CHAPTER 190: CHAPTER 189: REAL LA

After leaving the boutique, Rex glanced at the time.

Still hours to kill before the party. Now what could be done to kill the time?

He glanced around.

The sun was high, the lazy California breeze brushing past just right, and the mood? Even better—especially after playing around with Seraphina. There was something oddly satisfying about getting under the skin of serious people. Maybe it was a hidden talent. Or maybe he was just mildly evil. Who’s to say?

They always say your mood is influenced by the people you’re with.

And maybe that was true.

Around Elara, everything felt soft. Peaceful. Down to earth. Like some peaceful forest spirit had crawled into his system and muted all the noise. She was calm without trying. Soft-spoken, shy—but not weak. More like... steady.

Daisy? She made the world feel curated. She always has this air of luxury and elegance, like being around her automatically upgrades your credit score.And every step felt like a walk down a museum hallway. Even if she wasn’t trying, her presence just brought this natural grace, like she belonged in a luxury ad, sipping espresso while managing stock portfolios.

But around Seraphina?

He couldn’t help grinning to himself.

Around her, he couldn’t help turning into a menace.

He couldn’t help it. It was like some automatic mischief switch flipped. Maybe it was her eternally serious expression, the way she always acted like a goddess descending from the runway who had no time for fools. Or maybe it was the contrast—his chaos against her control. Oil and fire.

He couldn’t help but play the around just to watch her snap, sigh, or—on rare occasion—almost smile.

Whatever it was, teasing her was just... fun.

"Hmm... what now?" he muttered, stretching a little as he reached his car.

Groan~

His groaning stomach gave the answer in an instant.

Okay. Lunch first, obviously. Man’s gotta eat first to do anything else.

He drove around, keeping an eye on the road side and somehow soon, ended up at this cozy little retro diner nestled between palm trees and an art deco storefront, he passed on the way. One of those old-school with neon signs, chrome details, and oldies playing through a crackling jukebox that probably hadn’t been touched since the early 2000s. The place had a vibe, like a real vibe, the kind we always see in Hollywood Classics with red leather booths, laminated menus, and it was this vibe that attracted him.

Sitting at a table by the window, Rex leaned back in his seat, one arm casually draped over the chair, watching the soft afternoon light spill in through the glass. Outside, palm trees swayed like they were vibing to a beat only they could hear, and the city moved in its usual slow, sun-soaked rhythm.

And in front of him?

The good stuff.

A golden, buttery steak and eggs—the steak perfectly seared, edges just crisp enough, eggs done sunny-side-up like they were posing for a magazine.

On the side, crispy sourdough toast, slightly charred at the edges, still warm, and a tiny mountain of hash browns, golden and stacked like edible treasure.

Simple. Classic. Satisfying.

The kind of meal that didn’t try too hard but hit all the right spots.

He sliced into the steak with ease, the knife gliding through like butter. The aroma hit first—rich, savory, just the right amount of char. He paired it with a forkful of runny yolk and crispy hash browns.

Absolute perfection.

The kind of taste you expect when the vibe is right—but rarely get. But then again, there’s a reason these old-school diners, the kind that feel like they belong in a VHS tape from the ’80s or ’90s, still exist.

And it’s not nostalgia.

It’s because their food is phenomenal. No frills, no fusion nonsense—just solid, honest cooking that hits all the right spots.

In an industry where more than 90% of new places get eliminated in their first year, spots like this?

They would’ve been weeded out a long time ago if they didn’t deliver.

It’s always survival of the tastiest.

He glanced outside again, chewing slowly, letting the moment stretch.

Sitting by the window, he watched LA move.

The city was doing its thing—Palm trees swayed lazily in the sun. People passed by—joggers, tourists, dog walkers with tiny yappy things that didn’t look like they should exist. Cars honked in the distance, someone skated past doing a shaky kickflip, and two guys argued passionately about films at the next booth like their lives depended on it.

Yeah. This was real LA.

Not the polished, photo-ready LA you see in magazines—but the warm, weird, lived-in one. Full of dreamers, eccentrics, lowkey chaos, and sunlight that made everything feel a bit cinematic.

Once his plate was wiped clean, he stepped back out and just... wandered.

And just before you start bashing him. Of course, he gave a tip, because the food and service was genuinely good not just because they are entitled.

So, after stuffing himself like a decent human, he roamed around LA for a bit. Not the shiny Hollywood stuff, but the real LA.

He didn’t have a destination. Just walked aimlessly.

Passed by old record stores still clinging to life with handwritten sale signs taped to dusty windows. Strolled past street stalls selling handmade jewelry and tote bags with motivational quotes like "Find your fire" and "Rise & Grind"—stuff that screamed Etsy-core.

A guy in a slightly too-tight Spider-Man suit tried to hand him a mixtape. Rex dodged like a pro.

Passed by a street band playing old-school jazz with cracked instruments and soul like it came straight out of the 60s. The saxophonist was probably twice his age and three times cooler. A small crowd had gathered, nodding along. Rex paused for a bit, leaned against a lamppost, and let the music do its thing.

Then stopped at a mural stretched across the entire side of a building. Bright, chaotic strokes. Colors that looked like they were arguing with each other.

In the center—a face. Half-smiling. Eyes intense.

The kind that stared straight through you, like it knew something you didn’t.

Rex stared back for a second, hands in pockets.

"...Creepy," he muttered. Then kept walking.

(End of Chapter)