Owen walked leisurely down the street. New York's nightscape was stunning—the neon lights were vibrant, dazzling, and beautiful. The city's night had a distinctly different flavor compared to Los Angeles.
There were plenty of pedestrians on the street, and unlike L.A., where casual dress was the norm, more people here wore suits. After all, this was America's financial capital, where appearance still mattered.
As Owen strolled alone, he gradually felt that the surroundings seemed oddly familiar—until he saw a small café named "Central Park." Then it hit him.
He'd been here before. When he first arrived in New York and collected his weapons and vehicle from the local CTU, this was the café where he'd gone into the restroom to put on his bulletproof vest.
No wonder it all felt so familiar.
He'd been walking for quite a while and had worked up a light sweat. This was the perfect place to rest and grab something to drink.
He pushed open the door and entered. The café hadn't changed since last time. In the center of the space was a loveseat, with a single armchair beside it. The rest of the seating was a scattering of small tables and chairs, paired with tasteful decorations that gave the place a stylish charm.
Many of the small tables were already occupied. Seeing that only a woman occupied the sofa area, and there was still space, Owen casually dropped into the single seat.
Noticing someone had sat nearby, the woman looked up at him. Owen nodded politely, but she ignored him and continued reading her newspaper.
Owen didn't take it personally—she probably assumed he was just another flirt looking to chat her up.
"What'll you have?"
A young man with short white hair came over with a menu.
"Cappuccino, with milk and sugar."
Owen wasn't particularly picky about coffee, so he just ordered something simple.
"First time in New York?"
The white-haired man casually struck up a conversation as he took down the order.
"Yes. How did you know?"
Owen asked curiously.
"I saw the way you looked at Central Park before you came in. Locals don't look at it like that…"
So that was it. Owen was impressed—the server was surprisingly observant.
"Owen. From L.A."
Owen introduced himself.
"Gunther. I own this place."
Gunther returned to the bar with the order, while Owen started scanning the rest of the café. It was pure habit—back in Lasvia, Instructor Moss had drilled into them: first thing upon entering a place was to assess the surroundings, locate the nearest exits, and observe the people—determine who was harmless and who posed a threat.
"From Los Angeles? Sorry, I accidentally overheard. You can call me Susan—I'm a model."
"Oh, I'm Owen."
After exchanging names, Susan casually moved closer and struck up a conversation.
"You're from L.A.?"
Owen nodded.
"So have you worked in the film industry?"
Susan was quite attractive and tall—no surprise, considering she was a model. She didn't hide her interest in Owen, clearly because he came from the heart of Hollywood.
Owen didn't mind. He didn't know many people in this city—chatting with a pretty woman was a pleasant way to pass the time.
"Of course. In fact, I helped write the script for a film that just hit theaters recently. Maybe you've seen it…"
"Really? Which one?"
"Die Hard."
"Oh my God, are you serious?"
"Absolutely. My name's in the credits at the end."
Boasting in front of a beautiful woman actually felt pretty good—but he wasn't lying. Universal had been generous enough to list Owen's name in the credits. While CTU had restricted him from participating in the promotional events, being credited as a contributor wasn't off-limits.
Upon learning Owen was connected to Hollywood, Susan's demeanor warmed significantly. What had been casual small talk now carried subtle undertones.
"Your cappuccino."
A waitress came over, interrupting their conversation. Owen glanced at her—she looked strangely familiar, but he couldn't quite place her.
"Sorry, here's your milk and sugar as requested."
After she left, Gunther came over with a sheepish grin.
Owen had been about to mention something, but since Gunther had taken care of it, he said nothing more.
The conversation with Susan continued. She was a small-time model, but she didn't want to stay that way. Her dream was to make it in Hollywood—after all, when it came to entertainment, Los Angeles was the only place that really mattered.
At first, her interest in Owen had been casual curiosity. But when she found out he had worked on a major production like Die Hard, her intentions changed.
Just as things were going smoothly, Susan's phone rang. She answered it, speaking in Spanish with a slightly irritated tone, though she eventually relented to whoever was on the other end.
"Sorry, I've got to go. Here's my number—call me."
She stood, slipped a small note into Owen's hand, and gave him a hopeful look. As she walked away, she subtly grazed his palm with her nails.
Owen chuckled wryly. He hadn't expected to stumble into a flirtation just by walking into a random café. New York really lived up to its reputation.
He shook his head and turned his attention back to the café, only now noticing a TV suspended from the ceiling. It was muted, but currently showing footage from the protests.
Just as Susan was leaving, the café door burst open and three men and a woman entered, chatting as they came in.
"Joey, when is Phoebe getting here?"
"No idea. She said to come ahead—she'd be right behind us…"
A well-built man responded, then noticed Susan and immediately went into flirt mode. "Hi, I'm Joey. Joey Tribbiani. How you doin'?"
Seeing his behavior, the others were clearly unimpressed. "Give it a rest, Joey. This isn't the time to hit on women—don't forget why we're here."
"Alright, alright, I know. We're here to witness Phoebe's new song debut…"
Joey returned to the group, still looking over his shoulder wistfully.
They gathered around the loveseat and the nearby chairs, greeting the waitress and the café owner.
"Hi, Rachel… Hi, Gunther…"
Gunther waved back from the bar, and the waitress cheerfully called out, "Hey, guys! Just a sec—your drinks are coming right up!"
Now that they were all together, Owen had no doubt who they were. If he hadn't remembered the waitress earlier, seeing this group together made it unmistakable—they were too recognizable.
Soon, the woman named Rachel came over carrying a tray filled with drinks.
"Don't tell me, don't tell me—let me show off how much better I've gotten at this on my second day as a waitress…"
Rachel appeared to be recalling something, then began distributing the drinks. "Decaf cappuccino is Joey's. Black coffee for Ross. Chandler, your latte. And that means the tea must be Monica's…"
"See? I'm improving fast!" she said proudly, raising her eyebrows.
"Yeah, great job…" the others chimed in supportively. But as soon as Rachel turned around, they all started trading drinks back to their rightful owners.
Pfft~
Seeing that, Owen couldn't help but burst out laughing.
------------------
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