Urban System in America
Chapter 213 - 212: Power and Debauchery

Chapter 213: Chapter 212: Power and Debauchery

Rex took a slow breath, letting the mellow notes of the orchestra settle in his ears as he cast his gaze around the grand ballroom. The warm golden light shimmered across the marble floor and crystal chandeliers, dancing over tuxedos, couture gowns, and more luxury than a small nation could afford.

The kind of opulence that most people can only glimpse through magazine spreads, viral social media clips, or cinematic dreamscapes—so far removed from everyday life that it might as well be a fantasy realm reserved for the elite.

He strolled leisurely, red wine glass in hand, as if just enjoying the music, but in truth, his eyes were scanning everything.

Faces.

Names.

Power.

He moved like a tourist in an exotic land, soaking in the details while blending in. Every elegant smile, every tilt of a champagne glass, every whisper behind manicured hands held meaning. These weren’t ordinary partygoers. Each person here had been filtered through layers of wealth, fame, and social capital. And Rex? He was the anomaly—both the observer and the wildcard.

He moved like a tourist in an exotic land, soaking in the details while blending in. Every elegant smile, every tilt of a champagne glass, every whisper behind manicured hands held meaning. These weren’t ordinary partygoers. Each person here had been filtered through layers of wealth, fame, and social capital. And Rex? He was the anomaly—both the observer and the wildcard.

In fact, he recognized quite a few of them. After all, he had spent weeks, in this world and with the help of Aeon Glasses, catching up on everything he’d need to know. And these weren’t obscure figures. They were the headliners, the bolded names in every entertainment column and trending social media post. From "Top Ten Directors Changing the Industry" to "Heir of Billionaire Empire Spotted Leaving Starlet’s Penthouse," their faces dominated timelines and gossip threads. You didn’t need to search for them—they found you, one notification at a time.

There was Gregory Lanford, the powerhouse producer behind a billion-dollar franchise; Vivica Amaro, whose agent status alone could make or break a career; and Tony Reeve, the Oscar-winning actor casually sipping bourbon like it was tap water.

Then, of course, there were the heiresses and heirs—the quiet titans behind the glittering curtain. These were the ones whose names rarely appeared in headlines but whose signatures could greenlight a hundred-million-dollar film. Silent partners who pulled the strings. Legacy studio owners who’d inherited empires built before Hollywood had even found its shine. Investment fund predators, lurking in bespoke suits, with smiles as sharp as their lawyers.

And the actresses—oh, the actresses. They moved in flocks, laughing and posing in expensive evening gowns, each seemingly in a silent competition to reveal more skin than the next. Some were subtle, classy even, but they were the minority and quickly drowned out by the bold and the glittery. These weren’t just wannabes either. Rex recognized more than a few: household names, award-winning performers, media darlings. The ’most beautiful woman in Hollywood’ title contenders, best actress nominees, and even recent Oscar winners. They floated through the ballroom like living works of art—high-maintenance, high-value art that whispered and laughed strategically in the company of the powerful.

Even a few lounged delicately in the laps of aging tycoons and pot-bellied billionaires, like expensive decorations placed for aesthetic flair. It was almost comedic in its irony, Rex thought. These high-and-mighty goddesses—women whose pictures fans would frame due to yearning, who wouldn’t even breathe in the direction of their admirers—were now giggling like schoolgirls, whispering sweet nothings to men old enough to be their grandfathers. The same women that held the image of icy divas and appeared untouchable on billboards and red carpets were now leaning close, eyes fluttering and cooing sweet nothings to sagging CEOs and wrinkled producers with deep enough pockets to fund a small country.

It was like seeing the polished posters of Hollywood peel back to reveal the glue and tape behind them—shiny up front, hollow at the back.

But he didn’t judge. Not too much. And he definitely wasn’t feeling jealous. Definitely not.

Agh! It should have been me!!

Well... maybe just a little. I mean, come on! A-list actresses cuddling up to men who probably still text with one finger and use button phones. How unfair was that? It’s not like he wanted one in his lap—okay maybe just for a second, for scientific curiosity.

But no. He was mature. He was noble. He was...

Fine! He was sulking just a little. With a pout that could probably win him a few fans if anyone saw it.

