CHAPTER 198: CHAPTER 197: WELCOME TO LA

Just as things had finally begun to calm—Arabella babbling on about superheroes, her tears drying into giggles—everything changed again.

The sound came first.

It started as a low rumble, barely audible at first—like distant thunder just under the skin of the world. A tremor in the calm. A murmur that grew deeper, louder, until it thrummed in the pavement itself. Deeper. Sharper. More rhythmic.

Engines. Not one. Not two.

Multiple.

Half a dozen, maybe more.

Low, smooth, coordinated.

Too smooth.

Rex turned his head slightly.

Then saw them.

A convoy. A fleet of sleek black vehicles barreling around the corner, silent but commanding, like wolves on the hunt. SUVs. Armored. Not police, not press. Something else.

They definately weren’t ordinary vehicles. They looked like escort cars—government-grade, but higher-end, polished to a mirror sheen. Tinted windows, reinforced frames, the kind of presence that screamed power without needing to flash a badge.

Government-grade, private contractor, maybe even something deeper.

They didn’t slow.

They didn’t hesitate.

They moved like they owned the road—or had just declared martial law.

In seconds, the street was boxed in. One vehicle cut off the street from the north. Another slammed into position from the east. A third drifted into a sideways stop behind them. More kept coming—filling in the perimeter with military efficiency, like a trap closing shut.

Before anyone could react, doors swung open in eerie unison.

Boots hit pavement with a loud, unified thud.

Men in black suits and boots stepped out with practiced precision—faces blank, expressions unreadable, each movement tight and efficient. They moved like parts of the same machine, synchronized and mechanical.

And then—without a flicker of hesitation—they drew.

Weapons raised in unison, the motion smooth and terrifyingly silent. Barrels glinted under the streetlight. Aimed. Locked. Directly at Rex.

Their movements were so fluid, so drilled, it sent a chill crawling up the spine. The kind of efficiency that didn’t belong to thugs or amateurs—but to men who’d been trained to kill without blinking.

He froze, momentarily stunned.

What the hell—

He barely had time to react. His arms instinctively tightened around Arabella, shielding her as she flinched and hid her face again.

Honestly, Did he forget to check the almanac before stepping out today? Maybe Mars was in retrograde. Or maybe some god was jealous of his looks?

Or worse—maybe some mischievous, face-loving goddess had taken a personal liking to him and decided she couldn’t wait to meet him in the afterlife. Maybe she was up there right now, fluffing pillows and lighting celestial candles, pulling strings to get him killed faster and shipped to her private celestial harem by express delivery.

He could practically hear her purring, "Come on, hurry up, I cleared a velvet seat for you!"

The sheer absurdity of the thought almost made him laugh. Almost.

He blinked, genuinely confused for a second—half-expecting a lightning bolt or an angelic voice saying, "Oops, time to go, a goddess has taken fancy."

But no. Just guns. A whole lot of them. All aimed at his face.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Was he supposed to be honored that a small army had shown up just for him? Or mourn the fact that he’d likely missed his chance at celestial snu-snu with a goddess? If she really had been pulling strings to get him to the afterlife faster, this was one hell of a shortcut.

Because of course, even in a deadly standoff, Rex’s brain had to go on a vacation to the Land of Dumb Thoughts—complete with a sunhat and souvenir mug.

He didn’t know whether to laugh at the absurdity or weep at the timing. Some people saw their life flash before their eyes. Rex? He got a highlight reel of sarcastic hypotheticals. Did the universe have a vendetta? Was this karma for not tipping in his past life? Or maybe just the latest episode in the grand cosmic sitcom titled This Idiot’s Life.

But the humor faded fast.

Reality had teeth—and now it was biting down, hard. The absurdity of divine harem theories burned away in the cold light of a dozen rifles aimed straight at him. Each second weighed heavier than the last, thick with dread.

Honestly, It happened fast. Too fast. One second, it was peace. The next, chaos dressed in black.

But not fast enough to catch Victor and Kaalan off guard.

The moment those suits moved, both men were already acting—reflexes honed by countless close calls, instincts sharpened like blades. They didn’t hesitate. No questions. No delay. Both men surged forward, flanking Rex with trained efficiency. Their own weapons were out in seconds—barrels raised, eyes locked.

The air thickened instantly.

Victor’s eyes narrowed, body angling between Rex and the threat, while Kaelan moved with a slow, crushing precision, as if daring anyone to test his reach. Their expressions were cold, unflinching, hands steady on their triggers.

Both of them locked into position, flanking Rex in perfect symmetry.

No fear. Just control. There was no panic in them. No confusion. Just practiced control. Their motions were smooth, professional, and terrifyingly focused.

In the span of a breath, they transformed from guards to walls of iron. And they were ready to hold the line.

The suited men on the other side faltered for half a beat—clearly not expecting resistance, especially not such a fast, well-coordinated reaction. The tension spiked, electric and immediate.

The air tightened like it had been vacuum-sealed. Every breath felt heavier. The tension was suffocating—wired to a hair-trigger.

The world around them reacted the only way it knew how.

Screams.

Panic.

Screams erupted like fireworks. People who had been filming seconds ago were now running like their lives depended on it, dropping phones, shoving strangers, shopping bags flying. Drivers ducked low or threw their cars into reverse, bumper-to-bumper chaos erupting in seconds. Others sprinted behind cover like they’d rehearsed this before.

Welcome to LA.

This was LA, after all. This city might not be as chaotic as Chicago—the real-world Gotham—but it had its own brand of madness. It is called the gang capital of America for a reason. Home to hundreds of gangs and god knows how many turf wars. Guns weren’t a novelty here—they were a warning sign that people had learned not to ignore.

It didn’t matter how rich or polished a neighborhood looked. Everyone had heard something pop off once. And when it did, survival instincts kicked in like muscle memory.

And right now?

This street felt like the set of an action movie—though more like a chaotic comedy, if you looked around. Pure bedlam erupted around them. One man dove headfirst over a hedge like he was auditioning for a spy film. Another tried to hide inside a trash can with all the grace of a panicked raccoon. A woman abandoned her designer purse mid-run, screaming like the thing was cursed.

And another—walking earthquake of a woman and twice as loud—shrieked loud enough to shake birds from trees, flailing her arms as if she were the prime target in a sniper thriller. What she didn’t know was that between her chaotic flailing and modest size, she posed more of a threat to nearby pedestrians than the actual men with guns.

It was chaos. Ridiculous, terrifying chaos.

(End of Chapter)