37: Chapter 37 Flying to Nashville

On Friday morning, Alex sat in the interrogation room of the LAPD's West Los Angeles Division, facing Detective Chen Zhiming and a young policewoman responsible for the recording.

"So you're saying," Detective Chen Zhiming said, flipping through the report, "that Derek Winston, out of jealousy over your success in content creation, hired five men with criminal records to try and force you to give up your commercial partnerships and leave Los Angeles through threats of violence?"

"According to their conversation, yes," Alex replied calmly. The scratch on his left arm had mostly healed, leaving only a faint red line that could be easily explained away as a "minor abrasion."

The policewoman looked up at him, a hint of surprise in her eyes—the wound in yesterday's crime scene photos hadn't looked shallow at all.

"Have you studied self-defense?" Detective Chen Zhiming asked.

"I'm learning Krav Maga, six lessons in," Alex said truthfully. "The instructor is Mick Harris, a former employee of a military contractor. I can provide the gym's contact info if needed."

Detective Chen Zhiming nodded and made a note in the report. "Your reactions and handling of the situation were very professional. If it had been an average person in that situation, the outcome could have been much worse."

The statement took forty minutes. When it was over, Detective Chen Zhiming walked him out of the precinct building.

"The Winston family has already hired lawyers," Detective Chen Zhiming stopped at the door and lowered his voice. "They want to characterize this as a 'juvenile conflict' and 'attempted verbal threats' to try and suppress the charges of hiring someone to cause bodily harm."

Alex didn't say anything, waiting for him to continue.

"But you're in luck," Detective Chen Zhiming continued. "Two of those five thugs were on parole. Being at that warehouse violated their curfew, which is already a violation. Furthermore, we found records of Derek's transfers on the phone of the man with the facial scar—the amount wasn't large, but it's enough to prove an employment relationship."

"So?"

"So Derek Winston will face felony charges at the very least," Detective Chen Zhiming said. "His father's political opponents won't let this opportunity pass. You shouldn't be seeing him again for a short while."

Alex nodded. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me," Detective Chen Zhiming waved his hand. "Thank yourself—for reacting fast enough, for sending your location in advance, and for the... influential friends you know."

He gave Alex a meaningful look before turning to walk back into the precinct.

---

Upon returning to the apartment, the first thing Alex did was check all the doors and windows. Although Derek was in custody, the sense of vigilance brought by Environmental Perception Enhancement had not faded. He made simple marks with transparent tape on the inside of the door frames and the edges of the windowsills—if anyone tried to break in, these marks would be disturbed.

Then he opened his computer to handle the backlog of emails.

Horizon Outdoors had sent a formal draft contract, a full forty-seven pages long. He forwarded it to Attorney Li Zhiming with a note: "Please review this as soon as possible, focusing on intellectual property ownership and the profit-sharing terms."

Sponsorship invitations from RED and ARRI were side-by-side at the top of his inbox. He carefully compared the terms of the two: RED offered the latest camera kit worth over fifty thousand dollars but required exclusive content creation for the 'Survival Guide' series; ARRI's sponsorship was more flexible, providing rental credits and technical support without restricting him from creating other types of content.

He chose to take both—but not at the same time. He replied to RED, stating he would accept the sponsorship but requested the contract clearly state that 'the exclusivity clause can be re-evaluated based on actual conditions after six months.' His reply to ARRI was: "Thank you for the invitation. I plan to launch a new artistic short film project next quarter, and I hope to discuss cooperation possibilities with your company then."

This kind of balancing required skill: neither binding himself too early nor easily refusing. He wanted all partners to feel they were a priority, but not the only one.

After handling the business emails, he began packing his bags for Nashville.

Taylor's second invitation was more specific than the first: "My studio has a small screening room and recording booth. I want to try an improvisational collision between your visuals and my sound. Bring some material you find interesting—anything goes."

He brought three things:

1. An encrypted backup of the original project files for 'echo gallery'.

2. Some recently filmed 'urban fragments' video footage—no narrative, just pure light, shadow, and texture.

3. That vintage light meter. For some reason, he felt he should bring it.

At three in the afternoon, Sarah knocked on the door, holding a paper bag.

"Airplane food," she said, thrusting the bag at him. Inside were homemade sandwiches, fruit, and energy bars. "Don't tell me you're going to survive on the airline's rubbery chicken for two days."

