren, it was everything… rent, groceries, bills, the constant juggling act of survival. He couldn't stop his mind from calculating all the ways that number could stretch across his own life. Weeks of breathing room, gone into the leather apron of a waiter who could barely stop bowing.

The man's smile was wide, trembling at the edges with genuine gratitude. He bowed once, twice, his thanks spilling out in a stream that bordered on worship. Aren caught himself staring at the way the waiter's hands lingered on the receipt, like he was afraid it might disappear if he let go.

His eyes darted to the slip, then back to Rex, who was already leaning back in his chair, calm and detached. No pause, no second thought, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Rex rose from his chair with the same calm ease he always carried, as if nothing in the world was ever urgent. Aren scrambled to follow, still half-dazed, his thoughts circling that absurd number on the receipt. The warm midday air washed over him the moment they stepped outside, sharp and bright, but it did little to clear his head.

He almost wanted to laugh. Here he was, worrying about whether Rex was too stingy with the film's budget, and yet the man had just casually handed away more money than Aren earned in weeks. The contrast was dizzying. He realized then that what Rex was stingy about wasn't money, it was direction. Every dollar spent on the film would be placed exactly where Rex wanted it, no matter what.

The thought steadied him even as it unsettled him. If Rex could treat a passing waiter with such effortless generosity, what would he build when it came to something that actually mattered to him?

Aren's admiration deepened, tinged with something else… anticipation. And he began to believe that following Rex wasn't just the right decision. It might be the only decision that could change his future.

…

Outside, they stopped at the roadside. Aren glanced around, puzzled, awkwardly shifting his weight, unsure what was next.

Were they… taking a taxi? The thought almost made him laugh. The idea of someone like Rex… who walked with that unshakable air of command, who spoke as though every sentence carried weight hailing down a taxi on the side of the road felt absurd. It was like imagining a king waiting in line for a bus.

Sure enough, Rex didn't so much as glance at the passing vehicles. Instead, he pulled out his phone and made a short, curt call.

A few moments later, the low, muffled growl of an engine reached them… deep, mechanical, and commanding, like the growl of a beast announcing its arrival. Then it appeared.

Aren's jaw nearly dropped when a car slid to a halt in front of them. Sleek, polished, and almost predatory in its presence, it wasn't just any car. It was a Regalia Ravelle… a model Aren had only ever seen in glossy magazines and online forums where dreamers drooled over luxury beyond their reach.

It was daytime, yet the car seemed to bend the world around it, demanding attention like a stage light. Sleek black metal, polished to a mirror's edge, caught every glint of sun and threw it back sharper, cleaner, as though the street itself had been remade around it. The Regalia Ravelle.

His mouth fell open slightly as he stared, unable to process it. He actually owns one…

The door eased open with a whisper, so smooth it almost felt alive. Rex stepped forward with the same casual air he wore everywhere, as if this was nothing more than his daily routine. Aren, moving on autopilot, followed him into the back seat, his body stiff but his eyes roaming wide.

Inside was worse. Or better. He couldn't decide. The leather hugged his frame in a way no seat ever had, softer than it had any right to be. A faint, foreign fragrance lingered in the air, something subtle but sharp enough to remind him this car belonged to a different world. A thread of gold trim caught the light and tugged his gaze, each detail impossibly deliberate. Even the silence inside felt crafted, as if the outside world had been locked away.

Victor turned slightly from the driver's seat with a respectful nod, while Kaelan offered a quick greeting from the front. But Aren barely registered their words. His focus was locked on the car itself. He tried to compose himself, tried not to gape like some wide-eyed child, but awe pressed against him from every angle. Every stitch of the leather seats, every detail of luxury whispered of wealth beyond his imagination.

And as he sat there, exhaling a slow, shaky breath, a realization settled in: people like Rex lived in an entirely different world. A world where even their cars carried the weight of royalty. A world Aren could never have touched on his own, heck, he didn't even dreamt to ever own a like this.

His earlier softened into something steadier, deeper. Gratitude. Loyalty. A quiet, unshakable conviction that following Rex wasn't just the right choice… it was the only choice. Whatever came next, he would not let go of this chance.

(End of Chapter)