Urban System in America

After extensive back and forth discussion between Rex and Colin over different clauses and provisions, the contracts were finally drafted, neat stacks of paper laid out across the polished desk. The lawyer went over them once more, outlining the standard clauses with the same crisp professionalism that came from decades in the business.

"Here is the Standard acquisition agreement," he said, tapping a page. "Script rights transferred in full. A token payment of one dollar to make it legally binding. Production rights, merchandising rights, sequels… all retained under your name."

Rex listened in silence, fingers drumming against the armrest, then leaned forward casually, almost as if the thought had only just occurred to him.

"Add a provision for Aren's compensation," he said.

The lawyer paused, his pen hovering above the paper. "Compensation, sir? You mean residuals?"

"Not residuals," Rex corrected. "Performance bonuses. If the film does well, Aren gets rewarded."

The lawyer frowned slightly, a crease forming between his brows. "That's… unorthodox. Writers don't usually get performance clauses. Studios prefer flat fees, keeps things clean."

Rex gave a small smile. "Unorthodox is fine. Draft it anyway."

Aren blinked, caught off guard. Until now, he'd stayed quiet, just listening as the conversation went far above his head. But now his name was in the center of it, and his chest tightened. He had expected maybe a token role or vague promises. Instead, Rex was pushing his lawyer to make it official, binding, real.

Colin exhaled slowly, already adjusting. "Very well. What ranges are you considering?"

Rex outlined them with deliberate precision.

"If the film earns less than a hundred thousand at the box office, Aren only gets the one dollar—that's fine. But if it earns between one hundred thousand and a million, he gets a fifty-thousand-dollar bonus. Between one million and five million, that bonus becomes eighty thousand. And if, by some miracle, it crosses into the five-to-ten million range, then he walks away with a hundred thousand."

For the first time since the meeting began, the lawyer's professional mask cracked ever so slightly. His brows lifted by a fraction, just enough to betray surprise. It was more generous than he'd expected, far more. By Hollywood standards, it bordered on charitable. He'd expected Rex to squeeze every penny tight… it was what most clients did with rookies. Instead, Rex was structuring the deal like a seasoned producer, one who wasn't afraid to share success.

But decades of practice had taught him never to question, never to show too much. He recovered instantly, letting his faint astonishment morph into polished flattery.

"A remarkable arrangement, Mr. Rex. Truly forward-thinking. Honestly… "That's… generous. To say the least." "You realize you're giving a first-time writer a deal most veterans would envy."

"That's the point," Rex said simply, as if it were nothing worth discussing.

The lawyer's professional instincts kicked in. He straightened the papers, adopting a more cautious tone. "Very well. But then, if we're being generous, we should also protect your end. I'd suggest adding a clause specifying those bonuses are tied only to domestic theatrical box office gross, not worldwide, not streaming, not merchandising. Keeps the payout narrow."

"Agreed," Rex said without hesitation.

Colin nodded, impressed by the decisiveness. He scribbled adjustments, then glanced back up. "And what about directorial compensation? Frankly, most rookies would direct for free just for the credit. I'd recommend we phrase it as an unpaid opportunity, with the promise of experience—"

"Fifty thousand, fixed," Rex interrupted.

Colin blinked. "Pardon?"

"You heard me. Directorial fee. Fifty thousand."

The lawyer leaned back in his chair, searching Rex's face for even a flicker of uncertainty. He found none. "That's unheard of. An untested director with no credits, receiving a paycheck equal to seasoned independents… it'll raise eyebrows."

"Good," Rex said, his voice cool. "Let them raise them."

Colin chuckled softly, shaking his head in disbelief. "It's been a long time, since I have seen such a generous gentleman in Hollywood, otherwise everyone is just trying to give as little as possible."

And it was true too, for an absolute rookie with zero track record, fifty grand was a dream. Most aspiring directors would have killed just to sit in the chair, let alone get paid for it. In the predatory jungle of Hollywood, such generosity was unheard of.

Rex didn't reply and just smiled faintly.

Aren swallowed hard, his throat tight. Sitting there, watching them go back and forth, the weight of it hit him. Rex didn't have to do this. He could have easily locked him into some exploitative contract, the kind that left young directors in debt even after success. Instead, Rex was putting money on the line for him, securing his role in black and white.

And then Aren thought of the café… of the fifty grand Rex had casually handed him as an "advance." He had told himself it was just business, just a pretext to tie him to the project. But deep down, he knew the truth. It had been generosity. Rex had trusted him enough to place a future in his hands, long before the contracts were drafted. Now, seeing Colin draft the clauses and Rex pushing for fairness, Aren felt something rare in Hollywood's cutthroat world: respect.

Colin glanced at Aren briefly before returning to his notes. "In that case, I'd advise an additional safeguard clause—creative oversight. We state that final editorial control rests with you. That way, no matter what, the production stays on track."

"That can stay," Rex agreed. "But word it carefully. Aren gets to direct without feeling like a puppet. I don't want him shackled."

Colin tilted his head. "Interesting. You're giving him freedom, yet building safety nets. Very well, I'll phrase it as 'collaborative oversight.' That keeps him comfortable, but leaves you with veto power."

"Perfect."

He scribbled quickly, then looked back up. "Rex, I must admit, you're playing this smarter than most. Not just protecting yourself, but setting a precedent. You're making it clear that you don't just want to own the work—you want the people around you to rise with you."

Rex only gave a small, knowing smile.

Aren sat quietly, but inside, his heart was pounding.

The lawyer dipped his pen again, adjusting the draft. He revised the clauses, inserted the new payment ladder, and smoothed over the fine print with all the subtle skill of a seasoned craftsman. When he was done, the contract looked like it had always been meant that way, flawless and airtight.

(End of Chapter)