After an intense workout session, he was absolutely beat, but still in a good mood.
Seeing him like this, Victor and Kaelan were a bit confused. Today’s routine had been brutal—way tougher than usual—so it didn’t make much sense why their boss looked so... content.
Still panting from the run, Victor exchanged a glance with Kaelan.
"Is it just ," he whispered, "or is Boss actually smiling?"
Kaelan shrugged. "Youth, maybe?"
Neither of them could figure it out, so they dropped it and followed him back without asking.
Back ho, Rex took a cold shower, the icy water shocking his sore muscles awake and washing away the fatigue. Refreshed, he slipped into a clean set of casual ho clothes—simple trouser and a loose T-shirt—then headed to the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves like he was about to perform a mission.
Today, he felt like treating himself.
He grabbed eggs, cherry tomatoes, a block of cheddar, fresh spinach, and so leftover mushrooms from the fridge.
He made a fluffy olette—perfectly golden on the outside and packed with sautéed mushrooms, cheese, and a touch of chili flakes for a subtle kick. On the side, he toasted so sourdough bread, rubbed it with a bit of garlic, and drizzled it with olive oil.
To top it off, he brewed himself a proper cup of coffee, the rich aroma filling the kitchen as the machine hissed and stead. No instant powder nonsense today—he ground the beans himself. He even threw in a few slices of apple with a drizzle of honey for a sweet finish.
By the ti he plated everything and sat down, the al looked good enough to post on so cooking blog.
He took a bite of the olette and let out a soft, content sigh.
"Not bad," he murmured. "Not bad at all."
There was sothing comforting about starting the day like this—taking ti, putting in the effort, enjoying the little things.
After the hearty breakfast, he stood, stretched lazily, and made his way upstairs to his room.
As he stepped into his room, he threw open the wardrobe doors—and there it was.
A lineup of luxury.
His wardrobe which used to be a sad mix of two-for-one hoodie deals and washed-out T-shirts with cracked graphics in his past life. Now? It looked like a stylist for a K-drama male lead had gone on a shopping spree with no budget limits.
Inside hung rows of fine clothes from top-tier brands, each piece he had carefully selected. No, he wasn’t trying to look like so nouveau riche clown walking around as a billboard for designer logos and definitely not one of those low level clowns who wore a Gucci belt so big it needed its own passport.
His focus was clear: practicality and comfort, wrapped in quiet luxury, the kind of detail you didn’t notice unless you knew what you were looking at.
Sure, these clothes were stupidly expensive—ridiculously so, if you asked the average person—but recently he’d co to understand sothing: in most cases, the price tag did make sense. Not always, of course. So brands had the nerve to sell trash cans labeled "art" and call it fashion. But others? They earned their worth.
Take this t-shirt, for example.
At first glance, it looked like your average twenty bucks tee. Minimalist. Clean. Maybe just a bit more refined around the edges. But this wasn’t just any shirt—it was from an Italian brand called Valen & Noir, and it was made from sothing called baby cashre.
Not regular cashre—baby cashre, which sounded like marketing BS until you looked it up.
Turns out, this particular fabric was sourced from the underfleece of young cashre goats during their first molt. Each goat produced only about 30 grams of usable fiber per year. That ans it takes a mini army of baby goats to make just one T-shirt.
Crazy, right?
The result? Ultra-fine fibers that were softer, lighter, and more breathable than even the best regular cashre. It felt like wearing air—luxurious, warm air spun by nature and craftsmanship. No itching. No sticking. Just smooth, effortless elegance.
And it wasn’t just the t-shirt. Every piece in his wardrobe had a story. Rare fabrics. Custom fits. Designs from the world’s best fashion minds. So yeah, while it cost a small fortune, when you thought about the materials, the detail, the rarity—it didn’t feel like a bad deal.
At least not to him.
Besides, when you lived in a world where image was currency and power hid in the details... dressing well was more than vanity. It was strategy.
Even though he didn’t have any grand ambitions like taking over the world or becoming so corporate overlord, but after living a life of misery and pinching pennies, skipping als, wearing the sa shoes until they fell apart in his past life. Now he just wanted peace, comfort, and the kind of life where he didn’t have to count how many instant noodles were left in the cupboard.
Now that he actually had money? Real, stupid amounts of money? Yeah, he wasn’t gonna pretend he didn’t enjoy it.
Was it a little indulgent? Maybe. Did he care? Not even a little.
So, yeah, fuck worrying about every little thing and just do what you want, buy what you like, and eat what your crave.
Changing into the tee, he smirked at his reflection in the mirror. "Damn. If broke- could see this now, he’d cry." Reason? Because this tee cost more than his monthly salary in past life, yeah, sotis, life is just so fucking unfair."
He picked out the rest of the outfit without overthinking it—just stuff that felt right.
A charcoal casual jacket, clean and effortless. A solid pair of light blue jeans, fitted just right—none of that stiff, cardboard feel or fake rips pretending to be edgy. These had so stretch, moved easy, and made his legs look damn good, if he said so himself. Then ca the sneakers—white, low-top, ridiculously clean. The kind that made you walk carefully around puddles like your life depended on it.
Nothing too flashy. Just stuff that hit that sweet spot between "chill" and "put together." Stuff that made him feel good. Confident.
Throwing in so small accessories, like a simple chain necklace, a leather bracelet, a few sprays of Tropic Prism, his own creation,
A simple chain, nothing flashy—just a sleek silver piece that caught the light when he moved. On his wrist, a worn leather bracelet, familiar and comfortable. And then the newest addition—a 57k crosshair-dial watch with a leather strap, sothing he picked up on a recent shopping spree. Subtle flex.
Then ca the final touch.
Tropic Prism. His own creation. He gave himself a few casual spritzes—neck, collarbone, wrist.
The effect was instant.
Cool. Crisp. Like soone cracked open a chilled bottle of ocean air and poured it over his soul. The first hit was citrusy—bright, sharp and a bit electric, like sunlight flashing across saltwater. Then ca the clean marine breeze, laced with soft tropical florals. Refreshing, but not too overpowering.
As it settled, deeper notes crept in—sun-ward skin, driftwood drying under the sun, and just a whisper of sea salt. Not in-your-face. Just... present. Lingering.
He felt fresh. Sharp. Awake
"Yeah," he muttered, checking himself in the mirror and gave himself a nod.
Not bad. Not bad at all.
This—this was the power of money. He was already handso, ridiculously handso, sure, but now? His looks were on a whole other level. Totally off the charts. Even he had to blink at his own reflection, like, Damn... when did I beco this dangerous?
Outfit? On point.
Mood? Set.
Scent? Locked in.
Ti to move.
(End of Chapter)
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