Transmigrated as a Scumbag!?

Chapter 005

The red carpet of the 30th Annual Golden Screen Awards was a masterclass in manufactured reality. Under the searing glare of the klieg lights, the torrential rain that had soaked the city streets seemed to vanish, repelled by a canopy of clear, reinforced structural tents. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, ozone from the flashbulbs, and the desperate, electric hum of human vanity.

Ethan Gray stepped beyond the police barricades. The rain dripped from his black umbrella as he handed it to a bewildered valet. He smoothed the lapels of his midnight-blue tuxedo, his face an impenetrable mask of pale marble.

He walked onto the crimson velvet.

Normally, a nominee for Best Original Screenplay—especially the writer of the year’s most critically acclaimed indie darling—would be swarmed by reporters from E! News, Variety, and Vanity Fair. Microphones would be thrust into his face, asking about his inspiration, his tailor, and his expectations for the night.

But as Ethan walked down the carpet, a chilling, orchestrated silence fell over the press pen.

Photographers lowered their lenses. Reporters suddenly found themselves deeply engrossed in their notes or looking past him to shout the name of a supporting actress stepping out of a limousine fifty yards behind him. The Rowan Trust’s PR machine had done its work with terrifying efficiency. The directive had been sent out: Ethan Gray is a non-entity. Do not photograph. Do not interview. Do not acknowledge.

Ethan walked through the invisible corridor of their deliberate ignorance. He didn't rush, and he didn't cast his eyes downward. He walked with the measured, predatory grace of a ghost haunting its own wake. He analyzed the averted eyes of the journalists, categorizing their fear. They weren't ignoring him out of malice; they were ignoring him because their mortgages, their access to future premieres, and their very livelihoods depended on obeying the invisible hand of capital.

This is the ecosystem, Ethan thought, his mind processing the data with cold, detached precision. They are not artists or truth-tellers. They are employees of a monopoly. He reached the gilded entrance of the Grand Theatre and stepped into the sprawling, multi-tiered lobby. The space was a riot of Art Deco gold leaf, crystal chandeliers, and the elite of the global entertainment industry sipping champagne.

"Ethan."

The voice was smooth, carrying the unmistakable, reedy arrogance of a man who had never been told 'no' in his entire life.

Ethan turned slowly. Standing near a towering ice sculpture of the Golden Screen logo was Roman Rowan. He was flanked by Caldwell, the sweating producer from Apex Pictures, and two broad-shouldered men who looked less like publicists and more like private security.

Roman was wearing a tuxedo that was arguably more expensive than Ethan’s, but he wore it poorly. He slouched, relying on the sheer gravity of his father’s wealth to give him presence.

"I have to admit, I’m genuinely surprised you showed up," Roman said, swirling the champagne in his crystal flute. He offered a smile that was all teeth and zero warmth. "Arthur thought you’d be halfway to Europe by now, l*****g your wounds. Or at least huddled in your apartment, drafting a manifesto."

Caldwell looked away, unable to meet Ethan’s eyes. He stared intensely at a tray of caviar canapés passing by.

Ethan didn't blink. He looked at Roman, stripping away the designer suit, the inherited wealth, and the stolen glory, reducing the man to a simple, pathetic equation.

"I wouldn't miss this, Roman," Ethan said, his voice dropping the ambient temperature of the space around them. "I wanted to be here to witness the transaction in person."

Roman’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. "Transaction?"

"You didn't write a script, and you didn't win an award," Ethan said, his tone utterly devoid of anger. It was an autopsy report delivered to the corpse. "Your father purchased a fifty-million-dollar paperweight to soothe his son’s crippling imposter syndrome. I’m here to watch the receipt being printed."

Roman’s face flushed a dull, ugly red. He took a step forward, the liquid sloshing in his glass. "You arrogant prick. You have nothing. Your movie doesn't exist. Your bank accounts are locked. You are functionally dead in this town. You think you can stand here and insult me?"

"I am not insulting you, Roman. I am defining you," Ethan replied smoothly. He glanced past Roman’s shoulder and saw Arthur Sterling standing on the mezzanine balcony, looking down at them like a patrician emperor observing the gladiatorial pits.

Ethan locked eyes with Roman again. "Enjoy the stage tonight. Hold the trophy high. Because every time you look at it on your mantle, you won't see your own talent. You’ll see me. You’ll remember that you had to buy the entire ocean just to drown a single man."

