Michael slowly turned the doorknob and stepped inside.
On the other side, he looked around carefully. He was now in a side alley—a narrow lane with a few dumpsters scattered around, graffiti covering the walls, and some old boxes stacked in a corner. The streetlights glowed at the far end, but this alley itself was relatively quiet.
[Item 'Intra World Door' stored in Pocket Warehouse]
Michael drew in a deep breath.
"Good. At least I didn't just pop into existence in front of people this time."
He walked out of the alley.
Ahead stretched the open street—billboards blazing with light, and in the distance, the hazy outline of the Hollywood sign.
"Ah… Los Angeles. The city of Hollywood."
Even though it was midnight, the streets were still alive with people—some chatting and laughing, others taking selfies, while a few bought hotdogs from a street vendor at the corner.
Michael tried to blend into the crowd as he walked. At first, everything felt normal. But within a few minutes, he noticed—people were staring at him strangely.
At first, he ignored it. But then he realized—many were snapping pictures of him, some recording videos, and whispering to each other.
It took him a moment to understand why.
Then it hit him—he was still wearing Albham's outfit.
Ah, fuck.
Suddenly, a group of Asian tourists stopped in front of him. One of them cheerfully put an arm around his shoulder and took a selfie. Another gave him a thumbs up, grinning, "Nice costume, bro! Super realistic!"
Two teenage girls nearby giggled and said, "OMG, he's so dedicated, he doesn't even break character!" They laughed and quickly took a selfie with him before leaving.
Another group of people passed by and muttered under their breath,
"Looks like another wannabe actor, probably some failed audition guy."
A few others frowned at him—as if questioning whether something was wrong with him.
Then, out of nowhere, a tourist shoved a few dollar bills into his hand before walking off—the same casual way people tip a street artist or a homeless guy.
Michael stood frozen, clutching the bills in disbelief.
"What the—!"
Irritation flashed across his face.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, teeth clenched. "Do I really look like some homeless cosplayer to them?"
In a city like Los Angeles, though, this wasn't unusual. Street performers dressed up every day—Spider-Man, Batman, bizarre original characters. Sometimes it was even part of a movie promotion. To people here, it was normal. And Michael? He was just another one of them.
Though annoyed, Michael kept his expression neutral, showing no reaction on the outside.
The crowd only grew denser around him. The honking of cars echoed in the distance, a busker strummed a guitar somewhere nearby, and closer still, someone rapped to the rhythm of the street. The city—bright, loud, alive—even at midnight.
Michael didn't stay still any longer. He pushed through the crowd quickly, ignoring the stares.
"Unbearable," he whispered inwardly.
He needed some quiet place. He needed to change his clothes, and decided he would come back to visit Los Angeles another time. After all, he could go anywhere he wanted in an instant.
He walked until he finally left the bustling area behind.
He stopped beside a grimy brick wall. A dumpster stood at the corner, broken liquor bottles littered the ground, and a homeless man sat wrapped in a dirty blanket. The moment the man noticed Michael, he frowned and cursed,
"Yo, this ain't no motel. Get your own fuckin' corner." His voice was heavy with alcohol.
Michael didn't even look at him. He quickly scanned the area, and then—the door appeared in front of him once more.
The drunk man's eyes widened, nearly popping out of their sockets. His jaw slackened, liquor spilling from his lips and dripping onto the filthy blanket.
"Holy shit…" he mumbled. "Am I trippin'?"
Michael tossed the crumpled bills into his lap. "Take these. And think of it as a dream. Then go back to sleep." His voice was flat, emotionless—an order, not a request.
The homeless man dropped his bottle, snatching at the money with trembling hands. His eyes darted between the door and the bills, fear and hunger warring in his expression.
"Jesus Christ… it's real. You're real. Ain't you?" His words tumbled out, half-breathed, half-muttered.
Michael ignored him. He gripped the doorknob. The black wooden door opened, glowing with unfamiliar light from within. As he entered, the door slowly disappeared.
The homeless man sat frozen, staring at the empty air where the door had been, chest heaving, eyes wide. Slowly, he looked down at the bills clutched in his hands.
Sweat trickled down his forehead.
"Will those too... disappear?" he whispered, his breathing becoming heavy.
He stared at it for a few seconds, but the dollars were still in his hand—they hadn't disappeared.
The man's face showed a mixture of fear and greed. He clutched the bills to his chest, as if they were his last salvation.
"No… no, it's mine. Mine. This shit's real."
Then he slumped back into his blanket, muttering to himself, his laugh dissolving into a broken cough,
"Fuckin' L.A., man. Too much booze… too much goddamn booze…"
...
Michael, on the other hand, had returned to his grandfather's old house. The door disappeared and he took out his bag from the Pocket Warehouse.
Opening it, he took out a spare set of clothes and began changing out of Albham's attire.
"Ah, If I change clothes like this over and over again it really will be a hassle…"
A trace of irritation flickered at the corner of his lips—then, Sista's voice echoed in his ears.
[Okay, host. You want to activate Think Mode?]
"What's that?"
Sista explained—
[You just have to think. And with the thought, the items from inside the Poket Warehouse will appear directly in your hands or on your body according to your thoughts. You will no longer have to open the bag again and again, take out the clothes and change them.
This will save you time and increase efficiency. But remember, those items must be in your Poket warehouse. ]
Michael let out a small laugh. By then, he had already taken off Albham's clothes and changed into Earth clothes.
"Alright… I'll use that next time."
Then, all of a sudden—
Knock knock.
A sharp pounding echoed from the front door downstairs.
Michael flinched at the sound.
He quickly glanced out the window toward the entrance. Standing by the door was the man he had first met when he arrived here—alongside an elderly woman.
"Huh? What are they doing here…?"