Urban System in America

Colin finally straightened the stack of papers before him, sliding the freshly revised draft across the desk. The lawyer's voice carried the weight of years of courtroom experience, calm and deliberate.

"Here it is, Rex," Colin said with a small but genuine smile. "The final draft. Everything we discussed has been written in, tightened, and cross-checked. I've added the provisions for Aren's compensation, the protective clauses on your copyrights, and the guarantees on sequel, remake, and spin-off rights. You own them all. The studio won't have room to wriggle out of it, at least not legally."

Rex didn't reach for the pen immediately. Instead, he leaned forward, picked up the document, and worked top to bottom, line by line. Not skim. Not flip through the highlights Colin had already explained. He read it line by line, eye sharp and deliberate. It didn't matter that Colin was clearly competent. In Rex's book, trust never replaced reading. Contracts were traps in disguise… every "herein" and "whereas" could be a tripwire. A single overlooked clause could bankrupt a man, or worse, strip him of everything he built. So he read slowly, pen in hand, line by line.

Colin didn't take offense. In fact, he seemed quietly pleased, the corner of his lips twitching upward. "Good," he murmured under his breath, "that's how you should do it."

Aren sat off to the side, hands resting on his knees, eyes flicking between the two. Watching Rex, he felt something stir in his chest. The way Rex studied every single word… like each line could decide his future… was unlike anything he had seen before.

Rex stopped now and then, asking questions that made Colin raise a brow in faint surprise.

"This section here about 'distribution-related expenses'—does the studio have room to inflate those numbers?" Rex asked, finger pressing against the paragraph.

Colin adjusted his glasses, a wry smile playing at his lips. "Sharp eye. Yes, that's one of the most common tricks. They'll say the movie 'earned nothing' after deducting bloated expenses… private jets, ridiculous 'marketing campaigns'—and the talent walks away empty-handed. I've modified the wording to cap deductible costs at industry-standard rates. They can't stuff in fake bills."

Rex nodded, satisfied, and moved on.

Another page later: "And here… profit-sharing clauses. If this turns into a franchise, what's to stop them from shifting the sequels under a shell subsidiary to cut us out?"

Colin chuckled softly. "You're asking all the right questions. That's exactly what they'd do. I've included an anti-diversion clause. No matter what name they slap on a company, revenues trace back to the original copyright holder… you."

Rex hummed in approval, but still didn't let his focus waver.

He traced each clause with his fingertip, pausing where contracts love to hide teeth:

"In perpetuity, throughout the universe." He underlined the phrase, then glanced at the carve-outs Colin had inserted. It was the kind of language that, unchecked, could make a studio the emperor of his life's work forever.

"Perpetuity is fine… ours, not theirs," Rex murmured.

Colin gave a steady nod. "Your ownership is perpetual. Any third-party license is time-boxed and revocable."

Rex's eyes tracked the next clause. "Work-for-hire." He read it once. Then again. That phrase had gutted too many young creators who thought they were selling a project but ended up selling their soul. "This only applies to commissioned supplemental materials, not the primary script or cut, yes?"

"Correct," Colin replied, tapping the margin like a professor correcting a paper. "Primary IP is expressly excluded from work-for-hire treatment. You own it; you merely license distribution."

Rex nodded once, lips tight. He wasn't paranoid… he was just being thorough. There was a difference.

"Approval vs. consultation." He circled the word approval hard enough to nearly tear the page. "No swaps to 'meaningful consultation' in any schedule or rider?"

"None," Colin said firmly. "Final cut, director hire or replace, poster, trailer, and key art are all approval. I mirrored the term across exhibits so they can't downgrade it later."

The pen tapped against the desk as Rex moved on. Expenses. He read every syllable of the definition of distribution-related costs… checking the caps, exclusions, and hidden examples. "No internal markups by 'friendly' subsidiaries?"

"Capped at market rate, subject to third-party audit," Colin confirmed. "If they overcharge, it becomes non-recoupable."

