Urban System in America
Chapter 237 - 236: Aren’s Struggles

Chapter 237: Chapter 236: Aren’s Struggles

He closed the folder slowly and looked at the young man. "What’s your name?"

"Aren. Aren Deli," he replied, the name slipping out with a hint of hesitation—as if he’d said it a thousand times before, but rarely to someone who actually remembered it later. The weight of anonymity clung to it, despite the fire behind his ambition. His tone was polite but carried the subtle edge of someone who had grown tired of introductions that led nowhere

Rex felt his spine straighten. Of course.

Aren Deli—one of the most acclaimed directors of the early 2010s in his past life. His breakout came from a micro-budget horror film, shot with minimal equipment and a skeleton crew, that stunned the industry by grossing hundreds of millions worldwide.

What set him apart wasn’t just the financial success, but his raw, atmospheric direction and ability to turn simple, eerie premises into gripping experiences. His rise had been meteoric, and now, seeing him reduced to this—young, unknown, and struggling—was jarring, almost surreal for Rex.

"Let’s talk," Rex said, gesturing toward a bench beneath a tree, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. The path was shaded, tucked slightly away from the main bustle of the party, allowing them a pocket of calm amid the chaos.

Rex could feel a subtle shift in the air—a sense that something important was beginning to unfold. The waiter followed him cautiously. Even though he didn’t know why, something about Rex pulled at him—an odd, inexplicable sense of familiarity or gravity that made him want to trust this stranger. It wasn’t just hope; it was instinct, raw and unexplainable.

For a moment, he even dared to think that maybe, just maybe, this man might actually be interested in his script. But the thought was so fragile, so easily crushed by years of rejection, that he shook his head with a wary smile. No—he had learned not to expect anything. Not anymore. Hope was a luxury he’d long since given up. He feared the opportunity would vanish the moment he got too close.

So with a wary smile and a heavy heart, he followed the young man, his eyes drifting up to Rex’s broad back, dressed in an exquisitely tailored suit. Even though their ages couldn’t be too far apart, their worlds were clearly miles apart. Here he was, sneaking into a party just to get someone—anyone—to look at his script, while this man, likely around the same age, moved like someone born into money or nobility.

Sometimes, fate was just cruel. The thought stung more than he expected. He felt a wave of despair creep in, but he quickly forced it down. He let out a quiet sigh, watching Rex’s confident stride. A bitter smile curled on his lips. "Seriously, Aren?" he muttered under his breath.

"Getting jealous of someone who actually gave you a hand? What happened to the guy who used to stay up all night editing short films for fun?" He shook his head and exhaled, forcing a steadier breath. "You’ve been turned down a hundred times, and now you’re letting someone else’s success make you feel smaller. Pathetic."

As they reached the bench, Rex gestured for him to sit first, his smile warm and unhurried. Aren hesitated for a second, unsure if this was real or just another dead-end conversation. But something in Rex’s expression—calm, open, and strangely reassuring—nudged him forward. He sat down stiffly, his back perfectly straight and shoulders tight, perched right on the edge of the seat like someone afraid to take up too much space.

His eyes flicked to Rex again. The man looked like he belonged in a magazine spread—sharp suit, easy confidence, not a hair out of place. Aren felt even more aware of his own wrinkled waiter’s uniform and the sweat clinging to the back of his neck. He clasped his hands in his lap and forced himself not to fidget. The last thing he wanted was to come off desperate, even if that’s exactly what he was.

Seeing the young man’s rigid posture and nervous glance, Rex gave a soft chuckle and leaned slightly forward. "Relax, no need to be so nervous," he said casually. "We’re about the same age, after all."

The words caught Aren off guard. He blinked, then offered a faint, embarrassed smile. Somehow, Rex’s easy tone made it a little easier to breathe. He shifted slightly, though still sat mostly on the edge of the bench. Confidence didn’t come naturally after years of closed doors, but for now, he was willing to listen.

Rex leaned back a little more comfortably, letting a beat of silence stretch between them before he spoke again. "So, Aren—I can call you that?"

Aren nodded quickly.

Rex didn’t go straight for the script. Instead, he kept it casual. "How long have you been working as a waiter?"

Aren blinked, surprised by the question. "Uh, on and off for about a year," he said. "Mostly parties like this. Sometimes weddings. Just enough to cover rent and keep writing."

Rex nodded as if it made perfect sense. "Smart way to get access to the industry, I suppose. Rough way to break in, though."

Aren gave a half-smile. "Beats waiting by the phone. At least here, there’s a chance someone might listen—even if it’s just long enough to say no."

Rex tilted his head, smiling slightly. "So, did you get lucky yet?"

Aren let out a bitter chuckle. "Well, you saw how that turned out. That was pretty much my best shot tonight."

Rex gave a shrug, swirling the wine in his glass. "It’s okay. The road to success isn’t always smooth. Sometimes we have to push through and carve our own path."

Aren gave a small nod, his shoulders loosening ever so slightly. The words weren’t revolutionary, but there was something about the way Rex said them—like he actually meant them, like he’d seen enough of the world to know. Aren glanced sideways at him, surprised to find himself feeling... understood. Not pitied, not dismissed. Just seen. And in that quiet moment, something inside him steadied, even if just a little.

Rex leaned back, giving Aren a sidelong glance. "Seems like you’ve had a rough ride," he said casually. "Care to tell your story? I’m a bit curious. It’s not every day you see someone pitching a script while dressed as a waiter—especially at a party like this." He paused, then added mentally, Even if it’s my first one. "Anyway, I’m bored enough."

Hearing that, Aren hesitated. For a moment he looked like he might deflect or brush it off. But after the string of rejections and humiliations he’d endured that evening—and over the last few years—his heart was heavy with frustration. Maybe talking about it would help. Maybe just being heard would be enough, even if nothing came of it.

He opened his mouth, eyes staring at distant nothingness, and slowly began to talk—his voice nervous but full of stubborn conviction. "I’ve been trying for five years. Five whole years, man. Graduated from film school with top marks—top of my class, even. I thought that would open doors. I made two short films—one even won a student award at a regional festival. For a minute, I really believed I was on my way."

"I thought I’d have countless studios vying for me, begging me to shoot for them. I pictured myself choosing the most profitable offer, shooting a hit blockbuster, and rising to fame overnight."

Rex raised an eyebrow, amused by the idealistic picture. He didn’t interrupt—he remembered that kind of hunger, that spark of desperation disguised as ambition. It was almost nostalgic, hearing someone still clinging to belief despite everything. But it also made him wonder just how long this kid could last if he didn’t get a break soon.

Aren continued and gave a humorless chuckle. "But after graduation? Nothing. Silence. No offers, no interviews, not even a decent rejection letter. Just a string of side gigs—lugging heavy equipment as a crew hand, sweeping sets, fetching coffee for hours on end.

The kind of dirty, thankless work that kept things running but left no name in the credits. He’d even spent a month scrubbing fake blood off rubber props in a B-horror shoot, all for a sandwich and barely enough cash to pay rent. None of it was real filmmaking. None of it mattered.

He leaned back a little, rubbing a hand over his face. "It’s like the whole system is built to break you before you even start. You either get lucky, or you get lost. And I guess I’m still somewhere in between."

(End of Chapter)