Los Angeles, the City of Angels in southwestern California, had a background almost identical to Seaside City's. Both were major cities that had developed during the gold rush.
There was good reason the Spanish had called this place heaven. Its climate and scenery were utterly different from those of the East Coast—romantic, leisurely, and full of charm.
San Pedro Bay and Santa Monica Bay, with their beautiful beaches, were popular tourist destinations for countless West Coast residents. Mexican-style streets and parks preserved the ethnic flavor of the last century, while urban parks and concert halls exuded elegance. And, of course, there was the famous Hollywood.
On a street not far from Disneyland in Los Angeles, an old building with an unmistakable Spanish flair stood at a corner. A shining sign hung on its first floor, clashing somewhat with the building's style yet creating a strangely timeless beauty.
The bar's name was simple, made up of only three letters: LUX, which could be understood as an abbreviation of Lucifer's name.
Yet beneath the glow of its sign, there were no burly security guards in black suits and sunglasses like those outside ordinary bars. This bar was exceptionally quiet; even when pressed against the building's walls, one could not hear the music inside.
With a creak, the somewhat weathered wooden door was pushed open, revealing a dim corridor. But after taking only a few steps inside, one could see neon-like lights.
High heels clicked against the metal floor, their sound carrying a faint vibration. The female bartender paused, and a faint light flickered in her eyes.
She lightly tapped the counter with her fingers. After a while, a figure in a black suit appeared on the second-floor balcony of the bar. Holding a glass of red wine, he looked down at the