Chapter 649

Los Angeles, located in the southwest of California, the City of Angels, shares nearly the same background as Haibincheng, both having grown into major cities during the gold rush era.

The Spanish called this place Heaven, and not without reason—its climate and scenery are utterly different from the East Coast, romantic, languid, and full of charm.

The beautiful beaches of San Pedro Bay and Santa Monica Bay are beloved destinations for countless West Coast residents; Mexican-style streets and parks preserve the ethnic flavor of last century, city parks and concert halls radiate elegance, alongside the world-famous Hollywood.

On a street not far from the Los Angeles Disneyland, an old building with distinct Spanish architecture stands at the corner; on its first floor hangs a glowing sign that clashes with the building's style yet creates a beautiful sense of temporal dissonance.

The bar's name is simple—just three letters: LUX, which can be understood as an abbreviation of Lucifer's name.

Beneath the glow of the neon lights, there are no typical bar bouncers in black attire, muscular and wearing sunglasses; this bar is unusually quiet, and even pressed against the building's walls, you hear no music from inside.

With a creak, the slightly aged wooden door opened, revealing a dim corridor; but after stepping a few paces inside, neon-like light appeared.

High heels tapped against the metal floor, producing a faint vibration; the female bartender at the counter paused, her eyes glimmering faintly.

She lightly tapped her fingers on the counter; after a moment, a figure in a black suit appeared on the balcony upstairs, holding a glass of red wine, taking in all the men and women below lost in pleasure.

"Dellara? Why are you here at this hour? Planning to surprise me?" Lucifer smiled and embraced the beautiful woman.

The two sat down on a nearby sofa; the woman named Dellara smiled and said, "Come on, you only say things like that—when I chased you, you were as shy as a boy."

"Hey, don't be like that—on my turf, give me some respect," Lucifer leaned back on the sofa, lit a cigarette, and waved his hand with a grin.

"Time really flies, doesn't it?" Dellara took a cigarette from her handbag, smoked as she spoke: "My days as a bar hostess feel like yesterday, and everything I have today, I owe to you…"

"We're friends—you don't need to say that," Lucifer drew on his cigarette and said, "When I first came here, you showed me around Los Angeles, helped me find the bar and secure it—I naturally owed you."

"You didn't need to do so much," Dellara gently stroked Lucifer's knee and said, "I know someone like you could have done anything even without me."

Lucifer studied Dellara's expression, puzzled: "You look a bit worn out? What's wrong? Tired from preparing your new album? You can come here to relax—this place always welcomes you."

Dellara shook her head, a hint of confusion crossing her brow: "Actually, I feel lost. I know my life is much better now than before, but…"

At that moment, Lucifer paused, turned his head toward the bar's entrance, and saw a figure he never expected enter—wearing a suit, carrying an umbrella, oddly out of place in Los Angeles's gentle night.

Cold neon lights fell across Shiler's face; he removed his glasses, walked to Lucifer's side, and tapped the floor with his umbrella's tip: "Looks like I've come at a bad time—interrupting your date with this lady…"

"My apologies, madam… You're a singer, aren't you? What was the name of your last album again? Red Hot?"

"Blue Hot, sir," Dellara nodded to Shiler; he smiled and said, "Sorry, I don't pay much attention to pop music."

Lucifer gestured to a nearby single sofa; after Shiler sat down, Lucifer introduced him to Dellara: "My friend Shiler—a psychology professor, a classical music snob. Ignore him—he has no idea what pop even means."

Dellara smiled and said, "Of course—most discerning music lovers and critics dislike pop. Too bad I never read much, so I can't understand all those composers—I'd love to appreciate classical music too."

"I don't care for certain classical music critics either," Shiler waved his hand. "They overvalue theory and forget music's most important purpose: to make people happy."