James York looked up, his smile carrying a hint of deeper meaning. He raised his hand and pointed at the air, calling out to the other person, “Your friend has made it big now.”

John Foster saw it too.

Descending from the sky was a flying car.

For people living on the ground floor of the government-built buildings in the black street, a flying car was quite a luxury. Not everyone could use one, and the energy required for a flying car was even more expensive.

Every time a flying car arrived, it was either related to a big shot on the black street, or it meant someone was about to strike it rich.

The old folks on the black street were always very interested in this sort of thing. So, when they heard the commotion, they all stopped their conversations and turned to watch the landing flying car, eager to know who was about to make it big, whether they knew the person, and if so, they could brag about it for the next ten days or so.

Where the flying car landed, the people who had been sitting there had already picked up their chairs and stools to make way, leaving an open space.

There was a flashy, flamboyant seven-colored wind logo on the flying car. This was very famous in Qi’an City, and even throughout the whole of Yanzhou.

“Is that a car from Neon Culture?!”

“Did someone get signed by Neon Culture?”

“They’ve made it, they’ve made it! Neon Culture is loaded!”

“I remember someone from our street got signed by one of the Big Three before, and later even became a star. What was their name again... can’t remember, but anyway, they’re filthy rich now!”

The three major entertainment companies in Qi’an City were Silver Wing Media, Neon Culture, and Tongshan Shihua. Although it was clear this was a company car and not a private one, it was from the renowned Neon Culture, one of the old Big Three entertainment companies. If you got into Neon Culture, how could you ever worry about money again?

The entertainment industry was a golden nest. That was the public’s impression.

Getting signed by Neon Culture = a change of fortune = money rolling in. That was what most people on the black street thought.

The original owner of this body had been signed as an intern by Silver Wing Media half a year before graduation, while his childhood friend, who had grown up with him, didn’t attend a school as prestigious as Qi’an Music Academy and didn’t have any outstanding achievements, so he hadn’t been signed by graduation. But now, things were different. People change.

John Foster looked at the person stepping out of the flying car, and the memories in his mind told him everything about this person. David Foster, the original owner’s childhood friend, a confidant with whom nothing was off-limits. The original owner had even planned, after the rookie competition, to find a way to bring him into Silver Wing Media—if he couldn’t become an artist, at least he could start as an assistant, so he wouldn’t be out of work. But in the end, this person stabbed him in the back.

Now, David Foster had swapped out his cheap clothes, and was being picked up in a flying car—not a high-end one, but still a flying car, and a Neon Culture company car at that, which was enough to draw attention on the black street.

David Foster had taken the original owner’s hard-earned achievements for himself, used them to gain benefits, and successfully signed with Neon Culture. It seemed Neon Culture was quite satisfied with the works David Foster handed in, otherwise they wouldn’t have sent a car. No talent, but plenty of tricks—John Foster had seen plenty of people like that.

When David Foster stepped out of the flying car, he thoroughly enjoyed the envious gazes from all around. The feeling of being the center of attention, as if he had suddenly become a star, made him feel light as air as he got out of the car—until he saw John Foster standing at the shop entrance. In that instant, his previously elated mood plummeted.

Seeing John Foster here, David Foster was extremely shocked. Based on what he knew about John Foster, plus the news he’d bought from a small-time thug on the black street yesterday, John Foster should have committed suicide at home today. Even if he hadn’t, he’d definitely be holed up inside, racking his brains for a solution to the rookie competition, or wallowing in despair and lashing out at the world. He never expected this guy would actually be out here basking in the sun!

Did this idiot compose music until he went stupid?

What was even more surprising was John Foster’s current mental state—he wasn’t dejected, wasn’t wallowing in self-pity, wasn’t driven mad by pressure and desperation. On the contrary, he looked as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t had his achievements stolen or fallen into a crisis. This made David Foster uneasy.

What on earth had happened to John Foster?!

David Foster’s scrutinizing gaze didn’t linger long; he didn’t dare meet John Foster’s eyes. The look John Foster gave him was so eerily calm, it felt like staring into a bottomless sea, with a monster ready to leap out at any moment—it sent chills down his spine.

But David Foster didn’t think he’d done anything wrong. Who doesn’t look out for themselves? Why not take an opportunity if it comes? Sure, they’d grown up together, but compared to the huge benefits in front of him, that friendship was nothing—at least, that’s how he saw it.

“What are you looking at them for? Hurry up and pack your things and get back to the company. Don’t waste time here.” The driver who got out of the car gave a contemptuous glance at the people on the black street and urged David Foster.

“Oh... okay!” David Foster didn’t delay any longer, hurrying toward the elevator. His retreating figure looked a bit flustered, as if he were running away.