Monday, 15:00. West Los Angeles.
McCain Diner.
The bell above the door gave a tired little chime as I stepped inside, and the smell hit me—grease, spice, something sweet melting on a grill. Heaven.
"Finally. I'm starving," I muttered, mostly to myself.
At 1.77 meters, I wasn't exactly towering, but the moment I walked in, the room shifted. Happens everywhere. My reflection in the glass wasn't humble about it either—platinum hair catching the sunlight like silver threads, deep ocean-blue eyes, lips too pink for someone with blood on his hands, skin glowing from that cruel blessing called youth.
Pretty? Cute? Handsome?
No—dangerously attractive.
Enough to make strangers forget their names for a second.
I felt the stares crawl over me—women, men, even a kid holding a milkshake mid-sip—but I didn't feed into it. I'd grown used to being a walking distraction.
I slipped into a booth, the cracked leather sighing beneath me, and picked up the menu. Pages stuck slightly from syrup someone forgot to clean. Classic diner aesthetic.
The waitress approached—ponytail, tired eyes, smile she rebooted for customers.
"Hi! Welcome to McCain Diner. What can I get you?" she chimed.
I didn't look up immediately. Let the moment breathe. Let the tension pool just a little.
Then, in a tone smooth enough to pass for velvet, I finally answered, "I'll take the McCain Special. Heard it's… something worth experiencing."
Her smile brightened like she'd been blessed by the sun itself.
"Got it! It'll be out in three."
I lowered the menu slowly, nodding once—calm, assured, a quiet king acknowledging a loyal knight.
"Thanks."
The waitress lingered longer than necessary, her shadow spilling across the table. When Max finally lifted his gaze, their eyes met for the first time since he'd walked in.
"Is something wrong?" he asked, voice cool enough to fog glass.
She blinked, caught staring. "Do you… have a girlfriend?" The question slipped out like her mind forgot to filter itself.
Max exhaled, the kind of sigh that carried old exhaustion despite his young face. "No. I don't."
Her eyes lit up instantly. "Then can I have your number?"
A beat. Then: "No. No, you can't."
Her bright mood dipped like a sunset falling too fast. "Oh… I see."
Max's lips curved in a small, apologetic smile. "You'll meet the right guy one day."
"Yeah," she muttered, barely a whisper. Just not one like you.
She drifted away in that heavy, moody walk people do when reality pokes a hole in their hope.
Max watched her go, scratching his cheek. "Is being handsome a sin?" he murmured under his breath.
From the depths of his mind, a voice chimed in—silky, amused, and annoying enough to make saints swear.
You ask me? You made the wish. Suffer the consequences.
Sy. His so-called cheat. His sentient headache.
"Yeah, yeah, I know," Max muttered, brow twitching. "You don't have to remind me every time."
If I don't remind you, who will?
A vein throbbed at Max's temple. "Life, Sy. Life will. I don't need a broken alarm clock nagging me every hour."
Sy scoffed, a sound elegant yet insulting. Life? Please. If life had that much free time, every teenager would be a sage and humanity would be running on divine enlightenment.
Max's breath hitched in irritation. His throat went dry as sharp comebacks stormed through his mind, but he swallowed them. Old experience taught him one thing: you don't win arguments with a sentient cheat system whose whole personality runs on sarcasm.
"Forget it," he muttered. "I don't have time for you right now."
As if answering his surrender, a waiter arrived—arms trembling—carrying a three-foot-long sub stacked like a monument to poor diets, with a side mound of meat large enough to feed a small village.
Sy whistled in his mind. Hope you don't choke on that. Dying by sub sandwich isn't exactly legendary.
Max's brow twitched so hard it could've sparked electricity.
"Here is your McCain Special, sir. Hope you enjoy."
The waiter set the monstrous plate down with reverence.
"Thank you," Max replied, calm returning to his voice as he inhaled the scent of the feast.
Six men lounged at the far corner of the diner, half-hidden behind a cracked booth light. Their eyes weren't on their meals—they were glued to Max and his towering plate like starving wolves eyeing a lamb that wandered into the wrong forest.
"Boss… that's the McCain Special," one of them whispered, voice quivering with greed. "That thing's close to a hundred bucks. The kid just ordered it like it's pocket change. And look at his clothes… that's expensive as f***. What do you say we mug 'em?"
The man at the head of the table—broad like a bear, beard a raging red—didn't speak. He simply smiled. A slow, creeping stretch of the lips. The others understood instantly.
"It's been a while since I mugged a kid," the first man muttered, licking his lips in a way that made his already ugly face even more repulsive. "Shame it ain't a girl."
The table chuckled with the kind of laughter that only filth found funny.
One hour later…
Max stepped out of McCain Diner with the glow of the evening sun brushing his platinum hair. He looked like a scene out of a glossy ad campaign.
Behind him, six shadows slithered after his.
He didn't rush. Just walked—steady, calm, like a king taking a stroll.
Then he turned into a secluded alley.
The men froze.
"Is this kid stupid," the skinny one whispered, "or is our luck just that good?"
"Who cares?" another barked. "I need a girl tonight—daddy's starving."
"You never change, Lee."
Laughter. Crude. Nervous.
The red-beard man grunted. "Let's get this done."
They stepped inside.
And stopped dead.
Max was already there, leaning lazily against a rusted dumpster… picking his nose.
"Took you long enough," he yawned. "I was getting bored."
His eyes rose to meet theirs—calm, crystal blue, absolutely fearless.
"Wow… what a lineup. You boys going to the circus or something?"
"H-how did you—?"
"Doesn't matter," Max cut in. His smile was sweet, almost angelic. "I promise it won't hurt much."
In their eyes, it was a demon's grin.
Sy's voice cracked through his mind, smooth yet venomous.
Don't you dare hold back. A tooth or two on the floor. A concussion if you're generous. Or a clean one-hit knockout. Your choice. But none of them walk out. Clear?
A vein twitched on Max's forehead.
Can't you let me enjoy a warm-up in peace?
Sy snorted.
Warm-up? Max, please. These are appetizers.
Max sighed—and rolled his shoulders with the quiet calm of a predator stretching before the hunt.
The alley held its breath.
Max rolled his neck, the joints popping like distant gunshots in the tight alley. The sound bounced off the brick walls, sharp enough to make dust drift loose from old mortar. He flexed his fingers next, each crack echoing like the prelude to an execution.
Every man in front of him stiffened.
The red-bearded brute—who minutes ago laughed about mugging a kid—felt something cold slide down his spine. His breath caught. His instincts screamed.
Run.
But it was too late.
Max stepped forward once, slow, unhurried, the kind of movement predators made when they already owned the outcome. The alley lights cast his shadow long and stretched, twisting behind him like the silhouette of something far older and far deadlier than a teenager.
"Get ready, boys," Max said, voice calm enough to freeze blood. "It's about to go down. Hard."
The tallest thug's knuckles whitened around his metal pipe. Another swallowed hard. Someone whispered a shaky prayer.
Sy's voice rang in Max's mind—silky, amused, cruel.
"Don't drag it out too long. Break at least one arm for me."
The red-bearded man felt his knees weaken.
"We're screwed," he whispered. "We're so… so screwed."
Max smiled—light, almost angelic.
Then—
Bang.