More than an hour after Martin left the Queen's Bar, the Hollywood police finally showed up.
By that time, Martin and his group had already arrived outside Chelsea's apartment building.
This area was part of Los Angeles' slums, where crime ran rampant.
Right downstairs, Wentworth saw a white man buying drugs from a Black dealer, who had a black handgun brazenly tucked into his waistband.
As Martin's group stepped out of the car, the Black dealer instantly became wary. He quickly handed a small packet to the white man and waved him away.
Then, resting his hand on the grip of his gun, he locked eyes on Martin's group.
When he noticed Martin—who was wearing a mask and sunglasses—his expression changed. Not because he recognized Martin, but because he spotted the Patek Philippe watch on Martin's wrist.
Greed flared in the Black dealer's eyes.
However, he didn't act impulsively. Every member of this group was tall and well-built, including Martin and Wentworth, who both had an imposing presence. They didn't look like easy targets.
As they headed upstairs, Gordon remarked, "We've been marked."
Martin chuckled, shaking his wrist to show off his watch. "All because of this." [1]
Wentworth felt a bit nervous, but he was even more surprised by how nonchalant Martin was.
Then, recalling Martin's past exploits, it suddenly didn't seem so strange. Clearly, his backer was a man with nerves of steel.
They reached the fourth floor—Room 405.
This was where Chelsea, the dancer, lived.
Before they even entered, they heard yelling and cries for help from inside.
"You fing btch! You've owed me six months' rent! What's wrong with letting me have a little fun? Don't think I don't know what kind of whore you are. If you let other men f* you, why not me? If you don't wanna end up on the street, then stop fighting back—"
"Help! Help! Somebody help me!"
One of the bodyguards pushed it open, revealing a large Black man pinning a curvy white woman down on the couch, trying to assault her.
"Who the f*** are you?! This is my place—get out!"
Martin ignored him and walked straight inside.
The woman on the couch saw hope and screamed, "Help me! This bastard is trying to r**e me!"
The Black man grew furious. He got up from the woman and stormed toward Martin. "Who the hell are you people?! This is my place—get the f*** out—"
Before he could finish, Gordon grabbed his outstretched hand and twisted.
"AAAHH! It's broken! Stop, stop!"
Martin didn't even glance at him. He calmly picked up a chair, placed it in front of the couch, and sat down.
"Y-Yeah... Who are you guys?"
Realizing that Martin's group was even more intimidating than her landlord, Chelsea grew nervous. Her mind raced, trying to figure out if these men were debt collectors or clients she had stolen from...
"You know Charles Gagilo? The bouncer from Queen's Bar?"
"Charles? Look, whatever he did has nothing to do with me! I just slept with him a few times. If you have a problem, go find him, not me."
Hearing that these people were here for Charles, Chelsea immediately tried to distance herself.
The Black landlord, who was still restrained by Gordon, cursed, "Ha! I knew you were a whore! Charles can f*** you, but I can't?!"
The idiot clearly had no sense of self-preservation—he was still fixated on that nonsense even in this situation.
Ignoring him, Chelsea insisted, "Seriously, I don't have any other connection with Charles. We barely know each other."
"Relax. We're not here to cause you trouble, just to ask a few questions. Do you know where Charles lives?"
Chelsea's eyes flickered slightly before she quickly answered.
Martin smiled faintly, stood up, adjusted his clothes, and turned as if to leave. "Looks like we'll have to leave you with your landlord, then."
"Alright, alright! I know where Charles lives! I've been there before. But I have a condition."
Martin's tone remained indifferent. "What is it?"
"Can you help me get out of here? Find me a new place to live?"
"That's not a problem. You can pack your things and leave with us right now."
"No way! This b*tch still owes me six months' rent!" the landlord shouted.
"Ten grand." The landlord's eyes darted around as he quoted a ridiculously inflated price.
But then he saw the man questioning Chelsea turn to her and say, "Go pack your stuff."
Then that same man started walking toward him.
His legs went weak. "W-What are you doing?"
"The rental contract."
"I'm not giving it to you!"
"AAAHH! Okay, okay! It's in my room! Bedroom, nightstand, second drawer! Let go, let go!"
The landlord was already on his knees.
"401! The door's unlocked!"
A moment later, a bodyguard returned with a contract. "Boss, found it."
Martin took a glance and sneered. "Rent's listed as $4,900. You asked for ten grand?"
"Fine! $4,900! My bad!" The landlord quickly admitted defeat.
Soon, Chelsea finished packing and left with Martin's group, leaving the landlord sobbing in the room.
On the way out, Chelsea gave Martin a curious look. "Did you actually pay him?"
"Of course. I'm a law-abiding citizen. Remember, you owe me $4,900."
Chelsea glanced back at the landlord and scoffed.
When they reached the ground floor, they saw a group of over a dozen Black men confronting the two bodyguards Martin had left watching the car.
Four of them were openly waving guns.
Martin's bodyguards had drawn their guns as well.
Wentworth and Chelsea both stopped in their tracks. In their understanding of the world, the correct response to this situation was to hide somewhere safe and call the police.
But then, to their shock, Martin and his three bodyguards kept walking straight toward the armed gang.
"Is your friend insane?" Chelsea whispered to Wentworth, stunned.
"Uh... that's my boss."
Wentworth looked conflicted, unsure if he should follow or stay put and observe.
But in the end, he made his decision.
He gritted his teeth and hurried after them.
"F**k, are they out of their minds?!"
Chelsea hesitated before following as well—though at a slower pace, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger.
The gang members brandished their guns, shouting, "F**k you! We've got four guns! Get the hell out of the way! We just want the car!"
Martin's bodyguards remained silent, their grips steady on their weapons.
By now, Martin had walked right up to the gang, drawing their attention.
One of the gunmen suddenly pointed excitedly.
"That's him! He's the rich white kid!"
[GodOfReader 1: MC said the N-word Hard R.]