Urban System in America

He laughed bitterly. "Eventually I realized no one was going to hand me anything. So I wrote my own script. Spent months pouring my soul into it. But I had no money—not even enough for a decent meal on most days, let alone to hire actors or rent filming gear. I took on all kinds of low-end work just to survive—lugging heavy equipment, cleaning sets, doing grunt jobs no one wanted.

I tried borrowing cameras, begged friends for favors, but no one really helped. No gear. No crew. No studio. Still, I was desperate to bring my story to life. So I sent the script to every studio I could find—big or small. Most ignored me. A young graduate without connections didn’t matter to them.

A few actually replied, including one from a big studio. I truly thought my time had finally come. But when I got there, it turned out they weren’t interested in me directing at all—just the script. And mind you, the entire budget for the film was mere penny for them. Can you believe it? They offered me just eight hundred bucks for the full rights.

Rex raised an eyebrow. "And you said no."

"Of course I did. This isn’t some cash grab. This is my work—something I’ve bled into for the past two years. Every scene, every line, every choice—I’ve continuously poured my soul into shaping it, refining it, until it felt alive. I’ve studied, scrapped, reworked entire segments just to get it right.

This isn’t just a script—it’s me. My name, my heart, my damn soul on the line. I want to direct it myself. Not hand it over just so some studio can gut it or shelf it forever," Aren said with conviction, his tone thick with the frustration and passion he had carried all these years.

He leaned forward, eyes intense, trying to make Rex feel the weight of his dream. "That’s why I’m out here—chasing any opportunity I can get. I heard about this party and bribed a waiter, slipped him a wad of crumpled bills I couldn’t afford to spare, borrowed the clothes, and snuck in hoping to find someone in that glittering crowd of power brokers, top directors, executives and producers, who’d actually listen, see me. See my work.

Aren’s fingers clenched into fists on the table. "I kept thinking maybe–just maybe—the bigwigs at the top would have a better eye than the low-level lackeys I’d been dealing with so far. The assistants who rolled their eyes, the readers who skimmed a page or two before tossing it aside.

People who judged based on connections, clout, and name tags rather than merit.Maybe someone in there would recognize the worth of what I’d created. I mean... I wasn’t asking for a handout. Just a shot.I hoped someone here might recognize the worth of what I’d created."

He exhaled sharply, jaw tight, his voice dipped, laced with a quiet ache. "But even after sneaking in, trying to talk to people, I was ignored. The moment they hear I’m a nobody, they dismiss me. Or worse—mocked. Treated like a pest. A joke.