Alex smiled. "Are you really raising me like a younger brother?"

"I'm just afraid you'll starve to death in Nashville and then no one will fix my Wi-Fi," Sarah curled her lip, but her eyes showed concern. "Lena told me about what happened yesterday. Are you really okay?"

"Really," Alex flexed his left arm. "Look, even the scar is almost gone."

Sarah stared at his arm for a few seconds, her brow furrowing slightly, but ultimately she said nothing. Her professional instinct as a nurse told her the wound's healing speed was abnormally fast, but she had also seen people with naturally strong recovery abilities.

"Take this with you." She pulled a small plastic box from her pocket containing a few white tablets. "Ibuprofen, for inflammation and pain. Just in case... you know, in case you get a headache or run into another 'little accident'."

Alex took the pill box, a wave of warmth rising in his heart. "Sarah, when I get back, I'll take you and your boyfriend out to dinner. Michelin star, your pick."

"Forget it, save the money from your treat to buy some good equipment," Sarah patted his shoulder. "But once you really become a big director, I want to be your private medical consultant. The salary can't be low."

"Deal."

---

On the way to the airport, Alex received a message from Lena.

"Derek has been suspended from school, pending the results of the police investigation. His father's office issued a statement saying they 'respect the judicial process and believe in their son's innocence'—typical political rhetoric. But I heard the Senator is under a lot of pressure; some within the party are already asking him to temporarily step down from several committees."

Alex replied: "Got it. Thanks."

"Are you really going to Nashville to see Taylor Swift?" Lena's next message carried the excitement of gossip. "My god, can you get an autograph for me? No, wait, never mind, that would be too unprofessional... but can you really get one?"

Alex smiled: "I'll try my best. But don't have too high expectations, this is for work."

"Work! 'Working' with Taylor Swift!" Lena sent a string of exclamation marks. "Alex, do you have any idea how ridiculous your life is right now?"

He knew.

Sometimes when he woke up late at night, he also felt like all of this was a dream: the rebirth, the system, the viral videos, the invitation from a superstar. But the faint scar on his arm reminded him that this world was equally real and cruel—there was malice like Derek's, there were knives swung in warehouses, and there were shadows that required constant vigilance.

So he was flying to Nashville, not because it was a dream, but because it was a part of reality. A shimmering reality that he had to seize.

---

Los Angeles International Airport, evening.

While Alex was in line at the security checkpoint, Environmental Perception Enhancement sent a faint sense of warning.

It wasn't a threat directed at him personally, but a more vague 'anomaly.' He slowed his pace and observed his surroundings with the corner of his eye.

Ahead in the line, a middle-aged man in an ill-fitting suit was arguing with a security officer. His voice grew louder, and his gestures more agitated. Alex noticed his right hand remained tucked inside his suit pocket, never coming out.

Other travelers began to back away uneasily. The security officer's expression also became tense.

Alex's brain worked at high speed. Neural Reaction Enhancement (Intermediate) allowed him to process multiple information streams simultaneously: the man's body language (tense, angry, unnatural), the surrounding environment (narrow security lane, fixed railings on both sides), and potential risks (the hand in the pocket might be gripping something).

He quietly moved to the side, positioning himself where he could both observe and react at any time. Knowledge from Basic Military Combat Techniques activated in his mind—if the other party pulled a weapon, which direction was the nearest cover? What was the fastest path to subdue him?

But things didn't escalate that far.

Two airport police officers approached quickly from the side and, before the man could react, pinned his arms from both sides. The pocket was turned out—inside was only an unopened bottle of mineral water and a crumpled boarding pass.

"Sir, please come with us," the officer's voice was calm but unquestionable.

A false alarm.

The line resumed flowing. By the time Alex passed through security, the man had been taken away, still shouting, "I'm just in a hurry!"

Sitting in the departure lounge, Alex recalled the scene just now. His reaction had been almost instinctive: assess the threat, plan a response, and prepare to act. This wasn't the mindset an ordinary eighteen-year-old boy should have, but in this world, it was a necessary survival skill.

The boarding announcement sounded.

He picked up his backpack and walked toward the gate. Passing a reflective glass pane, he caught a glimpse of his own reflection: an Asian youth in a casual suit carrying a canvas bag, looking no different from the other young travelers around him.

But the eyes in the glass held a calm and alertness far beyond his age.

