Urban System in America-Chapter 92 - 91: FREE ADVICE

The city throbbed with restless energy, a heartbeat that never slowed, its veins filled with the electricity of ambition and motion.

Not the kind of life that surged through financial markets and news tickers—no screens, no graphs, no numbers threatening to explode with the weight of decisions—but something more grounded. Honest, even.

Just the gentle clatter of cutlery, the faint hum of conversation, and the rhythmic thrum of footsteps on pavement. Rex walked through it all, leaving behind old burdens with every step.

It was the kind of rhythm you could only notice when you stopped moving—when you stepped off the conveyor belt of ambition and let the world pass you by.

For once, Rex did just that.

The air was crisp, kissed with spring’s perfume. Birds chirped somewhere above the noise. Car horns honked. Distant laughter filtered through alleyways and open café doors. Street performers filled pockets of the sidewalk with saxophones, acoustic covers, and a kind of magic born only in cities where a thousand stories unfolded every hour.

And Rex, for now, wasn’t the protagonist of any of them.

Suddenly, near the edge of a quiet street, he noticed an old man, standing a weathered man on an upturned crate. His beard was wild, his jacket was army surplus, with a cardboard sign that read:

FREE ADVICE

ASK WHATEVER YOU WANT

He didn’t seem like a preacher or a con. Just a man tossing words into the wind like paper boats — some sank, some sailed.

He wasn’t yelling or drawing a crowd—just offering comments to the passing tide of humanity.

"Don’t waste energy hating people who already forgot your name."

"If your gut says it’s not right, don’t force it to be."

"Your boss is not your parent. Your partner is not your therapist. Your dog is probably your best friend."

A few people gathered around listening to his words, occasionally nodding and asking their questions. which the old man easily answered. A teenage girl walking a dachshund asked curiously, "Is love real?"

The man paused, stroked his chin, and spoke with a grin:

"Only if you both do the dishes!"

Laughter rippled through the small gathering.

Another one asked, "How do you know if you’ve found the right person?"

"You laugh more than you explain."

Rex smiled, thinking that might be the most honest advice he’d heard all week.

A middle-aged man, moved by the old man’s words, stepped forward, his hands shaking as he fumbled in his pocket.

Taking out his wallet, he offered a crumpled ten dollar bill to the old man, who stared at the money with a furrowed brow, as if offended by his gesture.

"No, no," the old man said, his voice firm but not harsh. He waved his hand, refusing the offer. "Keep your money. I didn’t give you this advice to earn anything."

"It’s the accumulation of my life—my mistakes, my triumphs—not something measured by some dirty bills."

The bystanders seemed taken aback. The middle aged man’s hand paused in midair, the crumpled money still clutched between his fingers. He didn’t expect the situation to turn out like this. Hesitating for a moment, he gave a small nod before pulling the money back and walking away.

The old man didn’t stop and continued tossing thoughts into the wind like seeds, hoping one might bloom in someone.

But just as rex was going to pass by, he heard.

"Most people don’t need a new beginning. They need to stop clinging to the ending."

"Everyone wants a second chance. But nobody wants the cost."

That one made Rex look up. Curiosity tugged at him. As he unconsciously stepped forward.

The man noticed him and gestured for Rex to speak.

Rex hesitated for a moment before asking, his voice quiet but intense:

"What if someone... didn’t just want a second chance — what if they got one?"

"But they don’t know if they deserved it. Or if it’s even really them living it."

The old man blinked, clearly taken aback by the weight of the question. It wasn’t something he heard every day. He didn’t speak right away.

He looked at Rex for a long beat. Then stepping off his crate, he came closer and gave a slow nod, as if acknowledging something deeper than words:

"If you’re the one living it, then it’s yours. Doesn’t matter if the universe got your name wrong. You’re here now."

"Second chances don’t wait for you to be ready. They arrive like unfinished stories, demanding an ending only you can write."

Rex stood there, silent.

That one hit deeper than expected.

But something in his chest unclenched.

He nodded deeply to the man, appreciating the response. Without another word, he turned and began walking away. As he did, he heard the old man’s voice call out behind him.

"Remember," the old man shouted. "It doesn’t matter if have failed once, twice or even tens of times, life is long, don’t lose hope and keep trying"

Hearing this, he smiled, it seemed like the old man had misunderstood that he had failed at something and was doubting his self worth. Anyway no sane person would even think about something absurd like second life.

So, he didn’t respond, lifted one hand in a casual wave, acknowledged the old man’s words and kept walking.

And continued wandering for hours with no destination. His pace was even more relaxed than before.

The world outside felt bigger now—not because it had changed, but because he had. After brushing against madness, even a slow afternoon breeze felt sharper, more real.

Eventually, hunger guided him to a small diner tucked between a barbershop and a vintage bookstore, its faded neon sign flickering in lazy defiance of the city’s flashier lights. Marta’s Diner, it read.

The bell above the door chimed as he stepped inside.

It smelled of butter, bacon grease, and slow-cooked something. The walls were lined with framed photos of past patrons and celebrities long since faded from public memory. Booths were aged but clean. The floor had a persistent squeak somewhere near the counter, and the music playing overhead was soft jazz from a bygone decade.

