MTL - Destined Wife: The Apple of My Eye - v6 Chapter 132 mean

When Allen Zhang opened my eyes, he found himself on the free air of the West Coast.He became a city explorer.He started off with no dog, no identity, not even a tent.Fortunately, he gained a daily intelligence system and made many like-minded friends.[Daily Intelligence: At the club on 134 Hopson Street, there are a large number of recyclable cans and clear beverage bottles in the green trash bin in the alley.][Daily Intelligence: In the red trash can on 96 Eito Street, there are unfinished burgers and 7 fresh flowers, as well as an unopened bottle of Pinot Noir red wine.][Daily Intelligence: Your good neighbor Jesse has a scratch-off lottery ticket worth $5000 in their tent!][Daily Intelligence: Mike's junkyard is selling a 1976 GMC camper van that has been parked in the suburbs for twenty years for a low price of $200. Details: At the Old Pick Garage, there is someone who can fix it.]Fxxk!! Life has turned into a ridiculous scavenger game.Allen Zhang decides to start leveling up from the streets of the novice village, striving for a better tomorrow.

“You’re not taking me to bed. Ever.”

Ayaan is a young resident aspiring to be a surgeon, the final stage of a full on graduated plague doctor. However, in her attempt to redeem herself after a sudden discontinuation, she finds herself unravelling mysteries about her institution that are rather gut wrenching. Stick around and watch her persevere in a world full of monsters; creatures and humans alike.

What happens when, in the midst of struggling to keep up with life, you suddenly discover that you were a princess in a past life? Now, you're just a waitress with a drunken mother and a pile of bills to pay. But deep down, you know one thing: you’ll find the stupid jerk responsible for ending your royal life, no matter what it takes.Alexia POV:Then there are the spoiled, narcissistic rich jerks who think their daddy's car gives them a free pass to treat women like objects. Not today, Satan. These guys are like walking perfume ads with egos bigger than their bank accounts. I swear, they should just marry themselves—they're clearly their own type.When one of those jerks lands at my table, I can smell the entitlement from a mile away. I don't even wait for the inevitable sleazy pickup line or the “accidental” brush of their hand against mine. Nope. I pawn them off on one of the other waiters faster than you can say “unpaid rent.”