Urban System in America

The wealth he'd seen there… it dwarfed him. Men dripping in power and influence, people who could buy lives the way others bought drinks. And the hobbies they indulged in, the sick things they spent fortunes on… twisted pleasures that no one dared to question. Compared to that level of excess, what was a car? What was a few expensive clothes, a nicer apartment?

Pathetic, really.

He realized then that he'd been acting like a fool, clinging to some outdated sense of modesty, as if hiding would keep him safe or make him more 'relatable.' But in the real world, no one cared. People with true wealth and power never apologized for it. They flaunted it. They used it. And still, the world bowed.

So why shouldn't he?

If anything, he was only cheating himself by playing small, by pretending he was just another student. That life wasn't his anymore. It never had been, not after everything that had happened.

His lips tugged into a faint, knowing smile. From now on, he would live as he wanted. No more overthinking. No more pretending. Whether people accepted it or not didn't matter. Whether he ended up with normal friends or no friends at all didn't matter. This was his life. His money. His rules.

And today, it started with a car.

"Yeah," he muttered, more to himself than the others, "what's better than a new car?"

The party the other night had left its mark. All those wealthy, twisted people, flaunting their excess without hesitation. Their hobbies, their perversions, their casual cruelty… compared to that, what was buying a few cars, a wardrobe, maybe a new house? Child's play.

He'd been overthinking it all along, worrying about blending in, about playing at being a "normal" student.

Normal? He almost laughed.

What was normal about him anyway? He'd lived through worse than most of those so-called elites could imagine. And now, with a second life and money in his hands, he was supposed to tiptoe around, afraid of shining too bright?

The thought settled in his chest like a decision already made. Before he could second-guess it, he entered the showroom.

The showroom doors parted on a hush of conditioned air and sterile polish. Inside, the scent of polished metal and leather was thick, almost intoxicating. Cars gleamed under the lights, machines of power and elegance, lined up in perfection.

Rex slid his hands into his pockets and let a grin stretch across his face. "Time for presents."

cars sat beneath spotlights like predators in cages, each one glinting with carefully engineered arrogance. A salesman in a tailored suit glided over, his smile a little too rehearsed.

"Good evening, sir. Looking for something specific?"

Looking at his demeanor and obviously expensive clothes, the sharp eyed salesman didn't dare to neglect and hurried forward,

"Something fast," Rex said, not even bothering to look at the man. His eyes swept the floor, tracing the metallic beasts lined in perfect rows. His voice carried the offhand tone of someone choosing a dessert, not a car. "And expensive. Price doesn't matter."

That last line made the salesman's mask falter. Just a flicker, a twitch in the corner of his mouth. He'd heard it before, no doubt, but rarely with this kind of flat sincerity.

Rex pulled out his phone, flicked open a banking app, and turned the screen toward the man. The number was obscene, enough to make the salesman's breath hitch. "So, can we skip the boring introductions?"

The man laughed a little too quickly. "Of course, sir, of course. Right this way."

Rex strolled after him, hands in his pockets, unhurried, drinking in the gleam of chrome and carbon fiber. He barely registered the hushed whispers of staff, the way a few of them straightened their ties and tried not to stare. He wasn't trying to impress them, he was simply bored of that cliche looking down and slapping stuff.

And then he saw it.

The crimson machine.

Rex stopped mid-stride. The rest of the showroom blurred, dimmed, until all he saw was the low-slung beast gleaming under its spotlight. Crimson paint caught the light like liquid fire, flowing over curves that seemed less designed and more sculpted, like wind itself had been forced to kneel and take shape.

It wasn't just a car. It was hunger made metal, a predator crouched and waiting.

He felt his lips tug into a slow grin. "That one."

The salesman nearly tripped over his own polished shoes as he hurried forward, voice rising with well-practiced enthusiasm.

"An excellent eye, sir! That is the Ferrera Daytona SR3 — part of the Icona series, limited to just 599 units worldwide." He gestured grandly, as if unveiling royalty, while Rex simply walked closer, gaze locked on the car's sinuous lines.

"The heart of this beauty," the man continued breathlessly, "is Ferrari's crown jewel… a 6.5-liter naturally aspirated V12, the F140HC engine. No turbos, no electric tricks… pure, old-school power. It's one of the last true screaming V12s in the world, revving to an outrageous 9,500 rpm. The sound alone is… well, sir, it's symphonic." His hand fluttered in the air as if he could already hear it. "Zero to sixty in just 2.85 seconds, a top speed over 340 kilometers per hour… that's 211 miles an hour, for perspective. This isn't just a car, it's a bullet sculpted into art

Rex crouched slightly, eyes glinting as his fingers hovered just above the crimson bodywork. The numbers were impressive, but it wasn't the stats that pulled him in. It was the aura. Specs meant nothing without the soul to back it up. What pulled him in was the way the car looked alive, like it could wake at any second and devour the road.

The salesman's voice dropped lower, more reverent, as though he were reciting scripture. "The transmission is a seven-speed dual-clutch F1 box, lightning-fast shifts, perfectly tuned to keep you always in the power band. The rear-wheel drive keeps it raw, untamed, exactly as Ferrari intended. And then there's the design — inspired directly by Ferrari's Le Mans legends of the 1960s: the 330 P3/4, the 330 P4, the 412 P. This car isn't just new, it's heritage reborn." it … truly is a driver's dream. It blends Ferreri's Le Mans heritage with modern hypercar engineering."

He began to circle with Rex, gesturing broadly. "Carbon-fiber monocoque chassis and panels, featherlight at just under 1,500 kilograms dry. Every curve, every vent, is functional — no fake lines, no active aero gimmicks. It breathes with the air. Butterfly doors with built-in air channels to feed the engine, a removable targa roof to let you hear every note of that V12 scream against the sky. Imagine the sound of that V12 with nothing between you and the sky. It's not just a car, sir, it's a living sculpture of speed."

He paused, expecting a gasp, or at least some outward sign of awe. Instead, Rex only tilted his head, lips curling in amusement.

"How much?"

"Base price…" The salesman's throat bobbed. "Around 2.25 million USD. Though, with exclusivity and demand, the actual—"

"I'll take it."

The words were delivered so flat, so immediate, that it froze the man in place. For a moment, the showroom's hum seemed to dim, the junior staff exchanging wide-eyed glances. Nobody bought a car like this the way someone ordered fast food.

(End of Chapter)