87-88

*Chapter 87: Mugged*

“I believe, Mr. Allen, that you’re going to love it here.”

Los Angeles, "Little Beverly Hills."

No, San Marino.

The real estate agent was enthusiastically introducing Allen to the listings in his portfolio.

“...San Marino is undoubtedly the best place in all of Los Angeles , especially for someone like you—a young, wealthy, and well-known individual make up more than half of the population here, and most are well-educated. You won’t run into those loud, rude types who start shouting over the slightest disagreement…”

On the way to the next property, the agent continued praising San Marino’s safety and, of course, its significant population.

“In addition to its pleasant climate and friendly residents, San Marino boasts unique attractions. The Huntington Library is the crown jewel. Believe me, Mr. Allen, once you see the beautiful landscapes there, you’ll decide to settle here without hesitation.”

The agent had clearly spared no effort, listing every advantage San Marino offered as if laying out treasures before Allen.

The reason for this enthusiasm was, of course, the Hollywood aura surrounding Allen.

If a celebrity like him purchased a property through the agent, it wasn’t just about the commission. It would also be a major feather in the agent’s cap, significantly boosting his career prospects.

“This one,” Allen said at last.

After reviewing three properties recommended by the agent, Allen selected a reasonably priced two-story villa as his new home in Los Angeles.

…

With his new San Marino home settled, the rest of his plans became much easier.

Back at his cheap apartment in Compton’s chaotic neighborhood, Allen packed his essentials without a second glance and prepared to leave.

He didn’t bother informing the landlord about his move.

Since the landlord had no qualms about withholding deposits without reason, Allen figured he wasn’t obligated to announce his departure either. Once the deposit ran out, the landlord would naturally show up to evict him.

Carrying several bags of belongings, Allen didn’t seem the least bit burdened.

Just as he was about to leave, he stopped abruptly, turned back into the apartment, and walked over to a table.

Opening a drawer, he spotted the music box resting quietly inside.

“Almost forgot about you,” he muttered with a sigh of relief, carefully placing the music box into his backpack.

After a final glance to ensure nothing important was left behind, Allen opened the door and stepped out.

…

As a single man living alone, Allen didn’t have much to move. Even so, packing took him most of the day.

By the time he left the apartment, it was already evening.

The streetlights around Compton were on, and aside from a few convenience stores still open, most shops had already closed for the night.

In the dark alleys beyond the reach of the streetlights, faint shadows flitted about. Thanks to their natural camouflage, it was nearly impossible to make out who—or what—they were.

Allen’s car was parked less than 100 meters from the apartment. Glancing at the vehicle under the streetlight, he figured the short distance would be no problem.

Unfortunately, things didn’t go as planned.

In just those 100 meters, he caught the attention of someone lurking in a nearby alley.

Dragging his bags, Allen had barely taken a few steps when a figure emerged from the shadows.

A man with a dark complexion brandished a handgun, his face lighting up with predatory excitement.

“Hey, kid! If you don’t want holes in your body, hand over everything you’ve got!”

Glancing at the black muzzle pointed at him, Allen looked toward his car, his expression filled with helpless resignation.

“You want everything?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

Confident in his firearm, the mugger didn’t pay any attention to Allen’s reaction.

He snatched Allen’s backpack, roughly unzipped it, and began rummaging through its contents. Soon, he pulled out an old, worn music box.

“What’s this?”

Holding up the music box, the mugger demanded an answer.

“A music box,” Allen replied honestly, even offering a kind warning.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t open it.”

The mugger sneered at the suggestion.

“You think I’ll fall for that? Trying to buy time to escape, aren’t you? Nice try, but it won’t work…”

Confident in his assessment, the mugger mocked Allen.

However, seeing Allen’s calm demeanor, his smug certainty wavered. His brow furrowed as doubts crept in—perhaps this was a trap.

After some thought, the mugger concluded it was a bluff.

“No, you’re trying to trick me. Rich people love hiding valuables. This music box must be where you stash your cash.”

“Well, it’s mine now.”

With a self-assured grin, the mugger opened the music box. Seeing this, Allen took a quiet step back and covered his ears.

The soft, sorrowful melody of “Für Elise” began to play.

The mugger froze, trapped in the music box’s illusionary loop.

“You overthought it. I was just trying to be considerate,” Allen remarked with a shrug, observing the dazed mugger.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a blood-red Demon Glove.

Sliding it on, Allen flexed his fingers, the sharp claws gleaming faintly.

Stepping forward, he swiftly shut the music box and pried the handgun from the mugger’s grip with his gloved hand.

---

Chapter 88: An Attempt 

As the Music Box in his hand was closed, the sorrowful melody of Für Elise abruptly ceased.  

In front of him, the Black man, who had fallen into the illusions of the Music Box, quickly snapped back to reality. He looked around at the familiar yet unfamiliar neighborhood with a dazed expression.  

Glancing down at his empty hands and then at the gun now in Allen's possession, the Black man didn’t have time to process the situation. Instinctively, he raised his hands and forced a strained smile.  

