Perhaps it was a stroke of luck, or maybe a job where he didn’t have to look at other people’s faces suited him better, but over the past ten days, Henry’s work and life had gone much more smoothly than before. He shot nearly twenty videos on car accidents, fires, brawls, and similar topics, most of which he successfully sold to Channel 6 of Fox’s Los Angeles local station.

Especially lucky was when he managed to film a video in West Hollywood of Madonna Ciccone and British director Guy Ritchie on a date, which Sarah helped him sell to Fox’s entertainment channel, earning him a full three thousand dollars.

With a relatively stable source of income, the first thing Henry did was pay off his debts. He returned the car, the borrowed phone, and all the dollars to Ross in full, then bought himself replacements from the second-hand market. In particular, he purchased a used Ford sedan and specially modified the passenger seat with a mount for his camera, so he could film even while driving.

He also printed multiple copies of two scripts he had organized and mailed them to the six major Hollywood studios, as well as dozens of other film companies and studios, but as expected, he didn’t receive any replies for the time being.

In addition, Henry went to quite a few crew auditions, but none of them went well. His history of causing trouble for a British director and having a criminal record made these crews reluctant to hire him.

Nearly a month after being released from prison, Henry had managed to solve his basic survival needs, but breaking into Hollywood was still just a dream.

August in Los Angeles was dry and hot. Even though the sun had already shifted out over the ocean, the temperature was still frighteningly high. Henry parked his car beside Santa Monica’s Ocean Avenue, letting the sea breeze blow in through the open window, bringing a rare hint of coolness.

Checking the time, Henry picked up his phone and dialed a number once again.

“Hello…”

Unlike the busy signal from ten minutes ago, a formulaic voice answered, “This is the 20th Century Fox script review department.”

“Sorry to bother you, I’m a screenwriter.” Henry said as simply as possible, “My name is Henry Stanton, I’m a screenwriter. I submitted a script to your company and wanted to ask about the review results.”

“Thank you for your support of 20th Century Fox.”

The voice on the other end was polite and very calm. “Sir, after we review your script, we will contact you.”

Henry wanted to say more, but the other party politely said a couple more sentences and then hung up.

“Again!”

He tossed his phone onto the passenger seat, feeling somewhat frustrated. “Why are all the film companies like this?”

The person just now hadn’t even asked for the name of the script he submitted!

All day today, Henry, who had been feeling anxious lately, called several film companies, and the answers he got were almost identical—polite people on the phone, but their words sounded like routine procedure.

Watching the sun sink closer and closer to the horizon in the west, Henry let out a long sigh, basically certain that submitting scripts was a very unreliable path. The odds of a newcomer’s script being picked up were no better than winning millions in the lottery.

No connections, no money, no fame, no capital to speak of—even someone with his unique experiences would find it nearly impossible to shine in Hollywood’s brutally realistic circle in a short time. “Epic difficulty” didn’t even begin to describe it.

A newcomer’s script sparking a bidding war among countless people and companies—could there be a more ridiculous joke?

By this point, Henry had basically given up on the idea of achieving quick success through his scripts, and was more determined than ever to move forward step by step, grounded in reality.

The sun finally sank into the sea. After grabbing a simple dinner outside, Henry returned to his car and turned on the police scanner. As he had done recently, he sifted through police signals for any useful information. But luck wasn’t on his side tonight; even after night had fully fallen, he hadn’t found any valuable leads.

Starting the car, Henry drove toward the Santa Monica Valley. Crime in America was indeed bad, but that was mostly in the downtown areas. In places like Santa Monica and the elite-rich enclaves of West Hollywood, the police presence and attention were far better than in Latin or Black communities.

The security in wealthy neighborhoods kept improving, while the slums grew ever more dangerous—this was a realization Henry had come to through firsthand experience.

But unless there was a major gang war or a serial murder in the slums, news from those areas didn’t have much value. Ordinary people liked to see stories of elites or the rich having bad luck—a kind of anti-elite culture and mentality that was the same in North America as anywhere else in the world.

It was just that as security improved in wealthy areas, such news appeared less and less on TV, which only highlighted the value of Henry’s work—after all, scarcity meant higher prices.

Ever since selling his first video, Henry had spent most of his working hours circling the wealthy neighborhoods near the coast and the valley. Even if something happened downtown, he rarely rushed over.