Next Day.
Rex leaned against the same polished marble counter, his eyes fixed on the digital clock. 8:30 AM. Outside, the morning rush of Los Angeles was in full swing, yet the sidewalk in front of The Velvet Bean remained a dead zone. People hurried past, their eyes glued to their phones or staring straight ahead, treating the historic cafe like a ghost in the machinery of the city.
"Silence is good for a concerto, but it's a death sentence for a business," Rex muttered.
He looked at his hands. The System hadn't granted him a "God-Tier Barista" skill yet—the weekly career was a journey, not a gift. But the System didn't know everything. In his past life, before the transmigration, before the billions and the "Divine Physique," Rex had spent three grueling years behind a steam wand in a cramped corner shop to pay his rent.