"Hey, man, I was just messing around with you. Honestly, I hate robbery more than anything—taking what you didn’t work for, it’s disgusting."  

"You think you’re funny?"  

Facing the man’s excuses, Allen glanced at the gun in his hand and replied with a faint smile.  

Seeing Allen’s expression, the Black man instinctively sensed danger. He quickly tried to de-escalate, "Hey, man, calm down. Take it easy. You’ve got a bright future ahead of you—a whole life to look forward to. No need to throw it all away over some scum like me, a black dude. Guys like me? Even if you don’t shoot me, I’m gonna end up dead by someone else’s gun anyway. Why bother..."  

His eyes widened as he desperately tried to appear sincere, but he forgot that in the dim lighting of Compton’s streets, his natural "camouflage" rendered his performance almost pointless.  

"You’re right," Allen said.  

Surprisingly, the man’s rambling nonsense seemed to have a miraculous effect.  

Hearing the Black man’s words, Allen nodded, as if persuaded.  

"I knew it—rich people don’t like to cause trouble," the Black man thought with a surge of joy, though he maintained his pitiful expression on the surface.  

Feigning innocence was something he was well-practiced in.  

Under his hopeful gaze, Allen slightly adjusted the angle of the gun barrel. Just as the man felt a wave of relief, he suddenly saw the gun aimed at his hand.  

"This guy’s nuts!"  

Before the thought even fully formed in his mind, the gunshot echoed through the street.  

Bang—  

The sound of the shot rang out across the Compton neighborhood, but no one came out to investigate.  

"Argh..."  

Frowning, Allen endured the deafening sound of the gunshot at such close range. He watched as the man collapsed to the ground, writhing in pain and clutching his hand.  

Opening his own hand, Allen revealed a flattened bullet in his palm, still smoking.  

"So even the pain of a bullet can be transferred," he murmured, carefully putting the deformed bullet away. His gaze shifted to the man’s bleeding hand, and he nodded slightly.  

The extent of damage that the Demon’s Glove could endure had always been a subject of Allen’s curiosity.  

Previously, he had hesitated to test its limits due to the risk of inadvertently transferring the pain to innocent bystanders or, worse, exceeding the glove's capacity and endangering himself.  

But now, this opportunistic robber had conveniently solved his dilemma, serving as the perfect test subject.  

The presence of the Guardian Necklace on Allen’s neck also reassured him. Even if the Demon’s Glove failed to absorb the bullet’s damage, the necklace would protect him from harm.  

With the dual protection of the Demon’s Glove and Guardian Necklace, Allen had dared to conduct the experiment of shooting his own hand.  

The result was just as he had expected.  

The Demon’s Glove effectively transferred the damage from the bullet.  

This meant that, as long as the glove was worn, Allen’s hands were no longer vulnerable to bullets.  

"Unfortunately, its utility seems limited to the hands," he muttered regretfully as he removed the gloves that were beginning to mold perfectly to his hands. Looking down at the groaning man, Allen suddenly asked, "Does it hurt?"  

"F*** you! What the hell did you do to me? My hand—call an ambulance!"  

Clutching his bleeding wound, the man cursed in pain, his voice filled with agony.  

"Don’t worry. Soon, you won’t remember any of this," Allen replied calmly.  

Ignoring the man’s insults, Allen removed the necklace from around his neck and placed it in the man’s hand.  

Then, he pointed the gun at him again.  

"No, don’t!"  

Seeing the barrel aimed at him, the man could almost smell the acrid scent of gunpowder. His pained expression was quickly replaced by sheer terror.  

"Relax. Like you said, you’ll die by someone else’s gun someday, but not today," Allen said softly, almost reassuringly.  

Bang! Bang! Bang!  

Without hesitation, Allen pulled the trigger multiple times.  

The gunshots echoed through the street as the man curled into a ball, screaming in terror, convinced that his life was over.  

But the expected pain never came.  

Tentatively, the man opened his eyes and checked himself. Aside from his injured hand, he was unharmed. Relief flooded his face as he realized he’d escaped death.  

"He missed!"  

While the man celebrated his "luck," the necklace in his hand began to emit a faint glow. Moments later, his expression turned blank, his mind clouded with confusion.  

"Now, do you remember me?" Allen asked.  

"Who... who are you? Why does my hand hurt so much?"  

Hearing this, the man snapped out of his daze, staring at his wound with no recollection of what had happened.  

"I’m just a passerby. Your injury is from an accidental discharge," Allen replied casually.  

Returning the now-empty gun to the man, Allen retrieved his belongings and added, "Your injury looks serious. Want me to call an ambulance for you?"  

"If you could, that’d be great, sir," the man replied, wincing in pain.  

The agony in his hand and the blank spots in his memory made him believe Allen’s story without question. Grateful, he said, "Thank you, sir. You’re a good man. I didn’t think people like you existed in a place as rotten as Compton..."  

For the first time in a long while, the man felt a flicker of humanity’s warmth.  

"No need to thank me. It’s the least I could do," Allen replied.  

(End of Chapter)