Urban System in America
Chapter 217 - 216: Lost

Chapter 217: Chapter 216: Lost

And then came Rex.

Like a cheat code in human form.

Their confident smirks wilted into twitchy half-smiles. The self-assurance that carried them through parties like these cracked ever so slightly. Because next to Rex, with his god-tier genetics, impeccable fashion, and air of mysterious confidence— they felt... average. Worse. Invisible.

One male model muttered to another under his breath, "What is he doing here?"

"I don’t know," the other replied, arms crossed over his oiled chest. "But I hate him already."

"Dude, his cheekbones have more structure than my career."

"And he’s rich too. Damn!

Their whispered bitterness was laced with something deeper: a hint of helplessness. For men who’d always been the most beautiful people in any room, standing near Rex was like a slap of reality.

He had what they had, and more. More money. More class. More presence. He just existed in a way that made everyone else question whether they’d dressed well enough or flossed that morning.

And worst of all—he didn’t even look like he was trying.

Rex, catching none of this banter, simply nodded in greeting.

A few older guests—men with cigars and women wrapped in silk like birthday presents—gestured toward him with casual winks and beckoning fingers. One particularly rotund man, chuckling between bites of some suspiciously rare meat, nudged a bikini-clad model toward Rex like he was offering a glass of vintage wine. "Come join us," he said, voice dripping with the kind of smug entitlement that only billionaires and cartoon villains seemed to share.

The model giggled coquettishly, clearly used to this sort of display, and gave Rex a sultry smile. A few of her friends chimed in with glances and teasing waves.

Rex considered it for half a second—because let’s be honest, the bikini models were absolutely jaw-dropping—but then his gaze wandered to the older women on the other side of the room. They looked at him like wolves who’d just spotted a tender, marbled steak strolling by on two legs. Their eyes gleamed with hunger and well-funded desperation.

And just like that, all temptation evaporated.

He held up his hand in a casual wave of polite refusal, adding with a grin, "Appreciate the offer, but I’ve got something urgent—just passing through."

The man didn’t care and just shrugged, they were just casually offering and weren’t really much serious.

He turned and walked off, resisting the urge to sprint and mentally adding "Avoid eye contact with wealthy cougars" to his party survival checklist.

But his relief didn’t last long. Hurrying away from the pool of temptation and layered social power plays, Rex kept walking until the music faded and the light dimmed. It wasn’t until several minutes passed, his footsteps echoing in an increasingly quiet corridor, that he realized something: he was lost.

The brightly lit, marble-lined halls had slowly given way to darker, quieter stretches of the mansion, corridors that felt more like abandoned wings of a luxury hotel than party venues. The ambient chatter and music had disappeared completely. Here, the silence wasn’t comforting—it was eerie.

He hesitantly walked in dim corridors lit only by occasional wall sconces that flickered like they, too, were unsure they should be here.

He stopped.

No more laughter. No more fountains. Just the faint scent of old wood, money, and something else he couldn’t quite place—like vintage perfume and expensive secrets.

"Uh... hold up," Rex muttered, turning on the spot. He looked one way, then the other. Identical hallways stretched in both directions, each decorated with vaguely threatening oil portraits and furniture so antique it probably had its own social security number.

"Which way did I even come from?"

He had no idea. In his rush to avoid being devoured—figuratively and possibly literally—by cougar stares and cigar-chomping invitations, he’d forgotten to pay attention to his route.

Great. He’d survived the gauntlet of temptation only to get eaten alive by his lack of a sense of direction.

He rubbed his temple. "Great. Lost in a billion-dollar maze. Should’ve dropped a trail of gold-leaf toothpicks or something."

So, unsurely, he kept walking—every creaking step echoing like a warning sign in a horror movie. The opulence was gone, and the corridor now looked like the set of a murder mystery dinner party no one ever left. The heavy silence pressed in like fog, and the shadows cast by ornate sconces stretched just a little too long.

He tried to shake off the tension with a few internal jokes—maybe he’d stumbled into the antique showroom of a retired Bond villain or a hallway designed by a vampire with a flair for interior design—but even those landed like bad punchlines in an empty room. If this was a horror flick, he figured he’d be the guy who dies first just for comedic relief. Not even five minutes of screen time.

Steeling himself with a dramatic breath (the kind that made him feel like he was braver than he was), Rex pressed on.

Then, he saw it—a flicker of movement and a soft, flickering glow leaking out from beneath a nearby door. The kind of glow that said: Yes, something is happening here, and no, you probably don’t want to see it. Along with it came muffled voices, distant music, and... was that laughter?

No, not just laughter—giggles. Uncomfortably timed giggling. Not the charming kind. The kind you’d hear in horror films, right before the protagonist gets dragged into the walls by something with too many limbs. Rex froze. His eyes narrowed. The giggles kept going.

He gulped.

Then came the breeze—soft, but chilling. A nearby curtain fluttered, despite no visible windows, vents, or any reasonable excuse for air movement.

Rex jumped. Not the cool, action-hero kind of jump. No, this was a full-body, startled-cat, flinch-and-jerk combo. He even let out a very undignified yelp, then immediately looked around to see if anyone heard it—which, in hindsight, made no sense. He was lost, alone, and now even more afraid.

"Nope. Nope. Nope," he muttered, nervously scanning the hallway like he expected a Victorian ghost to tap him on the shoulder. His heart was hammering, his palms were sweaty, and for half a second, he considered power-walking back the way he came like a kid who just remembered they left the oven on at home.

He laughed—well, he tried to laugh. What came out was more like a wheeze from someone being tickled by existential dread. "I just came for a Hollywood party," he whispered, voice cracking. "Now I’m one ominous piano note away from becoming a ghost tour footnote."

"What the hell is this? Did I wander into the director’s cut of a haunted house flick? Or wandered into a haunted wing of the mansion?"

He stared at the door again. "What if I stepped into some kind of invisible horror portal? What if I’m in the prologue of a documentary about missing rich people?"

He paused.

"Is this the part where the walls start bleeding and I find a cursed Fabergé egg or something?

But fortunately nothing like that happend, and like every doomed character before him, he found himself creeping toward the door. Because of course he did. Because logic, self-preservation, and genre awareness meant absolutely nothing when curiosity kicked in.

He gulped. "Please don’t let this be some Eyes Wide Shut nonsense," he whispered under his breath.

But curiosity, being the unruly beast it was, tugged at his feet like a kid begging for attention. And so, with every horror-movie instinct screaming "don’t open the door," which, of course, he ignored and kept walking toward it anyway. Because naturally.

With his heart thudding like a bass drum during a suspenseful trailer, he cautiously stepped toward the door and reached for the handle.

(End of Chapter)