Urban System in America

"Two-point-two-five million for a car. Hm." He circled the Daytona slowly, his steps unhurried, eyes drinking in the crimson predator. "You make it sound like a bargain."

"Two-point-two-five million is the base price…sir" The man added. "Though, with exclusivity and demand, the actual figure is closer to—"

"Three?" Rex cut in smoothly, voice flat, almost bored. "Or are you greedy enough to try pushing it to four?"

The salesman blinked, caught off guard. "Well, sir, you must understand… units this rare attract a certain market. for a car of this caliber, sir, it truly is. Ferreri only made 599 of these globally. You're not just buying performance ... you're buying history, legacy, prestige. To own one is to join an elite few. Every detail, every stitch in the leather, is hand-crafted perfection. To own this car Collectors, billionaires—"

Rex straightened, turning his gaze on him with a slight tilt of the head, like a cat watching a mouse try to explain itself. "Collectors," he repeated, his tone laced with amusement. "Funny. I don't see any of them here, do you? Just me."

The salesman's smile tightened. "Yes, of course, but the dealership—"

"—wants its cut." Rex finished for him, chuckling. "Naturally. Tell me, how much of a cut are you hoping to pocket? Ten percent? Fifteen? Or do you want to retire off my wallet tonight?"

The man's ears reddened. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Rex circled around the car, admiring its beauty, before finally stopping at the driver's side, his reflection warped in the glossy paint. His smile grew sharper. "Legacy, prestige, exclusivity… you guys really know how to make paying millions sound like charity work."

The salesman's smile froze, uncertain whether he was being mocked or tested. His palms began to sweat despite the showroom's perfect climate control.

Rex leaned slightly, eyes narrowing at the car's lines one last time. "I'll take it."

The salesman blinked. "Pardon… sir?"

"I said I'll take it," he repeated casually, as though he were talking about buying a sandwich.

The salesman nearly dropped his tablet. Customers usually dragged negotiations out for weeks, sometimes months, circling the car like vultures before committing. This one just tossed two million on the table as though it were pocket change.

But strangely, instead of being overjoyed, and bowing in gratitude for Rex's instant "I'll take it," the salesman's gut twisted. His trained smile strained at the edges, his lips twitching like he'd swallowed the wrong line. He coughed, stalling.

"…Sir, there's just one small detail."

Rex's brows arched. "Small detail?"

The man fidgeted, his polished shoes squeaking against the marble floor. "Sir, it-t's…It's just… This unit, specifically… it's a display model. Not for sale. Of course, we can place a custom order for you — your exact preferences, colors, interior finishes, everything. Delivery within six months at most. And in the meantime—"

Rex looked, amusement draining from his face. His voice was flat, almost sharp. "Six months."

The salesman swallowed hard. "Yes, sir. That's the earliest Ferreri can—"

Rex's frown cut him off like a blade. "I like this one. I want to buy this one."

The salesman winced as though stabbed. "Sorry, sir, that's not possible. You can, however, place an order—"

But Rex was already done. His interest evaporated like steam. "Forget it." He turned on his heel without hesitation. "Not interested."

The salesman's heart lurched. This was the kind of customer dealership managers prayed for at night… rich, decisive, reckless. And he was walking out. His big commission. He grit his teeth and lunged forward.

"Wait! Please—" The man's voice cracked as he chased after Rex. "If you could wait just one moment, sir, I'll… I'll bring the manager. He may… he may find a solution."

Rex didn't slow, but his shoulders lifted in a faint shrug. "Five minutes. No more."

The salesman bolted, nearly slipping in his panic.

A few minutes later, a well-groomed manager appeared, all charm and practiced smiles. His suit alone probably cost thousands, and his tone dripped with oil-slick politeness.

"Good evening, sir. I'm the manager here. Forgive my colleague. Perhaps… we can come to an understanding. Rest assured, we take great pride in matching the right client to the right machine."

Rex turned his gaze on him, slow, deliberate. "So you're the one pulling the strings."

The manager chuckled, clasping his hands. "Merely ensuring fairness, sir. The Daytona SR3 is—"

"Rare, exclusive, heritage, blah blah." Rex waved a hand lazily, cutting him off. "Spare me the brochure recital. I asked how much, not for a bedtime story."

The salesman visibly shrank. The manager's jaw flexed, though his smile stayed glued on.

