Urban System in America
Chapter 239 - 238: Carrot On A Stick

Chapter 239: Chapter 238: Carrot On A Stick

Rex blinked, snapping out of the spiral of thoughts when he saw Aren fidgeting nervously, mistaking Rex’s silence for rejection.

Aren chuckled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, I know I probably sound desperate. But I had to take the shot, you know?"

Rex tilted his head slightly, his gaze sharp but unreadable.

"You’re not just desperate," Rex finally said. "You’re insane."

Aren’s face fell.

"But maybe that’s what it takes." Rex leaned back, arms folded. "I’ve met people with connections, talent, even luck. But very few who would dare to sneak into a gala, bribe a waiter, and pitch their soul’s work to someone they’ve never met. That kind of madness... that kind of fire, is rare."

Aren looked up, eyes wide.

For a moment, neither spoke. The music and conversations from afar had faded into the background, replaced by a quiet tension between them. Rex could see it now—not just ambition, but desperation, years of rejection, grit etched into the lines of Aren’s face. This wasn’t a whim or a youthful gamble. It was survival. A last shot.

Sensing Rex’s silence, Aren took a breath, voice softer now but no less steady—like someone opening the final page of a long letter written in blood and hope.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his entire body tensing as if he were placing not just words, but pieces of himself between them. "I’ve got a friend whose father owns a small but decent studio on the outskirts. Nothing fancy, just a couple of old sound stages, some decent lighting setups. But it’s enough."

His voice trembled, not with fear, but with the sheer effort of restraint—like every syllable was holding back a tide of obsession that had consumed him for years.

"They’ve promised to help out with the equipment and crew. A couple of guys I trust from school, and maybe a few freelancers they know. It’s all lined up—everyone’s just waiting on me. If I can secure the money, they’ll make time. We’ll start shooting within weeks."

He inhaled sharply, almost like he was forcing himself to stay grounded.

"I just need about a hundred grand," he said, quieter now, like he was almost ashamed of how much and how little that sum meant. "That’s it. Just enough to cover the essentials—location permits, post-production, food for the crew, a few decent actors. Nothing extravagant. Just enough to bring the vision to life."

He paused and looked at Rex again—not with expectation, but something more vulnerable. A plea without words.

"I’ve come too far to let it die on paper. I’ve reworked every line of that script a hundred times. I know the shots, the rhythm, the feeling I want to leave with people when the credits roll. I see it so clearly it keeps me up at night. It’s real to me... more real than anything else in my life."

He let out a hollow chuckle, but there was no humor in it. "Sometimes I think if I don’t make this film, I’ll go crazy. Like everything I am will collapse in on itself."

His eyes shimmered, not with tears, but with the glassy fatigue of someone who had gone without sleep, without certainty, without comfort—for years. And still, he hadn’t let go.

Rex listened quietly, his expression unreadable. But inside, a bitter smirk curled.

Even though he could feel the passion and desperation behind Aren’s words—feel it burning raw and real—what followed nearly made him laugh.

Hearing the studio’s offer? It was almost comical, so comical that despite the heavy atmosphere he almost laughed out loud.

They dangled help like a carrot on a stick, pretending to support the dream, but only if someone else took the risk. A hundred grand from an outsider, and suddenly they’d offer equipment, crew, and "support." But not a cent from their own pockets. Not a shred of risk on their end.

That studio really had some nerve. Sure, it was a favor—on paper. A generous gesture, framed like they were doing some struggling dreamer a solid. But Rex had seen too many wolves in borrowed suits to be fooled by polite smiles and handshakes.

Even though it was his own son’s friend they were offering to help, their greed? That hadn’t lessened one bit. If anything, it was worse—slicker, hidden behind the veil of familiarity. That connection made it even more manipulative. They thought they could dangle resources and crew like bait, all while staking nothing of their own.

And Rex couldn’t help but wonder—maybe that "friend" was in on it too. Maybe he wasn’t just a hopeful peer, but a carefully planted middleman. Someone who knew how to pull the right emotional strings, pitch the story just right, and draw in someone naive—or desperate—enough to bankroll the whole thing.

It wasn’t help. It was a setup. A trap disguised as opportunity.

They weren’t willing to take a risk themselves, weren’t putting in a cent of their own. But if someone else came in, some wide-eyed fool with cash and hope? Oh, then they’d step in with full enthusiasm. A few camera rigs, a sound guy, maybe a script editor. That’s what they were offering in exchange for complete control of the backend. Nothing upfront, no risk on their part—but the potential to claim everything if lightning struck.

He could already picture the post-premiere headlines. The studio taking credit for "discovering fresh talent," parading around as champions of indie cinema. Aren would be a footnote. And the investor—the person who believed in it when no one else did? They’d be buried in creative bookkeeping and silenced with a polite handshake and a forged smile.

If the film flopped? No harm done. They’d shrug, offer condolences, maybe shift the blame toward the rookie director or bad luck. But if—by some miracle—it landed even a modest hit, earned a few million? They’d swoop in like vultures, press releases and handshakes ready. And the investor who made it possible?

Sorry.

Despite the film’s success, the books would show a loss. Rex had seen it too many times. Classic Hollywood accounting—so crooked it bordered on dark comedy. Even top-tier lawyers and forensic accountants would find nothing. No crime, no proof. Just invisible numbers moved around like ghosts.

In the end, the studio would walk away with the glory and the money.

The investor would walk away with a heartfelt thank-you—and nothing else.

(End of Chapter)