Urban System in America

Rex's faint smile deepened at Aren's answer. He could see the mix of awe and relief in the young director's face, the same look of someone who had just been handed a lifeline and was clinging to it with both hands. That was good. That was exactly what Rex wanted.

"Good," Rex said smoothly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. He tapped the screen with casual precision before pressing it to his ear.

Aren didn't think much of it at first… until the call connected.

On the other end, the call connected almost immediately. A warm and deferential voice rang out, every word dipped in respect.

"Mr. Rex, good afternoon. It's an honor you called personally," the man said.

"Good Afternoon Steven."

Rex leaned slightly back in his seat, speaking with that same composed, almost causal tone. "Yes, about today. I won't be able to come in personally. Something urgent came up." A pause, then his eyes flickered briefly toward Aren. His tone lightened, a quiet smile in his voice. "But my friend will be there in my place. Aren Deli. He's my friend, and the director for the project we spoke about.Take good care of him."

"Of course, of course," Steven replied instantly, his tone carrying none of the arrogance Aren expected from a Hollywood powerhouse. Instead, it was almost eager, respectful to the point of deference. "We'll make sure everything is prepared. No need to worry, Mr. Rex."

There was another muffled answer, low but unmistakably deferential from the way Rex nodded along.

Aren sat frozen. His mind ticked through what he'd just heard. Steven. The Steven. The man at the helm of Northstar Studio, one of the industry's real power players. Even back when Aren had worked as an extra, Steven Roberson's name was something people whispered with reverence. Even the directors treated him like a king when he showed up on set. And now Rex had just called him like he was a friend checking in on a dinner reservation?

And Rex had just called him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Not only that—Steven's tone, though faint, carried no arrogance, no superiority. If anything, it sounded… accommodating, like… like a subordinate.

For god's sake that is Steven… Steven Roberson—the founder and owner of Northstar Studio. The man who commanded not just money, but actual influence in Hollywood. The man who could greenlight or kill a project with a single nod.

Aren sat stiffly, eyes fixed ahead but thoughts in chaos. Just what kind of person does it take for Steven to answer directly, without delay? For someone like Steven to lower his voice like that?

Rex turned his head slightly, catching Aren's frozen expression. A ghost of amusement flickered in his eyes, though his face remained composed. "That settles it," he said mildly, as though nothing unusual had happened. "You'll be fine without me. Steven will make sure of it."

Aren swallowed hard, forcing himself to nod, though his mind screamed a dozen questions he dared not ask. His heart pounded against his ribs like it wanted to break free.

Yes, Rex had told him before that he'd contacted Steven. He remembered brushing it off, thinking it was probably just some surface-level exchange, a polite acknowledgment at best. Big names entertained calls from wealthy eccentrics all the time… usually out of courtesy, or because there was some hidden transaction.

But hearing it with his own ears… that was different.

Steven hadn't just picked up the call. He hadn't just spoken politely. He had spoken with genuine respect, the kind reserved for someone whose weight couldn't be ignored. There was no trace of annoyance, no perfunctory civility. It wasn't the kind of voice one used to handle a spoiled investor or amuse a bored rich man.

It shook Aren.

Because Steven wasn't Colin. Colin, the lawyer, had shown Rex respect, yes, but that was explainable. Lawyers thrived on clients. Respect came with money, with contracts, with the exchange of services. Colin's attitude, however surprising, still made sense in that framework.

But Steven?

Steven had nothing to gain. No fee to collect, no billable hours, no legal obligations. The man was a multimillionaire, a titan who controlled a mid level Hollywood studio with the kind of casual power most people couldn't even fathom.

And don't think of it as just some mid-level studio. This is Hollywood, we are talking about—the entertainment capital of the world, a kingdom built on dreams, lies, and blood, the place where fortunes were made and ruined with terrifying speed. Out here, even the so-called "small players" weren't truly small.

A low level company in Los Angeles had more weight than the titans in most other countries. A studio dismissed as "low level" in Hollywood could still crush foreign competitors, flooding international markets with films, scooping up distribution rights, and shaping pop culture abroad without breaking a sweat.

A company with a single soundstage in Los Angeles had more weight than entire production industries in most other countries. A studio dismissed as "low level" in Hollywood could still crush foreign competitors, flooding international markets with films, scooping up distribution rights, and shaping pop culture abroad without breaking a sweat.

Because in Hollywood, the middle wasn't mediocre. The middle was survival of the fittest. The middle was cutthroat Darwinism at its finest, where studios clawed at each other's throats for talent, fought vicious bidding wars for scripts, and spent millions just to edge out rivals on opening weekends.

To stay there... to avoid sliding into irrelevance or collapse, meant a studio had already proven itself battle-hardened. It meant they had distribution channels, theaters that actually opened doors for their films, deals with streaming platforms, and executives who could call a dozen agencies and get callbacks immediately.

And the man who owned all that, the one who steered Northstar through the chaos and kept it alive, wasn't just another millionaire. He was someone powerful, a man with vast connections, money that moved in millions without a blink, and influence sharp enough to slice through the cutthroat competition that defined Hollywood.

Steven Roberson was that man.

He was someone agents bowed to, someone actors couldn't ignore, someone directors begged to take their calls. actors clung to the hope of being noticed by him, producers fought tooth and nail just to get five minutes in his office. Even A-list stars who strutted across red carpets knew better than to burn bridges with a man like him. Because Steven wasn't just money… he was connections. The kind of influence that decided whether a script got made or shelved, whether a rising star's career soared or withered.

And here he was, that formidable man speaking to Rex as if he were the one who needed to curry favor.

A chill slid down Aren's spine, so sharp it made his palms damp. He glanced at Rex, who sat there as calm as ever, sliding his phone back into his pocket like he had just finished ordering lunch. The faint curve of his lips carried no arrogance, no gloating… just quiet composure, as though what had just happened was the most natural thing in the world.

That, more than anything, unsettled Aren.

Because if Rex could so casually command respect from someone like Steven… then how deep did his influence really run?

(End of Chapter)