Urban System in America

And then the chaos really hit.

Students pressed forward, bodies collapsing the circle. Phones shoved so close to his face he could see his own reflection in cracked screens. Flashes went off nonstop, voices tangled into one messy roar. Somebody actually squealed... not screamed, squealed... like they'd just seen a boy band idol instead of a guy stepping out of a car.

Rex tried to cut through, muttering something about class, but it was like shoving through a mosh pit at a rock concert. Every step forward felt like trying to swim in syrup... noisy, sticky, and way too many people in his personal space.

Hands were everywhere. His shoulders got patted like he was a long-lost friend. Someone tugged his arm as if they planned to drag him home for dinner. Hands brushed his shoulders, tugged at his arms, skimmed across his chest. He couldn't even tell which touches were "oops, sorry" and which were flat-out bold grabs. Fingers skimmed across his chest, and he had a split second of wait—hold on, was that on purpose? before another hand ruffled his hair like he was a lucky cat statue.

Phones practically poked him in the eye, flashes going off like he was on a red carpet he hadn't agreed to walk. One girl squealed his name... which was weird, because he definitely hadn't introduced himself. Another just screamed. No words. Just a raw, high-pitched "AAAAHH!" like she was being exorcised.

He forced his voice low, sharp, trying to pierce through the noise.

""Okay—okay, guys. Move... seriously, I need to get to class."

Nobody listened. The words were eaten alive by the chaos. If anything, it only seemed to make them push closer, as if his voice was confirmation that he was real, flesh and blood, not just some dream spilling out of a Ferrari.

For one dizzying second, he seriously thought he might not get out in one piece. And was genuinely worried his obituary would read: Died tragically young, suffocated under a pile of overexcited college students.

Then, salvation... or so he thought. A passing professor noticed the mob and swooped in, his voice sharp and commanding as he barked at the students.

"What's the meaning of this chaos?! Step aside, step aside at once!"

For Rex, it was like hearing angels sing. He almost teared up on the spot, practically seeing a halo glow behind the man's head. Finally, a messiah had descended, parting the crowd with authority, saving him from being swallowed whole by a horde of hormone-fueled undergrads. He could've hugged the guy right there.

But then the professor's eyes landed on the Ferreri.

The halo shattered instantly. His stride slowed, his words cut off, and in the blink of an eye his scowl flipped into an expression Rex knew all too well — the wide-eyed, starstruck look of every car fanatic on the planet.

"Oh… my… god," the professor muttered, voice dropping low and reverent. He pushed past the students like they didn't exist, circling toward the car with the kind of awe usually reserved for ancient relics. His finger actually trembled as he pointed. "That… that's a Daytona SR3. Carbon-fiber monocoque… butterfly doors… good heavens, they only made five hundred and ninety-nine of these!"

Rex's jaw slackened. This guy. Seriously?

Damn, it seems like the professor is a car fanatic, I mean it's not like a professor can't be a car fanatic, but please save me first.

The professor bent slightly, squinting at the wheels. "Forged magnesium… look at that brake caliper design! And the exhaust...listen, listen, you don't get this symmetry anymore! Absolutely flawless! Ah, and the bodywork, good god, the aerodynamics…"

He rattled off facts with the zeal of a preacher quoting holy scripture. Students who had been jostling Rex moments ago now leaned in too, hanging on every word like they were in lecture... except this time, they were actually paying attention. Some even started scribbling notes on their phones, because apparently Ferrari trivia had just become syllabus material.

Meanwhile, Rex stood there, frozen. His supposed savior hadn't just ditched him, the man had defected to the enemy. The professor wasn't rescuing him, he was joining the mob.

Rex almost collapsed on the spot. This was betrayal in its purest form.

Still, he wasn't going to waste the tiny miracle. While the professor waxed poetic about V12 engines and passive aerodynamics, he forced a polite smile, muttered something about having class, and squeezed through the gap before the tide closed again.

The girls groaned, a few sighs of disappointment slipping out as Rex slipped away, but their attention shifted almost instantly back to the Ferreri. If they couldn't crowd him, they could at least bask in the presence of the machine that brought him here.

They circled it reverently, like worshippers around an altar, phones raised at every angle. Some crouched to catch the reflection of the sun along the curves, one guy crouched so low it looked like he was about to bow, trying to capture the perfect angle of the exhaust, others posed with peace signs and practiced smiles as if they'd stumbled onto the set of a luxury photoshoot.

The Ferrari became the star, and they treated it with surprising respect... nobody dared to touch, Not even a single finger smudge. The car radiated its own invisible barrier — a two-million-dollar aura that screamed, Look, but don't you dare lay a hand.

Rex, though? He didn't get the same courtesy.

By the time he slipped free of the mob, his hair was disheveled, his collar tugged out of shape, and his face… well, it looked like he had lost a fight with a makeup aisle. Lipstick marks stained his cheeks, jawline, even the corner of his forehead. He didn't even know how they got there. His skin still tingled from where hands had brushed — or outright grabbed — his arms, shoulders, maybe even places they had no business reaching, proof of just how "welcoming" his reception had been.

He exhaled, forcing his composure back into place. At least his clothes had survived. Somehow, against all odds, his outfit was still clean, untouched by the red smears that had turned his face into an accidental canvas. Small mercies.

(End of Chapter)