Allen stepped out of his apartment building into the cool morning air, squinting up at the Hollywood skyline. The streets were already bustling with people, cars honking, and the distant hum of life trying to make it in this chaotic city. He took a deep breath, the smell of car exhaust mixing with the faint aroma of street food vendors setting up their carts.
He glanced at the demo in his hand, a simple USB stick holding his first recorded song in this new life. It was rough, recorded with nothing but his phone's microphone, but it was the best he could do with the limited resources he had. He stared down at it, the weight of it feeling much heavier than its actual physical mass.
"Alright, Allen," he muttered under his breath, pocketing the demo. "Step two: find a producer. How hard can that be?"
The reality was, it was going to be harder than he wanted to admit. This wasn't a movie where he'd accidentally bump into a big-shot producer at a coffee shop, charm them with his wit, and land a record deal on the spot. He didn't know any producers, didn't have any industry connections, and didn't exactly have the charisma of a seasoned rock star yet.
Still, Hollywood was the land of dreams, right? Surely there had to be someone out there willing to give a nobody like him a chance.
He started walking down the street, heading toward a cluster of music venues and recording studios he'd seen on his first day here. The sidewalks were filled with aspiring actors, street musicians, and people who looked like they'd stepped right out of a fashion magazine. Everyone had a goal. Everyone was trying to make it. Allen couldn't help but wonder how many of them were on the verge of giving up, just like he had been before Phanes had given him this second chance.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Pulling it out, he saw a notification from the system.
"Reminder: Quest: Record a Demo. Status: Completed. New Quest Available."
Allen raised an eyebrow. "Another one already? Okay, let's see what you've got for me."
The system screen flashed up, showing the details of his next quest.
"Quest: Secure a Meeting with a Music Producer
Objective: Submit your demo to a professional music producer and secure a meeting.
Reward: 750 Showbiz Points, 400 dollars."
"Submit a demo and get a meeting?" Allen muttered. "Sure, why not. And after that, I'll just solve world hunger while I'm at it."
He shook his head, laughing at the absurdity of it all. But the reality was, he didn't have any other options. If he wanted to make rent and not end up back on the streets, he had to push forward. Besides, there was something thrilling about it too. This was Hollywood—anything could happen, right?
Allen kept walking, his eyes scanning the buildings and storefronts. He passed a record store, its window display full of vinyl records and vintage posters, but it wasn't what he needed. Then, just up ahead, he spotted it: a small, nondescript door with a sign that read "Soundwave Studios." Bingo.
It wasn't the flashiest building, but it had that grungy, underground vibe that Allen imagined a real producer might operate out of. Maybe this was it, his first real shot.
He took a deep breath, trying to calm the nerves that had started twisting his stomach into knots. "Here goes nothing," he said to himself, stepping up to the door.
Inside, the studio was surprisingly well-kept. A small waiting area was decorated with framed photos of musicians Allen didn't recognize, but they all looked serious, focused, like they were deep in the process of creating something real. The air was filled with a faint, lingering scent of coffee and something vaguely floral. A young woman sat behind a desk, typing away on a computer, her attention completely absorbed by whatever was on the screen in front of her.
Allen cleared his throat. "Uh, hi. I was wondering if I could speak to someone about submitting a demo?"
The woman glanced up, giving him a quick once-over before offering a polite but somewhat tired smile. "Do you have an appointment?"
"Well, no," Allen admitted. "But I was hoping to, you know, drop this off and maybe schedule one?"
She gave him a slightly amused look, as if she'd heard this same line a thousand times before. "Who's the demo for?"
"Honestly, anyone who will listen," Allen said, chuckling awkwardly. "I'm new in town and just trying to get my music out there."
The woman's smile softened a little, but she still looked skeptical. "Look, we get a lot of walk-ins. Most of them don't go anywhere. But I'll tell you what—if you leave your demo with me, I'll make sure it gets passed on. No promises, but it's better than nothing, right?"
Allen nodded, trying not to let his disappointment show. "Yeah, that works. Thanks."
He handed her the USB stick, feeling a pang of nervousness as it left his hand. This was it, his first real attempt to get his music into the hands of someone who could do something with it. It felt… underwhelming.
"Do you have a name?" the woman asked, taking a pen from the desk.
"Oh, right. Allen Rice."
She scribbled it down on a small post-it note and stuck it onto the USB. "Got it. We'll call if there's any interest."
Allen smiled, even though her tone didn't exactly scream optimism. "Thanks. I appreciate it."
As he turned to leave, he caught a glimpse of a guy walking out of one of the back rooms. He was tall, with messy blond hair and a slightly disheveled look, like he hadn't slept in days. His shirt was wrinkled, and he carried a coffee cup that looked like it was keeping him alive. There was something about him that screamed "producer," and Allen's instincts kicked in.
Before he knew what he was doing, Allen blurted out, "Hey, are you a producer?"
The guy looked up, startled, and blinked at Allen. "Uh… yeah? Who's asking?"
Allen stepped forward, trying to ignore the nervous flutter in his chest. "I'm Allen. I just dropped off a demo here. It'd be great if you could check it out."
The guy raised an eyebrow, looking Allen up and down. "You're one of those walk-ins, huh?"
"Guilty," Allen admitted with a grin. "But I'm telling you, it's worth a listen."
The guy sipped his coffee, clearly weighing his options. Finally, he sighed. "Alright, I'll bite. What kind of music are we talking?"
"Acoustic, singer-songwriter vibe," Allen said. "Think a mix of early Ed Sheeran and… I don't know, maybe Damien Rice."
The guy snorted. "You just threw two completely different names at me, man."
Allen chuckled. "I know. I'm a work in progress."
The producer—at least, Allen assumed he was—took another sip of his coffee, staring at him like he was trying to figure out if this was worth his time. Then, to Allen's surprise, the guy shrugged.
"Okay. I'll give it a listen. Name's Kyle, by the way."
"Kyle," Allen repeated, feeling a surge of hope. "Thank you, seriously. I won't let you down."
Kyle waved him off, already turning back toward the studio rooms. "Don't make any promises, kid. Just focus on making good music."
Allen nodded, watching as Kyle disappeared into the back. He stood there for a moment, processing what had just happened. He'd actually managed to get a producer—an actual producer—to agree to listen to his demo. It was a small victory, but in a place like Hollywood, small victories were everything.
Feeling a little lighter on his feet, Allen left the studio and stepped back out into the sunlight. The street was just as busy as before, filled with people chasing their own dreams, but for the first time since arriving in this city, Allen felt like he was finally moving in the right direction.
He pulled out his phone, glancing at the system screen once again.
"Quest Progress: Submit your demo to a professional music producer: Completed."
"Reward: 750 Showbiz Points, 400 dollars."
"Not bad, not bad," Allen muttered to himself, grinning.
He still had a long way to go—finding his footing in the music industry, securing more gigs, and of course, making that rent deadline. But at least now, he had something to show for his efforts. He'd taken the first real step, and while it wasn't a sure thing, it was something. For a guy like Allen, that was enough to keep going.
And as he walked down the bustling streets of Hollywood, guitar slung over his shoulder and a few dollars in his pocket, he couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, this crazy new life was going to work out after all.