Chapter 809: I Don’t Want to Grow Up

Many people believe in miracles—until reality slaps them in the face, leaving them bloodied and broken.

Only when they’re beaten senseless, mindlessly begging for the pain to stop, do they finally understand: everyone has dreams and ambitions—but just because you have them doesn’t mean you’re meant to chase them, or that chasing them will lead anywhere.

There was once a survey conducted with young people under 24. More than half said they wanted to become celebrities.

Their reasons were surprisingly pure: Being famous is cool, I’ll have lots of friends, I want to make my family proud. Very few said they wanted to get rich. That’s what people like to call the beauty of youth—ideals untouched by hardship.

In truth, they just haven’t been beaten enough yet. Their lives are still full of naïve illusions.

The girl next to Lynch once believed the same things. She thought she was beautiful. Back in high school, even the quarterback fought other players over her.

Upperclassmen, underclassmen—wherever she went, people liked her. She even had a nickname: Sweetheart.

To a feminist, that might sound demeaning. But to her, it was a compliment. She loved being the center of attention, the sun around which others revolved.

She kept her figure in perfect shape, confident that she looked no different from the stars on screen or in TV dramas.

In fact, she thought some celebrities didn’t even look as good as her.

So she believed that if she could just enter the entertainment industry, success was guaranteed.

After graduating high school, she moved to Lardimore to pursue her dream. But none of what she imagined ever happened.

She wasn’t scouted on the street by a big agency and instantly cast as a lead in a blockbuster.

She wasn’t spotted by modeling agencies or magazines and turned into a cover model overnight.

She didn’t win some beauty pageant without even trying, launching her into a glamorous career.

Nothing. None of it.

Was it because she wasn’t good enough?

No—it was because there were too many good ones.

Beautiful girls from all over the Federation, and even immigrants, flocked to Lardimore chasing the same dream. Many of them were prettier, had better figures.

There was no reason those girls failed and she succeeded. The world is fair—in its own, hard-to-understand way.

She struggled in Lardimore for over half a year. Of her two roommates, one had started acting in films. The other was singing at bars, saving up to self-release an album.

She alone had made no progress. She blamed her luck—until the actress roommate came home drunk one night and broke down crying in the shower. That’s when the illusion shattered.

That roommate was sleeping with someone different every night just to get roles. Standing under the shower, her makeup running, it wasn’t clear whether it was tears or water streaming down her face.

“I feel like a whore,” she said. “Like I can only get anything by sleeping with people. But I can’t let go. I don’t want to.”

The next day, she went out dressed up again—but never came back.

Word was she moved into a solo apartment. Maybe she couldn’t face her roommates after what she’d said.

The singer roommate eventually moved out too.

Not because she succeeded—because she used her savings to press 1,000 copies of her own album, with eight self-written, self-composed songs. It cost her everything. She thought it would be her big break. It wasn’t.

The girl listened to that album. It sounded just as good as the so-called platinum albums out there—maybe even better.

That singer took the album to every major radio station, TV station—anywhere that would listen. But no one did.

That’s when they learned: if you want airplay, you pay. And it’s expensive.

She gave up. Threw every copy of her album in the trash, packed her things, and left with her head down—like a rooster defeated in a fight.

Back to where she came from. Back to being a farmer. That was all she had left.

The once-lively apartment now only had one girl left—and even she was on the edge.

She had gone to many production companies. The big ones wouldn’t even let her in—they only trusted their scouts or newcomers who already showed value. Pretty girls off the street? A dime a dozen.

The small studios were worse. Their first question was always: Are you willing to do nude scenes?

At first, she said no. She was politely shown the door. Later, she tried saying yes. Then they’d ask, Can you strip so we can see your figure?

Hell no. She was sure if she really stripped, they’d ask if she was okay with sex scenes—maybe even ask her to lie down and audition on the spot.

Dreams are beautiful. But the road to them never is.

The ones who say the journey is more beautiful than the destination only say that because they actually reached the destination. It’s like rich people getting nostalgic about their struggles—it’s only worth remembering because they won.

If you failed and tried to reminisce about your misery? People would just think you’re whining. No one would listen.

Eventually, she gave up on breaking into the industry directly. She signed with a talent agency under a 3+6 contract.

They’d train her for three years, give her some opportunities. The agency would take 80% of her earnings. She got 20%.

If the contract ended and she was still profitable, the company had the right to sign her again for six more years—as long as the new offer wasn’t more than three times worse than another.

Basically, she’d been bought and sold.

Before signing, she told the manager the terms were too harsh. The manager pointed to the door. You can walk out, or pick up the pen and sign.

She signed. It was her last hope.

But she was smart—she added a clause: the agency couldn’t force her into escort work.

After spending some time in Lardimore, she had come to understand the city all too well—a place that appeared glamorous on the surface but was rotten and festering underneath.

Talent agencies had countless ways to trap their signed artists in debt. One common tactic was enrolling them in so-called celebrity performance courses, each session priced outrageously high.

Sure, the instructors were real celebrities—usually washed-up B-list or C-list stars. Those faded stars didn’t care. They were just making money—nothing shameful about that.

Together with the agencies, they bled dry the young dreamers who had come to Lardimore full of hope. If the dreamers had money, it was drained quickly. If they didn’t, the agency would lend it to them—for self-improvement.

Acting classes, body movement classes, etiquette and hosting courses…

By the time these kids were broke and deep in debt to the company, they’d be offered a different solution: spend the night with some investor, producer, or director.

Not only would it erase part of their debt, it might even land them a small role—even if it was just a background character.

That’s how so many once-passionate dreamers ended up as the same people you’d see advertised on sleazy little cards in Lardimore or Eminence phone booths.

In the second half of last year, Fox Pictures began production on a film about entrepreneurship. After their previous inspirational film became a hit, the studio quickly shifted focus.

They started pumping out motivational and startup-themed movies—films meant to lift spirits. For these, they needed fresh-faced, innocent-looking girls for various roles.

You couldn’t have sleazy, overly sexualized women playing schoolgirls in a campus drama. That would ruin the tone entirely.

During casting, the girl was lucky enough to be selected for one of the many minor roles.

That small opportunity allowed her to transfer her contract from her talent agency to Fox Pictures.

In her, Fox Jr. saw another Penny. In fact, in some ways, she had qualities even Penny didn’t.

Maybe she’d be useful one day. That was Fox Jr.’s thought—and he acted on it.

This kind of thing was common in Lardimore. It had practically become an unwritten rule. Big companies would keep a stable of girls—or even boys—to serve the powerful in exchange for support for their ventures.

Rumor had it that several federal presidents had attended such secret parties and had a great time—one of the reasons the practice remained widespread and deeply rooted.

Using a girl to build a bridge between two men didn’t cost much. There was no downside.

When the girl found out her target was Lynch, everything she had been holding onto suddenly didn’t feel so important.

At some point, everyone has to grow up—and learn to bow to reality.

Because once you grow up, fairy tales cease to exist.