Chapter 4

Whether it was this life's Murphy or his former self, both came from extremely ordinary families, living a life of poverty and ordinariness from a young age. This made him understand a fundamental truth early on: opportunities never fall from the sky; they must be fought for. In the entertainment industry, countless people would go to great lengths to seize even the slightest chance of rising to the top.

Even if Bruce Berman said "no," Murphy didn't completely give up. An opportunity to work on the sequel to "The Matrix" was too rare to let go easily.

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

"Mr. Berman, Mr. Miller," Murphy steadied himself, seemingly unaffected by the piercing gazes from the two men, and said earnestly, "Can I be an intern...?"

The hardest words had come out, and the rest flowed more smoothly. "Many people are willing to work unpaid positions to familiarize themselves with an industry, and I am willing to do the same."

For his future, Murphy had already set his standards very low.

But Bruce Berman smiled. "I won't hire a paparazzo or a violent criminal."

His tone was very calm, devoid of any emotion, yet it sounded particularly harsh.

Murphy's hands clenched tightly. If this were in prison, the fat man in front of him would be on the ground, clutching his stomach and screaming within three seconds. But this wasn't prison, and the rules of prison didn't apply here.

He had already accidentally injured a British director. If he were to hurt a famous producer, he might never find work in the entire film industry again.

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

There was no point in continuing the conversation. No matter how hard he tried, this opportunity would not be his.

As he walked out of the office area, Murphy looked up at the sunny sky but couldn't see his future. It was impossible not to feel depressed, but he quickly came to terms with it.

After all, this was Hollywood, where countless people with dreams and self-proclaimed talents flocked, but only a few managed to rise to the top. Most people, after wasting their youth and time, could only leave in disappointment or become part of the vast underclass of the industry.

How many talents were buried in Hollywood? Perhaps only God knew.

What he thought was his best chance had vanished, leaving Murphy somewhat dejected. The mess left by his predecessor was indeed a huge problem.

While thinking about his next move, Murphy walked toward the Warner Bros. Studios gate. As he passed by a soundstage, he almost collided with a woman, lost in thought.

"Hey, what are you doing?"

A clear female voice rang out, and she pointed to another woman with long, full hair. "You almost ran into Miss Monica. Apologize quickly."

Murphy stopped and turned to look. The woman was very familiar, recognizable even without the movie camera. She was the famous Italian actress Monica Bellucci.

She stood there, looking at him coldly, and lightly tapped her shoulder where Murphy had brushed against it, as if it had been contaminated.

She stood there, exuding the cold, sexy, beautiful, and proud demeanor of a famous actress.

Especially the pride—Murphy, despite not being very familiar with women, could clearly feel it. It was the indifference of Hollywood's elite toward the common people.

Although she was only a minor star in Hollywood, she was far above someone like Murphy, who was unknown.

Her reaction stung Murphy, but he knew that in Hollywood, respect was never equal and never fell from the sky. It had to be earned through action.

Monica Bellucci had every right to look down on him, especially since he had almost bumped into her.

"For what happened just now," Murphy said calmly, his voice even more composed, "I am very sorry."

With that, he turned and walked away, as if nothing had happened.

Trying to earn the respect and acknowledgment of people like Bruce Berman and Monica Bellucci was futile. If words alone could win over others, the Koreans would have unified the world long ago.

This was a realistic society, not a fairy tale.

In the following week, Murphy gained a deeper understanding of the harsh reality of this world and understood why Ross had to return to his old job after being released from prison.

For someone with a criminal record, finding a decent and respectable job was incredibly difficult.

Murphy had interviewed with two more production crews, but they rejected him outright after a brief look at his background. Even a small production crew refused to hire him for a menial job.

For a while, Murphy cursed his predecessor and the hellish social environment of America almost every day, but his mood would soon stabilize.

People tend to attribute their success to themselves and their failures to the environment.

But such thinking was of no help in solving real problems.

Finding a job in the film industry was fraught with obstacles, but Murphy didn't give up. He realized that standing on his own feet in Hollywood was far more difficult than he had imagined, and he became more pragmatic.

Not only in the film industry, but in other industries as well, Murphy's job interviews ended in failure. This was not surprising. How many reputable companies or stores would hire someone with no education, no special skills, and a criminal record?

Was he really going to sell drugs and illegal firearms?

Murphy knew this was a dead end. He would rather work as a laborer at an auto repair shop than go down that path, but the job was hard, and the low pay was not even daily.

Now, Murphy faced a money problem. He had been very frugal, but his $200 was almost gone. If he didn't find a way to make money, he wouldn't last until the next paycheck from the auto repair shop.

On a rare evening when he left work on time, Murphy returned home and walked into the studio. His eyes fell on the handheld camera on the shelf.

The Canon camera still worked. Murphy had tested it recently. As a film school student, photography was a basic course. Although the camera was somewhat outdated, he had grown fond of it. But now, driven by necessity, he had to consider selling it along with the other two devices.

The handheld camera, laptop, and police scanner were not new, and each one alone wouldn't fetch much money. But if he sold all three, he thought he could get by for a while.

After some thought, Murphy decided to keep the laptop. In his spare time, he had been trying to write scripts for future blockbuster movies, which required the laptop. However, his progress was slow, and the chances of selling the scripts were low.

Murphy knew that in Hollywood, most movies were not made by someone writing an outstanding script first, which was then picked up and produced by a film company. Instead, a film company, a big-name director, or a well-known producer would have an idea, seek funding, and then hire a suitable screenwriter to turn the idea into a script.

In this production model, the screenwriter and the script were not the starting point but just one part of the Hollywood production line.

Of course, the chances of a new script by a newcomer being used were extremely low, but it wasn't impossible. Murphy wanted to try his luck; perhaps his fortune would change one day.

Taking the handheld camera and the police scanner, Murphy left the house, got into his black Chevrolet, and drove toward the intersection.

These were the tools the previous Murphy had used to make a living and would now help him maintain his basic living expenses.

The Chevrolet turned out of the Latin community and took two more turns before Murphy drove onto Figueroa Street in the city center, heading for Sunset Boulevard. Located near Hollywood, there were many stores that sold or bought used photography equipment. He hoped to at least exchange the handheld camera for some much-needed dollars.

Murphy could have asked Ross for help again, but he didn't want to. Even the best of friends would grow distant if one only took. Besides the temporarily borrowed phone, car, and $200, he hadn't accepted any more help from Ross.

Night had fallen, and Murphy turned onto Sunset Boulevard. Unlike the decline of the city center, the boulevard was lined with palm trees and movie billboards, and the flashing neon lights turned it into a city that never slept.

The Chevrolet drove past Echo Park, Silver Lake, and Los Feliz, gradually entering the Hollywood area.

Today's Hollywood was far from the rundown image of the 1980s. With the strong support of the California and Los Angeles governments, it had regained its golden era's glory and become one of the most prosperous commercial areas in Los Angeles.

However, Murphy paid little attention to the surroundings, focusing entirely on driving. Sunset Boulevard was winding in many places, with the narrowest part having only four lanes. Due to the numerous hairpin turns, blind spots, and lack of median barriers, accidents were common.

Just after passing a junction, flames appeared on the roadside, and Murphy slowed down.

"This car is going to explode!"

A voice came through the open window. "Damn, hurry up!"

"Help!"

The Chevrolet slowly drove past, and Murphy turned to look. A car had crashed into a thick palm tree, and a police car and a fire truck were parked nearby. Police officers were maintaining order, and several firefighters were working around the burning car, with cries for help coming from inside.