“Murphy Stanton.” Murphy replied.

“Murphy Stanton?” Bruce Berman repeated softly, a strange smile suddenly appearing at the corner of his mouth. “I remember now, you’re that reporter the media went crazy about last year—the one who broke into Sumner Redstone’s house and injured a British director?”

Seeing the other man’s expression, Murphy felt his heart sink and tried to explain, “Sorry, sir, I think I should clarify something. That was an accident.”

It was said that the director suffered some brain damage from the injury and might never be able to make films again.

Thinking of what his predecessor had done, Murphy still felt a bit guilty, but that guilt was minimal. After all, he had paid a precious year of his life for it; frustration and resentment far outweighed any guilt.

It was an indescribable feeling—a kind of hatred toward Sumner Redstone, yet knowing there was nothing he could do about it.

“Interesting. Someone who dared to attack a film director actually wants to join the film industry.”

Although Sumner Redstone had never publicly responded to the incident, everyone in Hollywood knew he had personally pressured the Los Angeles police. Even if this project had little to do with Viacom, Bruce Berman didn’t want to hire someone who had dared to assault a film director. That would make him a laughingstock in the entire industry.

“NO!”

He said only this one word to Murphy.

Murphy clenched his hand lightly and took a deep breath. This was the best opportunity he could find at the moment, and he didn’t want to just walk away and give up.

Think about it—if he could get experience working on two sequels to “The Matrix,” such a blockbuster project, his future would be much smoother.

Chapter 4: How Many Geniuses Are Buried in Hollywood

Whether it was this life’s Murphy or his former self, both came from extremely ordinary families. A childhood of mediocrity and even poverty had taught him early on that opportunities never fall from the sky—they have to be fought for. This is the entertainment industry, where countless people will do anything for a chance to rise to the top.

Even though Bruce Berman had said “NO,” Murphy hadn’t completely given up. Opportunities like working on the sequels to “The Matrix” were just too rare.

The office was as quiet as outer space. Less than three seconds had passed since Bruce Berman’s rejection, but to Murphy it felt excruciatingly long. His mind was racing like the most advanced computer, trying to make one last effort.

“Mr. Berman, Mr. Miller.” Murphy steadied himself, as if he hadn’t noticed the two piercing gazes across from him, and earnestly said, “An internship… is that possible?”

Once he got the hardest words out, the rest came more easily. “Many people, in order to get to know an industry, are willing to take unpaid positions. I’m willing to do that too.”

For the sake of his future, Murphy had already lowered his bottom line as far as it could go.

But Bruce Berman just laughed. “I won’t hire a paparazzo and an assailant.”

His tone was very flat, without any emotion, but it sounded especially harsh.

Murphy’s hands clenched tightly. If this were prison, the fat man across from him would be rolling on the floor clutching his stomach and howling in pain within three seconds. But this wasn’t prison, and prison rules didn’t apply here.

He had already accidentally injured a British director. If he hurt a famous producer as well, probably no one in the entire film industry would ever hire him.

Taking a light breath, Murphy said nothing more and turned to leave the office.

There was no point in saying anything else. No matter how hard he tried, this kind of opportunity would never fall into his lap.

Walking out of the office area, Murphy looked up at the bright, sunny sky, but couldn’t see where his future lay. It was impossible not to feel frustrated just now, but he quickly got over it.

After all, this was Hollywood. Countless people with dreams and supposed talent flocked here, but very few ever made it. Most, after wasting their youth and time, could only leave in disappointment or become part of the vast underclass that made up the foundation of this circle.

How many geniuses are buried in Hollywood? Maybe only God knows.

What he thought was his best opportunity had just vanished, and Murphy was understandably a bit dejected. What his predecessor had left him was definitely a huge mess.

As he pondered his next move, Murphy walked toward the main gate of the Warner Bros. studio. As he passed the entrance to a soundstage, he was so lost in thought that he almost bumped into a woman coming the other way.

“Hey, what are you trying to do?”

A crisp female voice rang out, pointing at another voluptuous, long-haired woman standing beside her. “You almost ran into Miss Monica. Aren’t you going to apologize?”

Murphy stopped, turned, and looked. The woman across from him looked very familiar—even if he hadn’t seen her on film, he would have recognized her at a glance. It was the famous Italian actress Monica Bellucci.

She stood there, looking at him coldly, one hand lightly flicking the shoulder that Murphy had brushed against, as if the brief contact had left it covered in filth.