Urban System in America

Twenty dollars. That had been enough to make his chest tighten with guilt.

And now?

Now, somehow, he had fifty thousand dollars sitting in his pocket. Fifty. Thousand. He patted his pocket just to be sure. Fifty thousand dollars.

He still couldn't wrap his head around it.

Aren let out a shaky laugh. "What the hell just happened?" I mean he knew that, the moment he met Rex, his life would take a turn for the better, but still…, he didn't think it would happen so fast.

The whole day had been absurd. He replayed the past few hours in his head, each moment more absurd than the last.Meeting a lawyer whose name was usually printed in magazines, the kind even celebrities scrambled to book. Sitting in a car that cost more than entire houses in his neighborhood. Breathing in leather seats and air conditioning that felt more like a caress than cold air.

And him — Aren — the guy who usually counted change at the grocery store, now he was supposed to just… casually stroll into a studio for his film.

He rubbed his face hard with both hands. "Yeah, sure. Totally normal. Happens every day."

Of course, he didn't head to the studio right away. His survival instincts screamed louder than his excitement. Fifty thousand dollars in cash? In this city? Carrying that around was like walking through a wolf den with raw steak strapped to his chest. Every second he stood there, he kept imagining hands reaching for him, shadows stepping out of alleys, headlines about some unlucky fool who got mugged in broad daylight. He wasn't about to become that story.

Paranoia had him glancing around like a thief. He spotted a bank down the block, its glass doors reflecting sunlight. Without a second thought, he power-walked across the street and pushed his way inside.

The cool, conditioned air hit him like a blessing. Inside, the air smelled faintly of floor cleaner. The hum of machines mixed with the low chatter of people waiting. Aren walked to the counter, trying to look like this was normal for him. It wasn't. His hoodie had a hole near the cuff, his jeans were worn at the knees, and his sneakers had more duct tape than sole.

Aren approached, trying to act casual, which only made him look guiltier.

The cashier — a middle-aged woman with bright red lipstick and eyes that scanned him top to bottom — blinked at him with mild disinterest. His worn jeans, scuffed sneakers, and faded hoodie screamed "minimum wage worker," not "guy carrying more cash than a used car dealer."

Still, Aren set the stack of bills on the counter. "Uh… I'd like to deposit some money."

She shrugged and asked boredly, "how much?" clearly expecting a few hundred dollars.

"I'd like to deposit forty-nine thousand," he said quickly.

The words sounded ridiculous even to his own ears.

The woman froze. Then, very slowly, she raised her eyes to him, one perfectly drawn brow arched. He could almost hear her thoughts: This guy? Really?

She didn't say anything at first, just looked at him the way people look at cats who suddenly start speaking English. Finally,Her eyes flicked from the bills to his face, and she gave a small, bemused laugh and began counting.

Aren stood stiffly, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He could feel the stares from the people behind him. Or maybe he was imagining it. Either way, it was unbearable. He tugged his hood lower, wishing desperately he could melt into the tile floor. His heart hammered until the receipt printed, proof that his money was safe, digitized, and no longer burning a hole in his pocket.

When the printer spat out his receipt, relief washed over him like a wave. He snatched it up, folded it, and slid it into his pocket like it was the most valuable thing in the world, and let out a long breath.

As he turned to leave, the cashier's voice floated after him, light, her voice softer, playful, almost teasing. "You know, honey, a man carrying that much money shouldn't stay single forever."

He didn't even look back. "I'll… keep that in mind," he muttered, bolting for the exit.

Outside, the sunlight hit him full force. He stopped on the sidewalk, clutching the receipt like a talisman. For the first time in months — maybe years — the tension in his chest loosened.

The world suddenly looked… different.

The sky seemed brighter. The sunlight, usually an annoying glare that baked the cracked pavement, now felt warm, almost golden. The air smelled fresher, carrying hints of street food and blooming flowers, though that might've been wishful thinking. Birds chirped somewhere nearby, their song blending with the city's hum.

Aren closed his eyes, tipped his head back, and took a deep breath.

Which was immediately ruined when a passing truck blasted exhaust straight into his face.

"Cough—cough—dammit!" He bent forward, hacking, waving the smog away.

Still, he couldn't wipe the stupid grin off his face.

It wasn't just the money. It was what the money represented… a weight lifted, a chain snapped. For the first time in forever, he wasn't thinking about overdue rent or whether instant noodles could count as a balanced meal if he cracked an egg into them. He wasn't calculating how long twenty dollars could stretch if he skipped breakfast.

No. For once, he could actually breathe.

Maybe this was the magic of money. It didn't buy happiness, but it bought relief… the kind that made the world look beautiful even through smog and honking cars.

Aren thought about his neighborhood… the peeling paint, the gunshots at night that everyone pretended not to hear, the way sirens wailed so often they'd become background music. The way people hurried past each other with their heads down, always wary, always tired. He thought about sleeping with one eye open, about bolting the door with a rusty chain and still not feeling safe.

He thought about the constant fear… of eviction, of muggers, of the future.

And he thought: I don't have to live like that anymore.

Not anymore.

He could leave that place behind. He could rent somewhere normal, somewhere clean. A place where he didn't need to sleep with a knife under his pillow. A neighborhood where kids rode bikes instead of ducking behind parked cars. A place where he didn't have to worry about stray bullets whistling through his window or whether his landlord would "forget" he paid rent.

The thought made him stand a little taller. For the first time in years, maybe his whole life, the future didn't feel like a wall pressing down on him. It felt open.

He exhaled, shoulders sagging with the release of years of tension.

"…Yeah," he whispered. "Things are gonna change."

But time wasn't waiting for him to bask in the sunlight like a man reborn.

The world wasn't going to wait.

He needed to get moving.

He had a destination — a studio, of all places.

The thought still made him shake his head. Him, Aren, the guy who'd scrubbed dishes until his fingers pruned, who'd patched his shoes with duct tape, who'd considered it a luxury to have hot water for a shower… now heading to Northstar Studio like he belonged there.

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head again. "Unbelievable."

Raising his hand, he flagged down a taxi. One screeched to a halt, the driver leaning over to unlock the door. Aren slid in, still clutching his deposit slip like proof the last few hours hadn't been a fever dream.

"Where to?" the driver asked without looking.

Aren hesitated for a heartbeat before answering, savoring the words on his tongue.

"Northstar Studio."

The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror. His eyebrows rose slightly, but he didn't comment, just started driving.

As the taxi pulled away from the curb, Aren glanced out the window. Aren leaned back against the seat, staring out the window. The city rushed past — billboards, fast food joints, students with backpacks, people hurrying to lives he couldn't imagine.

For the first time, the city didn't look like a beast waiting to swallow him whole. It looked like a stage. And maybe, just maybe, he finally had a role to play.

And even if his heart still hammered with disbelief, a quiet certainty settled in his chest.

This was only the beginning.

(End of Chapter)