From American Internet Celebrity to God Among Men

33: Chapter 33 Nashville NightsWhen the plane landed at Nashville International Airport, the setting sun was painting the sky in a gradient of orange-red and violet.

Alex stepped out of the terminal with his simple luggage and, following the text message instructions, found the black Lincoln Navigator. The driver was a white man in his fifties, wearing a dark polo shirt, polite and silent, only saying ”Welcome to Nashville” after confirming his identity.

The car drove away from the airport, passing through the city lights that were gradually turning on. Unlike the ostentatious nature of Los Angeles, the night in Nashville had a quiet sense of rhythm—neon signs of music bars flowed along both sides of the street, and occasionally, one could hear the strumming of guitars and singing drifting from a slightly opened bar door.

Forty minutes later, the car turned into a tree-lined residential street and finally stopped in front of a detached house with a wide front porch and warm yellow lights. The house looked like it had some years on it, with wooden exterior walls painted dark gray-blue, and blooming begonias placed on the windowsill.

”Ms. Allison is waiting for you.” The driver opened the door for him.

Alex took a deep breath, adjusted the canvas bag on his shoulder, and stepped onto the gravel path.

The door opened as he approached. It wasn’t Taylor who opened it, but a short-haired woman in her thirties, wearing a plaid shirt and jeans, with a kind smile: ”Alex? I’m Kelly, one of Taylor’s creative partners. Come on in.”

The interior was a mix of styles typical of a musician’s home. Hardwood floors, high ceilings, and various musical instruments and abstract paintings hanging on the walls. On one side of the living room stood a Steinway grand piano, and on the other was a long table piled with sheet music and notes. The air was filled with the faint scent of scented candles, as well as the subtle aroma of old books and pine.

There were already three or four people in the living room, sitting in the sofa area talking in low voices. Alex spotted Taylor at a glance.

She was sitting in a single armchair by the window, wearing a light gray knit cardigan and dark jeans, her blonde hair tied back casually, no makeup. Unlike the radiant superstar image on stage, she looked more like an exhausted but focused creator at this moment. She was holding a printed sheet of music, marking something on it with a pencil.

Hearing footsteps, she looked up.

At that moment, Alex felt a resonance like an electric current—not the system’s notification sound, but a more primitive, creative intuition. Crisis Intuition gave no warning; instead, it was replaced by a strange sense of calm, as if all frequencies in this space were perfectly aligned.

”Alex.” Taylor put down the sheet music, stood up, and offered a sincere but understated smile, ”I’m glad you could come.”

Her hand was warm and firm, and the handshake lasted half a second longer than social etiquette required, as if confirming something.

”Thank you for the invitation, Ms. Allison.” Alex maintained a proper polite distance.

”Just call me Taylor, there’s no ’Ms.’ here.” She gestured for him to sit on the adjacent sofa, ”Would you like something to drink? Coffee, tea, or our Nashville specialty sweet tea?”

”Water is fine.”

Kelly quickly brought over a glass of ice water. The others—Alex recognized one of them as Taylor’s long-term producer Jack—also nodded politely in greeting. The atmosphere was relaxed but professional, without unnecessary small talk.

”I’ve watched ’echo gallery’.” Taylor sat back down, her gaze direct and focused, ”Three times. The first time was to watch the overall narrative, the second time was to watch the lens language and rhythm, and the third time... I was looking at the things you didn’t say.”

Alex felt his back tense slightly. This wasn’t polite conversation; this was a peer deconstructing his work.

”For example, that long take in the subway station.” Taylor continued, ”You let the camera follow the protagonist through the crowd, but the focus remained on the faces flashing by in the background. The expressions and movements of those faces—everyone has their own story, but they were just background noise in the protagonist’s world. This treatment... is cruel, but very real.”

She paused, her eyes becoming sharper: ”I want to know, what were you thinking when you shot that scene?”

This was not a question about technology or inspiration. This was a question about creative philosophy.

Alex was silent for a few seconds, choosing to be honest: ”I was thinking that we are all the protagonists of our own stories, but at the same time, we are background noise in someone else’s story. This sense of dislocation... sometimes makes people feel lonely, but sometimes it makes people feel free.”

The living room was silent for a moment.

Taylor’s eyes lit up—that was the light of a creator finding resonance.

”Yes.” She said softly, ”That’s it. You buried a lot of things like that in your work—those ’echoes’, not just the sounds of space, but also those frequencies between people that cannot be fully synchronized.”

For the next hour and a half, the conversation was completely immersed in the world of creation. Taylor took out drafts of lyrics from the new album she was working on, exploring the theme of ”how memory distorts time”; Alex shared the design ideas for several key scenes in ’echo gallery’, as well as how he used sound design to enhance the emotional layers of the space.