Rex stepped closer to the Ferreri, crouched again, fingers brushing the edge of the wheel rim. "You know what I see?" he said casually. "Not a limited-edition masterpiece. I see a car that's been sitting here for months, waiting for someone stupid enough to overpay just so you can collect your fat commission."

The salesman nearly choked. The manager's knuckles whitened behind his clasped hands. Inside, his thoughts snarled. This brat. This isn't some mass-market sedan, this is a Ferreri Icona! You don't "haggle" over Ferreris. You beg. You grovel. You line up for months! And yet here you are, spitting in my face like I'm some used-car peddler. Damn it, I thought I hit the jackpot… a spoiled kid with too much money, easy pickings, a fat commission falling right into my lap. This Daytona's been rotting here for months because no one has the guts or wallet to take it. And finally, finally someone steps up… and it's this arrogant punk who wants to turn me into the beggar.

Rex rose, dusting off his hands as though he'd touched something dirty. Then he grinned. "So let's stop pretending. I'm not here to beg for permission to buy. I'm here to decide if you deserve to sell it to me."

The words hung in the air.

The manager scrambled, forcing a smile. He cleared his throat, taking a half-step closer. "Of course, I must be honest… officially, this particular model is purely for display. Headquarters sent it here because, well…" He gave a nervous chuckle, searching for the right words. "The company likes to… how should I say… remind people of Ferrari's untouchable craftsmanship.…so people in this region would truly appreciate such a masterpiece. We're only trusted to guard it, not sell it."

He gave a little chuckle, though his jaw was stiff. Damn it, don't scare him off too soon. Keep him warm, make him ask.

Rex finally looked at him, eyes narrowing. "So you're saying it's just here to waste space?"

The manager's smile faltered for the briefest second before snapping back in place. "Of course not, sir, of course not. It elevates the showroom, inspires clients, builds prestige." His hand brushed the car's mirror as though it were holy relic. Then he leaned in, lowering his voice. "But… rules exist for men, not machines. A car like this wasn't made to sit under showroom lights. It was made to breathe, to run, to dominate. Leaving it here, caged, feels almost… wrong, wouldn't you agree?"

Rex finally glanced at him. A single, calm, amused look..

But it made the manager's pulse skip.

He swallowed. Alright, time to test him. Don't blow it. Play it careful.

He hesitated, calculating if this was the moment to gamble. Damn it, he looks like money. I can't lose this. If I sell it at full sticker plus some 'adjustment,' my commission alone could buy me a new apartment.

He coughed softly, feigning reluctance. "Now, between us…" He leaned in, lowering his voice as if confiding a dangerous secret. "…if a man of true taste insisted… truly insisted … then… there might be ways to, ah, move certain mountains." He gave a quick, nervous laugh. "Naturally, such mountains… don't move freely. They require… adjustment."

"If you're willing to… adjust a bit, sir, I could… possibly make arrangements. Quietly. To let this beauty leave with you today."

Rex tilted his head, smirk tugging at his mouth. "Adjustment, huh?" He tapped the hood lightly with two fingers, like knocking on someone's skull. "Funny word for squeezing a buyer dry."

The manager's smile didn't crack, but inside his gut clenched. Shit. He caught that. No, no, keep smiling. You're the professional here. This brat's just showing off.

"Not at all, sir," he said smoothly, though a bead of sweat prickled at his hairline. "I only meant that, with the right… considerations, one can arrange certain exceptions. Exclusivity has its price, of course—"

"Exclusivity." Rex let the word hang, then chuckled under his breath. "You know what I see when I look at this 'exclusive' beast? A dust magnet. Been sitting here for months, hasn't it?"

The manager's throat tightened. Goddamn punk, how does he know? He forced another chuckle. "Sir, this is Ferreri. Vehicles of this caliber aren't rushed. They wait for the right client."

"Right client?" Rex's eyes glittered with amusement. "You mean some poor bastard willing to get fleeced so you can pocket a fat commission."

That hit home. The manager's jaw almost twitched before he locked it down. Fleeced? Commission? This arrogant brat— I should toss him out. But no. No! That commission could pay my mortgage twice over. Bite your tongue, smile, play the game.

So he bowed his head a fraction. "You misunderstand, sir. We don't fleece. We curate. A Daytona doesn't need to be sold. It's already a legend. What you'd be acquiring is not just a car, but a piece of history."

(End of Chapter)