This place looked like it belonged in a different era, with peeling paint, handwritten menu boards, and chrome stools that had seen better days.

He chose a booth by the window. A few people looked at him curiously before looking away. No one recognized him. No one cared who he was.

And that was exactly what he needed.

He sat at the corner booth, alone but definitely not lonely.

The waitress came by—mid-40s, silver-streaked ponytail, eyes that had seen everything and cared about little. She offered a polite smile, slid a menu across the table, and poured him water without speaking. Efficient. Invisible in the best way.

He ordered the special: slow-roasted brisket in bourbon barbecue glaze, mashed potatoes with roasted garlic, a side of buttered corn, and, when prompted for dessert, a slice of peach pie that had been sitting in the counter display, still warm from the oven, with a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream.

Not because he needed the sugar or the calories, but because it sounded like something human.

The food arrived fast. Not rushed. Just... well-practiced.

He took the first bite of the brisket and let it sit on his tongue. Tender, rich, smoky with a bite of sweetness. The mashed potatoes were creamy, flecked with herbs and punctuated by a roasted clove here and there. The cornbread that came with it was golden and warm, a little crisp at the edge, almost cake-like inside.

It was the best thing he’d eaten in days.

Not because it was five-star quality. Not because it was fancy.

But because it was real.

God, when did my life become so cinematic?

He chewed another forkful of brisket and allowed himself to not care about the answer.

Outside, the world churned with chaos. People ran toward the next thrill, the next profit, the next mistake. But in this moment, Rex wasn’t chasing anything. He was just here—in a warm booth with good food and no pressure.

Across from him, a young couple giggled over shared fries, whispering soft nothings like the world outside didn’t exist. At another table, a mother negotiated with her mischievous son, who was trying to balance ketchup packets like building blocks while sneakily feeding the family dog under the table. An old couple near the window held hands as they reminisced, voices gentle and eyes shining with memory. At the far end, an old man sipped coffee, reading a newspaper like time had stopped twenty years ago.

Normalcy, Rex realized, was profoundly underrated.

He watched them all with quiet fascination, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

He inhaled deeply, letting the scent of sizzling butter, roasted coffee, and nostalgia fill his lungs. It was a rare kind of moment, where the chaos faded, and the world felt balanced. Whole.

He didn’t need screens, numbers, or headlines. He needed this.

At a table in the far corner, as always, Victor and Kaelan sat, blending into the background. Their eyes, sharp and practiced, scanned the surroundings with casual ease. Ever-vigilant. Ever-reliable.

Rex nodded slightly to them in silent thanks. They returned it without breaking their posture.

He leaned back, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

The city buzzed beyond the glass, but in here, time moved differently—soft, slow, forgiving.

Still... thinking about it, it has been several days now. And the Whitmore family had yet to send anyone after him.

That was... unexpected.

Not that he was complaining.

Honestly, If Clement hadn’t pushed so hard, and just let go of that farce, he would’ve been living peacefully right now—maybe even pretending to be a gentle and refined professor.

Or at least... ruining other students’ lives calmly.

He snorted at the joke in his head.

But anyway, the silence was... welcome. Peaceful, even.

Maybe they were watching.

Maybe they were planning.

Or maybe, just maybe... they were underestimating him.

Either way, he wasn’t worried. Nor did he care much.

He took another bite of brisket, the flavors exploding against his tongue.

Thinking about it, he remembered hearing that Logan hadn’t shown up since that day either.

Good riddance. One less bully prowling the campus.

That alone was a win.

Rumors about Professor Clement were still going around in hushed tones. People connected dots they’d ignored before.

Like who were those girls...

A number of them had seemingly vanished. And absences kept piling up.

He wasn’t surprised.

Rumors swirled. Whispers traveled fast in their little university ecosystem, and sharp-eyed students had started connecting the dots.

As for Blair... she had dropped out. Saying something like his parents got a job in another city, not like many believed. And where had heard from?It was Adrian who had mentioned it offhand.

Not that he cared about her. Let her disappear, vanish into some quiet shame.

Anyway, it didn’t matter to him.

Besides, he remembered that he hadn’t even gone to uni today.

Not like it mattered much, and he had already so many leaves, a few more wouldn’t matter.

Anyway, he’d been diligent enough the past few days. And a break was well-earned.

But all of that was behind him—for now.

His pie arrived. Still warm. The scent of cinnamon and sugar mingled with peach syrup and flaky crust. The ice cream melted in lazy rivers down the sides, pooling where it met the base of the plate.

He took a bite.

Heaven.

He immediately took another bite, chewing slowly, savoring it. As, he watched life play out beyond the glass—taxis zipping by, people walking briskly, lost in thought, laughter, or phone calls.

The world hadn’t stopped spinning just because he’d made millions.

It was still going on like usual, just like how it had been for eternity.

Anyway, for now, no charts. No screens. No sirens of greed whispering in his ear.

Just food, peace, and a world that, didn’t need anything from him.

(End of Chapter)