The others joined the discussion as well, and the atmosphere was lively but pure. No one mentioned commercial cooperation, no one mentioned promotional plans; they were just talking about ”how to better express those things that are hard to put into words.”

Alex gradually relaxed. Neural Reaction Enhancement made his thinking exceptionally clear, allowing him to process Taylor’s questions, observe others’ reactions, and organize precise language to respond simultaneously. He noticed that Taylor would unconsciously tap her fingers on her knees when she heard certain viewpoints; that was her habit when excited. Producer Jack nodded thoughtfully when he mentioned a specific chord progression.

This was a completely different kind of ”battle”—not confrontation, but resonance. And Alex found himself enjoying it.

Around nine o’clock in the evening, Kelly brought a simple dinner: roasted vegetables, chicken salad, and fresh bread. Everyone moved to the long table in the dining room, and the conversation became more relaxed.

”So you really completed the entire post-production of ’echo gallery’ by yourself?” Jack asked curiously while spreading butter on bread, ”Including the ambient sound design for that subway station? That sounded like it processed at least a hundred tracks.”

”Most of it.” Alex said, cutting his salad, ”Some complex mixing work was done with the help of a friend at Berklee College of Music remotely, but the design and editing were done by myself.”

”Unbelievable.” Jack shook his head, ”Did you study film?”

”Self-taught.” Alex said, ”Watched a lot of movies, deconstructed a lot of music videos, and then... just kept shooting, kept editing, kept failing.”

This sentence made Taylor look up. She looked at him for a while, then suddenly asked: ”How old are you, Alex?”

”Eighteen. Nineteen in two months.”

There was a brief silence at the dining table. Everyone else present was at least ten years older than her, and the maturity and professional understanding Alex displayed made it easy for people to forget his actual age.

”Eighteen.” Taylor repeated softly, then smiled. There was something complex in that smile, ”When I was eighteen, I was still struggling to convince the record label people that I could write songs.”

”You proved them wrong.” Alex said.

”Yes.” Taylor looked him straight in the eyes, ”But you don’t need to prove it to anyone; you’ve already done it.”

This sentence felt like some kind of recognition, and also like some kind of expectation. Alex felt something vibrate gently in his chest.

After dinner, others left one after another. Kelly stayed to help clean up, and Taylor invited Alex to sit in the backyard.

The backyard was more spacious than expected, with a small fire pit and a few Adirondack chairs around it. The night air was cool, carrying the scent of grass and the faint sound of music from afar. You could see stars in the Nashville sky; although not as clear as in rural areas, it was much brighter than in Los Angeles.

”Sit.” Taylor lit the gas flame in the fire pit, and the orange-yellow light flickered, casting warm shadows on her face.

Alex sat in the chair opposite her, waiting for her to speak.

”’echo gallery’ reminds me of when I first started creating.” Taylor’s voice was exceptionally clear in the night, ”That kind of... urge to record the sound in a corner of my heart. Back then, I didn’t care if anyone was listening, didn’t care if it would be successful; I just had to make it.”

She paused, the flames dancing in her pupils: ”But now, sometimes I sit in the recording studio for hours, and what I write is perfect, technically impeccable, but it lacks that ’must-do’ feeling. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

”Perfection is the graveyard of creation.” Alex said.

Taylor looked at him sharply.

”I read an interview,” Alex explained, ”said by an old painter. He said that when he was young, every stroke was an adventure, and the painting was full of vitality but also full of mistakes; when he was old, his technique was superb, and every stroke was precise, but the painting was dead.”

”That’s it.” Taylor said softly, leaning forward slightly, ” ’echo gallery’ is not perfect. Some transitions could actually be smoother, the entry of one piece of music was slightly abrupt by 0.5 seconds, the black screen at the end was left too long—by textbook standards, these are all ’problems’.”

She paused, the light of the flames dancing on her face: ”But it is precisely these imperfections that make it alive. It’s like a person, with breath, with a heartbeat, with those unsmooth but real pauses.”

Alex didn’t speak. He knew the main point was coming next.

”Allison told me that you rejected all offers to buy out the copyright of ’echo gallery’.” Taylor looked into his eyes, ”Why?”

”Because it’s not a commodity.” Alex said, ”At least not yet. It’s a milestone on my creative path, and I want to keep it in its most original form, even if that means earning a lot less money.”

Taylor stared at him for a long time. The campfire crackled, and a faint train whistle came from afar.

”I want to collaborate with you.” She finally said.

Not ”I want to sign you”, not ”I want to buy your work”, but ”collaborate”.

