Urban System in America

Rex barked out a laugh, startling a junior salesman hovering nearby. "History? Don't try to feed me the brochure again. I asked a simple question: how much for this exact car? Or is that too much for your 'curated' brain to handle?"

The jab landed like a slap. The manager's fingernails dug into his palm behind his back. This son of a bitch! Smug little bastard… He's playing me like a fiddle. But I can't lose him. I can't!

So, with a strained grin, he leaned closer, lowering his voice again. "If… and I stress, if … you're serious about taking this one, I may be able to authorize a… special arrangement. But such arrangements come at a premium."

Rex's smirk widened as he straightened up. "Premium, huh? You want me to pay more for a car that's been gathering fingerprints for half a year?"

The manager froze for half a second. His smile wavered. His soul screamed. This is torture. Actual torture. Why did I even open my mouth? He's wringing me out like a wet rag.

Rex let out a low laugh, a scoff that echoed faintly in the glassy showroom. "Do I look like some fool whose money grows on trees? If you want to sell, then sell. If not, it's fine. This isn't the only car company in the world. Plenty of amazing toys out there." He turned, taking two lazy steps toward the door.

The manager's heart jumped into his throat. For a heartbeat, the mask slipped, irritation flaring in his eyes. Inside, he cursed. Wait, wait— no, no, no! Don't you dare walk out. I thought I finally struck gold, and this brat was some fool like other rich fools. Finally, someone willing to bite at this price. Now he's slipping through my fingers. Dammit, this car's been rotting here for months, terrifying off buyers with its price tag, and now—

"Wait," the manager blurted. His voice cracked slightly before he smoothed it back into velvet. "Sir! Please, let's not be hasty. I'm sure we can…find common ground."

Rex paused mid-step, just enough to make the man sweat harder. He looked back over his shoulder, expression unreadable. "Common ground? That sounds like more sales pitch."

The manager forced a laugh, throat dry. "Not at all. What I mean is… I can bend certain rules. You could have this very car, today, if we adjust the price accordingly."

"Adjust again." Rex turned fully now, eyes narrowing in mock thought. "See, every time you say that word, all I hear is you trying to milk me." He pointed at the car. "This thing isn't flying off the lot. It's stuck here like a stubborn stain. And you—" he jabbed a finger toward the manager's chest, "you're drooling for commission."

The manager almost flinched. His smile faltered, teeth grinding behind his lips. Goddamn punk, acting like he knows the business. If you weren't loaded, I'd have thrown your arrogant ass out by now. But no, you had to be the one fool with pockets deep enough to take this monster…

Rex chuckled at his silence, then started walking again. "Forget it. I'll just head to Lambo down the street. Heard they actually sell cars, not fairy tales."

That was a knife to the gut. The manager's mask dropped for half a second… eyes widening, pulse thundering. Lambo? No! If he goes there, not only do I lose him, but they'll brag about stealing my whale!

"Wait!" The word ripped out sharper than he intended. He swallowed hard, forcing his charm back, but his forehead was slick with sweat now. "Please, sir. Let's talk. You want a deal? Fine. A deal you'll never hear in another Ferrari showroom."

Rex stopped again, arms folded, eyebrows raised. "Now we're getting somewhere. But I'm already bored. Convince me why I shouldn't just leave."

The manager's gut twisted. Convince him? Christ, this isn't a negotiation, it's a goddamn execution. He's holding the knife, and I'm offering my own throat. Still, he straightened his suit, voice dropping to a husky whisper.

"Full payment. No questions asked. Sign today, drive it out. I'll eat the loss in commission."

Rex turned back slowly, expression calm, unreadable. "Oh? Good. But… I don't feel like buying anymore."

The manager and salesman froze, their carefully polished smiles crumbling into pale panic. Their jaws tightened as if they were about to explode.

The silence stretched, heavy as lead. Staff in the background whispered nervously, shuffling papers they didn't need to touch. Nobody knew what to do … this wasn't how customers behaved in a Ferrari showroom. Usually, people begged, pleaded, bragged about their bank accounts just for a chance to sign for a car like this. But this boy… he treated it like buying chewing gum.

Just as the silence grew unbearable, Rex added, almost lazily, "Unless, of course," he drawled, "you're willing to give me a discount. I know you have the authority. Big discounts, even."

The room went dead still. You could've heard the hum of the air conditioning. The silence was heavy enough to choke on. Staff in the background exchanged nervous glances The salesman's throat clicked as he swallowed. The receptionist at the desk actually paused mid-typing, eyes wide.

The manager's smile twitched violently. Inside, his thoughts were a storm of curses. Shit. Shit!  This little bastard's cornering me. I wanted to push him higher, squeeze him for a fat bonus, and now he's twisting my arm. If I say no, he'll walk. If I fold, I bleed commission all over the floor. But if I don't fold, I'll lose the only real buyer I've had in months.

He forced his lips into something resembling a smile, though it looked closer to a grimace. "…Sir, you understand… nobody, and I mean nobody, negotiates for a Daytona SR3. This is Ferrari's pride, a masterpiece. Clients pay what Ferrari asks. They don't haggle like… like this."

Rex tilted his head, amused. "Then maybe Ferrari's been dealing with the wrong clients."

The manager's stomach churned. His face felt hot, but his palms were icy cold.

He tried one last defense, voice faltering despite himself. "Sir… a discount of this scale, it simply isn't policy. It's—"

Rex's grin widened. He turned toward the door again. "Then forget it. I'll buy a different toy somewhere else."

That broke him. Panic cracked through the manager's façade, tearing the smile from his face. Damn it! You arrogant little demon— fine, take the car, take the blood from my veins, just don't walk out that door!

"Wait!" The word ripped from his throat, raw and desperate. He sucked in a sharp breath, smoothed his suit, forced his mask back on. Then, with a voice that sounded almost strangled, he said: "…Very well. Twenty percent off."

The staff gasped quietly, as though witnessing a sacred taboo being broken.

Rex's lips curved upward. "Now we're talking."

The paperwork was wrapped up in record time. Staff moved like frightened birds, terrified of testing his patience again. The crimson beast was officially his. They looked equal parts relieved and shell-shocked, as though they'd just witnessed daylight robbery — except they weren't the robbers this time.

Minutes later, the butterfly doors lifted, and Rex slid into the driver's seat as though it had been built for him alone. The V12 roared to life, shaking the showroom with a predatory snarl.

He didn't linger for theatrics. After the formalities, he eased the car out onto the street, its crimson reflection streaking across the glass, the sound of that twelve-cylinder howl leaving the staff trembling in its wake.

(End of Chapter)