Without waiting for a response, Ethan turned and walked away, leaving Roman vibrating with a sudden, deeply insecure rage. Caldwell finally looked up, watching Ethan’s retreating back with a mixture of profound relief and quiet terror.

Ethan found the bar. He didn't order champagne. He ordered a double measure of the oldest, strongest bourbon they had, neat. He drank it in a single, smooth motion, feeling the liquid fire burn down his throat.

He needed to numb the hyper-vigilance of his Enneagram-5 brain. His intellect, usually his greatest weapon, was currently torturing him. It was dissecting the micro-expressions of everyone in the room, calculating the precise vectors of their hypocrisy, and running endless, agonizing simulations of how he could have outmaneuvered the Rowan Trust if he had only possessed a fraction of their capital.

He ordered another double. He drank it just as fast.

A chime echoed through the lobby, signaling the attendees to take their seats.

Ethan made his way into the cavernous auditorium. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of expensive cologne, floor wax, and the palpable tension of hundreds of egos confined in a single space.

He found Row G, Seat 12. It was a prime location, close enough to the stage to see the individual beads of sweat on the presenters' foreheads. He sat down in the velvet-covered chair. The seat next to him—which should have been occupied by his lead actor or his distributor—was conspicuously empty. A subtle quarantine enforced by the ushers.

The ceremony began.

For the next three hours, Ethan sat rigidly in his seat. The alcohol was beginning to flood his system, blurring the sharp edges of his vision, but his mind refused to shut down. He watched the parade of fabricated humility. He watched actors cry on cue, directors thank god for box office receipts, and executives applaud the very artistic risks they had actively tried to kill in development.

It was a circus of the absurd, and he was the only one who could see the strings attached to the puppets.

He felt a deep, structural shift occurring within his soul. The trauma of the last three days, combined with the toxic atmosphere of the auditorium and the sheer volume of high-proof alcohol coursing through his veins, was inducing a profound state of dissociation.

Never again, his internal voice whispered, a dark, unbreakable vow echoing in the cavern of his mind. If I survive this, if I ever write another word, I will never play by their rules. I will hide my strength. I will wear a mask of mediocrity. I will over-prepare for the smallest threat. I will treat a slime like a dragon, and I will treat the gods like monsters.

It was the birth of the "Prudent Hero." The genesis of a man who would eventually transmigrate into a world of 8.0-rated mediocrity and tear it apart from the shadows.

The ceremony dragged on. The lights from the stage seemed to grow overwhelmingly bright, piercing his retinas. His heart began to pound a frantic, irregular rhythm against his ribs. The physical toll of seventy-two hours of acute psychological stress, sleep deprivation, and excessive alcohol consumption was culminating in a catastrophic physiological failure.

He felt a cold sweat break out across his forehead. His right hand trembled.

"And now, for the final writing award of the evening," a famous, aging actress announced from the podium, adjusting her diamond necklace.

Ethan’s breath caught in his throat. He reached into the pocket of his bespoke tuxedo. His fingers brushed against the crisp edge of the folded paper—the acceptance speech he had spent three hours refining. He gripped it tightly, anchoring himself to the physical world as the edges of his vision began to tunnel into darkness.

"The nominees for Best Original Screenplay are..."

The massive screens flanking the stage flashed with clips. They showed the bloated, CGI-heavy finale of Starfall Protocol. They showed three other films.

They did not show The Last Echo.

They showed Ethan’s name on a blank, black background. A silent, brutal erasure broadcast to twenty million viewers.

The actress on stage smiled, her eyes crinkling. She was handed a sealed golden envelope. She didn't know the politics; she was just reading a card.

Ethan’s chest tightened painfully. It felt as though an invisible, crushing weight had been dropped onto his sternum. The noise of the auditorium—the coughing, the rustling of silk, the low murmurs—faded into a high-pitched, electronic ringing in his ears.

His consciousness was slipping. The tether connecting his brilliant mind to his failing body was fraying, snapping thread by thread. He was dying, not from a bullet or a blade, but from the absolute, crushing weight of a world that refused to let logic win.

The actress slid her perfectly manicured finger under the seal of the envelope.

Ethan stared at the stage, his eyes burning, his vision swimming in a sea of gold and black. He waited for the final nail in the coffin. He waited for the name that would kill his past life forever.

"And the winner for Best Original Screenplay at the 30th Annual Golden Screen Awards is..."