Alex felt his heartbeat skip a beat.

”My next album...” Taylor weighed her words, ”I want to try something different. Not just the music itself, but the whole way of expression. Music videos, visual art, maybe even narrative extensions in the form of short films. I’m looking for a collaborator who can understand my ideas but isn’t completely bound by my style.”

She looked at Alex: ”After watching ’echo gallery’, I think you might be that person.”

”I’m just a creator who is just starting out.” Alex remained calm, ”You have many more senior and resourceful collaborators to choose from.”

”Yes.” Taylor nodded, ”But they know too well what ’Taylor Swift’ is supposed to look like. They can make something one hundred percent perfect for ’Taylor Swift’, but they can’t give that ’must-do’ feeling.”

She stood up, walked to the side of the fire pit, and reached out to feel the temperature of the flames: ”I need someone who can remind me of myself at eighteen. Someone who still cares about ’must’, not just ’should’.”

Alex also stood up. The night wind blew by, bringing the sound of blues guitar from a bar in the distance.

”I need time to think.” He said, ”And I must be honest, my current capabilities and resources are limited. If we collaborate, I need a process of learning and adapting.”

This answer made Taylor smile—that was the most relaxed smile of the evening.

”Good.” She said, ”That’s the answer I wanted—not rushing to seize the opportunity, but seriously considering whether you can do it well. I’ll give you time.”

She walked back to the chair and took a business card out of her pocket. It wasn’t a beautifully printed commercial business card, but a handwritten card with only an email address and a line of text:

”When you have an idea.”

Alex took the card, his fingertips feeling the texture of the paper and the slight bump of the ink.

”Thank you.” He said.

”No, thank you.” Taylor looked into his eyes, ”Thank you for making ’echo gallery’, and reminding me of some things I almost forgot.”

In the car on the way back, Alex leaned against the back seat, watching the passing night view of Nashville outside the window. The card in his hand could not be seen clearly in the darkness, but he could feel its existence.

This meeting exceeded his expectations. It was not a business negotiation, not an exchange of resources, but a real dialogue between creators. What Taylor Allison valued was not how much traffic or technology he could bring, but the primitive, un-commercially tamed creative impulse in his work.

This was more dangerous than he expected, and also more precious.

His phone vibrated; it was a message from Lena: ”That post on the campus forum was deleted. The administrator said it was ’unsubstantiated’. But Derek and his group got drunk at the party today and said, ’There are plenty of ways to make people who stick their heads out shrink back.’ When are you coming back?”

Alex replied: ”Tomorrow. Everything is normal, don’t worry.”

Just after sending it, another new message popped up. It was Eric, the Eric from the Reality Maze:

”Can you come to the lab tomorrow afternoon? The prototype has made breakthrough progress. We captured the first measurable signal of ’reality disturbance’—it has similarities to the pattern of your video data fluctuations. We need to talk.”

Two messages, two worlds.

One is a real threat lurking in the shadows.

One is an unknown possibility unfolding in cutting-edge technology.

And between the two, there is the handwritten card handed over by Taylor Allison, and the conversation by the campfire about ”must” and ”should”.

Alex closed his eyes, letting all information settle in his mind.

Neural Reaction Enhancement allowed his thinking to process these clues like a precision instrument: Derek’s threat requires a more systematic response strategy and cannot always be passive defense; Eric’s project may be a brand-new opportunity, but it may also be another kind of risk; the collaboration invitation from Taylor is the most important fork in his artistic path.

And all of this requires a more solid foundation: more popularity, stronger capabilities, and more unshakable creative strength.

The car drove onto the airport expressway, and the lights of Nashville gradually moved away in the rear.

The plane would take off in two hours, taking him back to Los Angeles, back to that battlefield full of opportunities and dangers.

Alex opened his eyes and looked at the flashing streetlights outside the car window.

He remembered the expression on Taylor’s face when she said ”eighteen”, remembered how the campfire danced in the night, and remembered the card with only an email address.

Then, he thought of his true age—the soul from 2025, Su Zhe who lost everything in a hospital bed.

This time, he wouldn’t let anything be taken away.

Wouldn’t let the malice of the likes of Derek succeed.

Wouldn’t let the opportunity slip through his fingers.

Wouldn’t forget that feeling of ”must” create.

As the plane rushed into the clouds, Alex typed a new line in his phone memo:

”Next step: improve creative efficiency, establish safety boundaries, and prepare to welcome a bigger stage.”

And deep in his consciousness, the system interface floated quietly. The popularity value was growing slowly but firmly, and those redeemed abilities were like sleeping weapons, waiting for the moment to be awakened.

The night in Nashville was over.

But the real creation had just begun.