Urban System in America-Chapter 246 - 245: MONEY

Seeing Aren set the pen down, Rex clapped lightly, his dazzling smile bright enough to outshine the bright lights. "Welcome aboard," he said cheerfully, taking the signed documents from the table with the elegance of a magician completing a trick.

Meanwhile, Aren slumped back onto the bench like a deflated balloon, exhaling a long, exhausted breath. It was as if the simple act of signing had drained the last of his energy.

He wasn’t even sure what he felt—triumph, dread, relief? Whatever it was, Whether for better or worse, his future now rested squarely in Rex’s hands.

Rex turned toward the lawyer, who had been observing in professional silence, and with a hint of amusement, pulled out a crisp one-dollar bill from his wallet. "For the copyright," he said with a wink, extending it toward Aren with ceremonial flair.

Aren blinked at the bill, then took it absentmindedly, his fingers trembling slightly. A dry, bitter smile crept across his lips. So that was it—the price of his dreams, legally speaking: one measly dollar. It was laughable, humiliating, and yet... somehow fitting. So that was it—the official price of his copyright.

Of course, Rex wasn’t quite that stingy. Not really. In fact, he’d made sure to add a special clause in the contract—Buried in the contract, among the many carefully worded clauses, was one particular term that offered Aren a glimmer of hope: A performance-based payout, tied directly to the box office. A gamble, really. But one with generous odds if things went right.

According to it, if the film earned less than $100,000 at the box office? Too bad. That one dollar would be the only compensation he’d ever see.

But if it earned between $100,000 and $1 million, Aren would get a bonus of $50,000.

If it grossed between $1 million and $5 million, that bonus would rise to $80,000.

And if, by some miracle, it reached the $5 million to $10 million range, Aren would walk away with a cool $100,000.

It sounded generous. Because it was generous.

In fact, by Hollywood standards, that was practically charitable.

Because in Hollywood, movie scripts were both priceless and worthless. They were the foundation of every film—and yet, they rarely had a fixed price. A hotshot writer with an agent and a track record could sell a half-baked concept for hundreds of thousands. Some popular books could even go for millions, but that was rare, so rare that nobody even consider that.

But a nobody like Aren? Even a masterpiece from him would struggle to fetch a couple grand—if anyone bothered to read it at all. More often than not, newcomers gave their scripts away for free, desperate just to get something—anything—produced. It was a cruel rite of passage. A sacrifice to the gods of cinema.

And compared to that, Rex’s offer was more than fair. In fact, it bordered on saintly.

There was a clause for earnings above ten million too, but Aren had chosen to ignore it.

No matter how much faith he had in the film—no matter how many times he’d re-read the script with goosebumps crawling down his spine—he wasn’t delusional enough to expect a record-breaking box office debut. A million would already be a dream, a miracle considering the film’s experimental theme, tiny budget, and let’s be honest... even though he didn’t want to admit it he was a rookie director and untested screenwriter at its core.

But the mere presence of that bet-style clause was comforting in its own way. Aside from the obvious reason—his lack of bargaining power—it showed that Rex wasn’t some greedy, tight-fisted producer looking to exploit him. He was taking a chance, sure, but he wasn’t entirely heartless.

As for Rex, the cost? Practically zero. To him, the contract was a diamond mine disguised as a scrappy little script from a desperate newcomer. Hollywood was littered with screenplays—thousands upon thousands—some brilliant, most forgettable—and 99% of them never saw the light of day. Studios took them for peanuts. Writers gave them away for free just to get their foot in the door, praying for their name to flash for half a second in the credits. 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝓮𝒘𝙚𝙗𝒏𝙤𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝒐𝙢

Compared to that, Rex was being generous. Almost foolishly so. But he knew what he was doing.

In his past life, this film had been a blockbuster hit. A breakout success no one had seen coming. It had the best cost-to-profit ratio in the industry. Made on crumbs, and returned hundreds of millions. It was the kind of thing analysts whispered about with awe, a case study in every production house. And now, standing at the beginning again, Rex had a second chance to do it all over—but better.

He was sure that if nothing went wrong, the film could easily replicate that success. Maybe even surpass it. After all, the circumstances now were even more favorable. This world was different. The entertainment industry was booming—exploding, actually. No streaming giants like Netflix to eat into box office returns, no social media saturation, no overstuffed content pipeline. Theaters were still king, global distribution still had room to grow, and people were hungrier than ever for stories.

And this time, with Rex involved—armed with foresight, strategic tweaks, and a toolbox full of future knowledge—it wouldn’t just be a hit, it would be a phenomenon. The director was the same as before, talented and capable. That alone gave him confidence. But with Rex quietly steering the ship behind the scenes? This was a near-guaranteed win.

The clause he’d quietly inserted—one that granted Aren a tiered bonus if the movie crossed ten million at the box office—might’ve looked like a gamble on paper. That wasn’t a concession. That was bait—delicious bait. Even from Aren’s point of view, it probably looked like a distant dream. A fun little "what if" that wouldn’t come true. Sure, Aren didn’t realize it yet, brushing past it with barely a blink, but Rex had intentionally made it appealing.

Had he offered hundreds of thousands upfront, Aren would’ve balked. People weren’t stupid—especially when it came to sniffing out hidden value. He’d wonder why Rex was willing to pay so much. He’d get suspicious. Maybe he’d back out, thinking he was sitting on a treasure and didn’t want to give it up. Maybe worse—he’d leak it to someone else. And that’s when the Hollywood vulture would’ve swooped in to poach the script. Old-guard producers, big studios, bottom-feeders with deep pockets and good instincts. They’d gamble on it just to box him out.

Anyway, the risk was almost non-existent with just a $20k budget.

And going the opposite route—offering just a dollar and walking away—would’ve been even dumber. Heck! It would’ve been suicidal.Sure, legally it might’ve been airtight, but Hollywood ran on more than paper. If word got out—if people found out he paid a struggling screenwriter a single dollar for a script that turned into a megahit—his reputation would be torched.

Not only would it raise red flags and potential legal backlash, he’d be branded a stingy exploiter who didn’t respect creatives. People would spit at his name, not because they cared about ethics, but because they knew he wouldn’t pay them either.

In an industry where reputation fueled collaboration, that would be suicide. After all, most people didn’t work for dreams or ideals, excluding a few lunatics. That was just a brainwashing tactic, a marketing lie. They worked for one simple thing: MONEY.

And If an employer had a reputation for squeezing pennies and hoarding profits, then sorry tata, bye. Heck! They’d never even get a chance to hire them in the first place.

So no, this wasn’t about being fair. It wasn’t about kindness. This was calculated generosity. Carefully constructed optics. A flawlessly engineered contract that gave just enough hope to inspire loyalty and performance, without sacrificing control. Because now, Aren would pour his heart and soul into making the film shine—driven by the thought of those sweet millions in the far-off horizon.

All things considered, this wasn’t generosity—it was smart, logical, and ruthless business move.

(End of Chapter)