Rex's expression barely shifted, but Aren…sitting quietly in the corner, watching this unfold, caught the weight of it. Seeing Rex dissect each clause like a surgeon with a scalpel, Aren felt something stir in his chest. This wasn't greed or paranoia. This was survival. This was Rex ensuring no one could ever take advantage of what was his.

Reversion & turnaround. Rex read the triggers carefully: missed start dates, delivery windows, release deadlines. "If they sit on it, it comes back to us?"

"Automatically," Colin said. "Reversion on inactivity; turnaround costs are limited and cannot follow the IP."

Rex exhaled, slow. That clause alone had saved more than one dead project.

Credit & arbitration. He checked the language, then looked up. "If someone tries to shoulder in on 'story by'?"

"We've got WGA-style arbitration hooks even if you're non-guild," Colin said smoothly. "And an MFN clause to match you to any producer on billing."

Waterfall. Rex slowed here, every word weighted like gold dust. Recoupment order, gross corridor, caps on overhead. This was where fortunes vanished in the fog of studio math. "No 'studio first, forever' nonsense?"

"Overhead capped; interest at a sane rate; audit annually with a cure window and penalties if they 'miscalculate.'"

Assignment. Rex tapped the last paragraph, frown cutting in. "They can't quietly sell the deal to a shell and claim 'new terms'?"

"Any assignment binds the assignee to this agreement, word for word," Colin replied. "No resets."

Aren watched, half-holding his breath. Rex didn't grandstand or pretend to be a lawyer… he just refused to be rushed. He'd read a sentence, go still for a beat, then either move on or ask a surgical question. No theatrics, or hesitation. Just care. It was the first time Aren truly understood how people lost their films: it wasn't one huge betrayal; it was a dozen small ones hidden in commas.

Honestly, he had no idea half of this stuff even existed. He had heard rumors, stories whispered over late-night beers by struggling film students… about studios finding sneaky ways to screw creators out of their own work. But hearing it spelled out, loophole after loophole, was chilling.

Rex reached a dense paragraph labeled Force Majeure & Delivery and frowned. "No creative seizure under 'force majeure' if we're on schedule but they're 'restructuring'?"

Colin's mouth twitched. "I tightened that. Acts of God, yes; acts of finance, no."

He flipped to the Director Replacement clause… Aren's clause… and pressed the page flat. "Replacement only with my written consent and for enumerated cause. Cause defined as material breach, not 'creative difference.' Good." He glanced sideways at Aren; the look said, You're protected. Do the work.

Meanwhile Aren sat there motionless, occasionally stealing glances at Rex. This guy wasn't just giving him a chance. He was protecting him in ways Aren would never have thought to ask for.

He swallowed hard, his chest tightening. In this industry, people don't give you opportunities like this. They exploit you. Rex… he's different.

Meanwhile, Rex kept reading, page by page. Each clause, each subsection. The room was quiet except for the soft rustle of paper. Colin didn't interrupt, though his eyes occasionally gleamed with approval.

When Rex finally reached the last page, he let the silence linger. He placed the papers down carefully and looked up at Colin.

"Not bad," Rex said at last. His tone was calm, but his gaze sharp. "Really not bad."

By the time Rex had reached the signature page, the draft looked lived-in: a few neat underlines, two circled phrases, tiny check marks in the margins. He'd initialed key definitions and cross-refs so no one could "update" them between versions. Then he went back to the top and re-read the three spots that had bothered him, just to be sure the fixes held across the exhibits.

Only then did he set the stack down.

"Alright," he said, voice even. "No blind spots I can see."

Colin exhaled, not relief so much as professional satisfaction. "That's how it should be read," he said. "A contract is a memory… yours, not theirs."

Colin chuckled, straightening his tie. "And coming from someone who just grilled me like a senior partner, I'll take that as a compliment."

Aren felt the knot in his chest loosen. He hadn't understood half the language going in; now he understood the attitude: never sign a story you haven't read. And watching Rex work, he believed, for the first time, that their film might actually survive this city.

(End of Chapter)