"Ugh, how much longer do we have to wait?
I swear, if I were still alive, I'd never be caught dead standing this close to people who smell like this."
Jenny looked up at him with curious eyes.
"What did you do before you died?"
He smirked.
"What didn't I do? I was rich, good-looking, basically a legend in L.A.
All the hottest girls chased me.
I used to rotate Ferraris and Lamborghinis like other people rotate socks.
One time, a girl made me laugh, and I bought her a $10,000 Chanel bag. Just like that."
He puffed out his chest.
Jenny frowned.
"You talk a lot for someone who's not that good-looking."
He blinked.
"Excuse me? People used to say I looked just like Timothée Chalamet!"
"Who?"
"Ugh. Forget it. What's your name?"
"Jenny. What's yours?"
"Justin.
And seriously, your parents should've taught you some respect."
"Don't talk about my parents! They were teachers!
I'm very well-mannered!"
"My dad owns Westbridge Construction.
He probably built your school, your house—heck, maybe even the street you lived on."
It was like a fight between kids at recess.
"God, I hate this place. If I had my phone, I'd call my dad and get fast-tracked through judgment.
He'd throw money at the problem and boom—reincarnation.
But no phones, no Wi-Fi... What kind of backwater place is this?"
It's the afterlife, moron.
There's no signal here.
He wasn't done.
He turned to a tall woman nearby—confident, statuesque, the kind of beauty that made silence feel loud.
"Hey, miss. Sure you haven't seen me before?
I was on TV once. Ever watch Bizarre People on cable?"
She barely looked up.
"No. Sorry."
"You're not from L.A.?"
"I am."
"Then you must know the Starbucks on Santa Monica Boulevard, right?
My dad owns that building."
"I don't really go to Starbucks. Too crowded."
"Oh… so you like quiet places.
That's cool.
Hey, were you a model or an actress, maybe?
My uncle runs a talent agency—Simon Ellis Entertainment. You've probably heard of it?"
"Not interested."
She gave a polite, tired smile, then stopped replying altogether.
He kept buzzing.
She stopped swatting.
I stood there watching, deeply entertained.
You might've gotten by on money and looks while you were alive, buddy…
but here? You're just noise.
There were others like him, too.People who were famous once—A disgraced politician who took bribes and died by suicide.An ex-baseball player who'd faded after an injury.An old trot singer whose songs still echoed in elderly karaoke bars.
They still had some presence. People whispered when they passed.
And me?
I was no one.
Maybe I should've gone into sports, I thought.Could've made a name for myself.Instead, I spent years chasing a title I never earned. Prosecutor? What a joke.
Surrounded by names people remembered,I felt invisible.
But in the month I'd spent waiting here,I'd spoken with many.Some I came to like.A few I hoped I'd never see again.
And now… it was my turn.
My name had been called.
And with a heart full of nerves, regret, and a strange kind of anticipation—I walked into the courtroom.