Still, he straightened his back and sipped his wine with the grace of someone who absolutely, definitely wasn’t mentally whining like a kid denied dessert. Not at all.

Because alongside all that superficiality, he also saw the real side of Hollywood. Tight-knit circles formed with precision, where whispers were worth millions. Meetings camouflaged as offhand banter, with lips smiling and eyes calculating. A director discreetly unrolling a script for two sharply dressed investors, their nods betraying a mix of interest and skepticism. An agent, slick and sharp-tongued, weaving through conversations like a predator, pitching their golden goose with practiced charisma. Scripts traded like currency, roles negotiated in casual tones, decisions made not in offices but beside buffet tables and under the glow of chandeliers. Power wasn’t just present—it was mobile, swirling through the crowd, shifting from handshake to handshake, over flutes of champagne and hors d’oeuvres.

Hollywood wasn’t just glamor. It was a battlefield.

And tonight, Rex was on reconnaissance.

He wandered the room like a connoisseur of ambiance, slowly circling the dance floor as if admiring the orchestra. In reality, he was scanning, assessing, absorbing. The system had taught him many things, but this kind of firsthand experience? That was gold.

Of course, just as he was checking out the crowd, the crowd was checking him out too.

It wasn’t exactly discreet.

Heads turned. Conversations faltered mid-sentence. Curious gazes lingered on him, some subtly, others openly, as if the air had suddenly shifted. Murmurs rose and spread like ripples in still water—a wave of speculative interest stirring through the elegant crowd.

Who is he?

A model?

Some European royal?

Some reclusive Mediterranean aristocrat?

New investor?

Old money heir?

In a room where no one was truly a nobody, Rex’s unplaceable presence caused a stir. They all had status—money, fame, connections—so by default, Rex had to be someone too. That was the logic.

But after a few subtle inquiries and hushed exchanges, no one could place him. And that... was intriguing.

It wasn’t boredom, per se. Though they were indeed a rather bored group of elites. But for the rich and powerful, identifying new players in the game was essential. Connections meant everything, and no one wanted to miss an opportunity—or a threat.

The men speculated with narrowed eyes and nods. Was he a rival heir? A rising mogul? Secret investor?

But the women—their thoughts were far simpler.

God, he’s gorgeous.

Some of them, both single and supposedly committed, looked at him like lionesses sizing up an unsuspecting deer. Relationship status didn’t seem to matter—wedding rings were ignored, vows conveniently forgotten. Temptation shimmered in their eyes, painted across ruby lips and subtle glances, as they leaned in too close during hushed whispers. Even those accompanied by partners eyed him greedily, as if he were an exotic delicacy too tempting to resist. Strangely, the men they came with didn’t react—either unfazed, uninterested, or just as intrigued. Heck! Even a few of them seem eager to try something.

Oblivious to all of this, Rex took another sip of wine, letting the rich taste roll over his tongue. He was watching the orchestra with gusto, admiring the synchrony and elegance. It was his first time seeing a full orchestra in real life—not just through polished films or documentaries, but right here, in glittering flesh and harmonized blood. The violins soared, the cellos hummed, and the harps teased the air like whispers of silk. It was, in a word, majestic.

He felt like an art connoisseur suddenly realizing Mona Lisa was, in fact, real and breathing.

Then, like a badly timed horror soundtrack, a chill spread through his body—an ominous, crawling tingle that honed in on one area in particular: his backside.

A sudden shiver raced up his spine, and Rex blinked. The sensation was sharp, pointed, and weirdly personal.

It was the kind of chill that didn’t just say, "You’re being watched," but rather added with flair, "And someone’s aiming straight for your peach, buddy."

His eyebrows twitched.

It wasn’t a general sense of unease. No. It was precision-targeted—like a laser-guided missile had locked onto the twin hills of his dignity. The sacred cheeks. The glorious glutes. The blessed buns. His rear-end royalty.

He clutched his wineglass slightly tighter.

The orchestra hit a dramatic note—clearly timed by the universe for comedic effect—as Rex’s paranoia rose in harmony. He glanced around subtly, scanning for whoever was spiritually groping him with their gaze.

(End of Chapter)