---

As the plane took off, the lights of Los Angeles spread out below into a golden ocean.

Alex sat by the window, putting on his noise-canceling headphones. Instead of listening to music, he opened his laptop and began organizing his thoughts for this Nashville trip.

Taylor's invitation was very open: "do some improvisational collisions." This meant both infinite possibilities and a lack of clear goals. He needed to prepare enough "creative fuel," but without being too deliberate.

He clicked on a folder containing the "sound materials" he had recently collected—not music, but urban ambient sounds: the roar of a passing subway, the clinking of cups and plates in a cafe, snippets of a street performer's saxophone, the rhythm of raindrops hitting a fire escape.

These sounds had no melody themselves, but combined, they could become a unique "urban soundscape."

Then he opened a second folder, containing those "urban fragments" videos he had filmed: neon reflections on wet pavement, faces flashing past in subway windows, the vibrant colors of vegetables in a morning market, the last rays of sunlight reflecting off the glass curtain wall of an office building at dusk.

Images and sound. Visual and auditory.

If he handed these elements to Taylor, how would she respond? What would a musician who had created countless hits hear from these raw materials?

Alex didn't know the answer. But he looked forward to seeing the process.

The plane climbed to cruising altitude, leaving only a sea of clouds and the deep blue night sky outside the window.

He closed his computer, leaned back in his seat, and closed his eyes. Deep in his consciousness, the system interface quietly emerged.

After the viral success of yesterday's video and the aftermath of the warehouse incident, his fame had seen another significant surge. The numbers were approaching an important threshold—enough to exchange for the [Comprehensive Physical Enhancement (Basic)] that he had been eyeing for a long time.

Description: Comprehensively improves basic physical qualities (strength, endurance, agility, recovery). The effect is mild but holistic. Exchange requires 120,000 Fame Points.

This was a milestone exchange. Unlike previous enhancements targeting specific abilities, this was a global upgrade. In the current moment, facing more complex challenges, this might be the most pragmatic choice.

But he hesitated.

It wasn't that he was unwilling to spend the fame points, but he was considering the timing. If his body underwent obvious changes while in Nashville (a sudden increase in strength or a significant boost in endurance), it might draw attention. Although it could be explained as the "result of consistent exercise," in front of an observer as keen as Taylor, any anomaly could be magnified.

He decided to wait. Wait until he returned to Los Angeles, until there was enough time for the changes to "happen naturally."

Exiting the system interface, he looked out the window.

Above the clouds, the stars were clearly visible. Without the interference of urban light pollution, the Milky Way spanned the heavens like a faint, milky-white ribbon.

He thought of his past life, his final moments in a hospital bed. Back then, the sky was cut into small squares by the hospital window, and even stars were rarely seen.

And now, he was on a plane to Nashville, with a copy of a handwritten card from Taylor Allison in his pocket, a sponsorship contract for tens of thousands of dollars' worth of photography equipment in his backpack, and a system capable of granting extraordinary power sleeping within his body.

Fate truly is a strange thing.

A flight attendant passed by with the beverage cart, and he ordered a glass of water. While drinking, he noticed a familiar figure in a seat diagonally ahead—not an acquaintance, but one of the five thugs from the warehouse yesterday, the burly man whose attack he had parried with an oil drum lid.

The other man also saw him, his eyes instantly filling with terror. He quickly turned his head away, shrinking into his seat.

Alex calmly looked away.

It's a small world. Or rather, Los Angeles is small.

But that person clearly posed no threat—when the police took them away yesterday, Alex had heard Detective Chen Zhiming mention that they'd be "going back for at least six months for violating parole."

The plane hit a slight patch of turbulence, and the captain's announcement reminded everyone to fasten their seatbelts.

Alex pulled his thoughts back and looked ahead.

Nashville, the Music City, Taylor's creative base.

What would be waiting for him there? New cooperation opportunities? Deeper artistic exploration? Or completely unexpected challenges?

He didn't know.

But he knew that whatever it was, he was ready—with the abilities granted by the system, with the skills he had honed, and with the wisdom he had learned in Los Angeles on how to survive and thrive in America.

The plane began its descent, the cloud layer gradually thinning.

Below, the lights of Nashville began to appear, sparser than Los Angeles's but just as warm.

Alex took a deep breath and adjusted his sitting position.

Ready.

To collide, to create, and on this larger stage, to make his own voice heard.