The Century cut through the road with its sheer presence and calm dominance, gliding like a land yacht.
Lucien handled the wheel with deliberate ease—turning, leaning, and letting the car breathe through the morning roads.
"You've always had a hard-on for this car," the voice mocked lazily.
Lucien smirked.
Aldric noticed.
"What's amusing, son?"
"Nothing, Dad," Lucien said, eyes on the road. "Just never thought you and I would have the same taste in cars."
Aldric's eyes drifted to the passing trees outside.
"When I was your age," he began, "we were nowhere near where we are now. My father laid the foundations… but we were still the new blood in a field dominated by old money and arrogant oil barons."
Lucien listened.
"Whenever there was a college function," Aldric continued, "the other boys would show up in the Countach, the Daytona, the F40, the 959… everything loud, flashy, expensive."
His smile was faint. "Your grandfather never cared about appearances. And neither did I. But still… as a man, you feel something twist in you when you watch others live a life you can't afford yet."
He adjusted his cuff.
"Then came my twenty-first birthday. I was returning from college that afternoon—tired, annoyed. I had gotten into a disagreement with one of my lecturers."
Lucien raised a brow.
Aldric almost never talked about his student days.
"He was teaching a module on market expansions," Aldric said. "I challenged him—respectfully—because his outlook on capital allocation in volatile economies was outdated and genuinely dangerous. He took offense. Brushed off everything I said. Spoke to me as if I didn't understand the industry I grew up watching."
A short pause.
"I wasn't in the mood to continue. So I left. Walked to the bus stop. And mind you—" he glanced sideways, "—I didn't have a car back then. I didn't allow myself one. I refused to add any unnecessary burden on my father's finances."
Lucien nodded once, quiet.
"I passed the college parking lot on the way," Aldric continued. "Watched all those boys glare at me from their luxury cars. And that day, something… shifted in me. I sat in my room that evening and asked myself what I had to build so my father would never have to stretch himself for my sake. So that one day, my children wouldn't feel that twist of envy I felt."
He inhaled slowly.
"Then I heard an engine outside. I thought it was your grandfather with the truck. But when I stepped out…"
Aldric smiled—nostalgic and proud.
"…a silver Rolls-Royce Camargue was parked in front of our gate. The sheer arrogance of that grille alone could silence a neighborhood."
Lucien chuckled.
"I ran to him," Aldric said. "He told me it was his new car. My gift was arriving behind it."
A second car pulled into his memory.
"A black Century. Jet-black. Polished so well I could see the Camargue's reflection in it like a mirror. I'd admired that car for years. Form, function, presence… I fell in love immediately."
Lucien kept driving, quiet but genuinely listening.
"I took it to college the next day," Aldric said, shaking his head, smiling faintly. "All the boys flocked to look at it. And the girls—well, they preferred the elegant Japanese Rolls-Royce over the loud Italian wedges."
He laughed softly.
"After that, I bought every generation of Century. There's a garage in the countryside filled with them."
He exhaled, turning slightly in his seat.
"And I've made sure my children will never feel even a grain of envy or scarcity. Everything I built was so none of you would have to walk to a bus stand feeling small."
Lucien smiled at that—quiet, warm, subtle.
"Well then, Dad," he said, "you wouldn't deny me if I asked for something now, right?"
Aldric's brow lifted.
"What is it?"
"I need a motorcycle. Electric, preferably."
Aldric narrowed his eyes.
"So you can sneak out more easily?"
Lucien didn't hesitate.
"Technically… yes."
Aldric exhaled through his nose.
"Fine. Done."
The voice cackled.
"Didn't take much convincing."
Lucien smirked.
"Dad's always hated dishonesty. Might as well tell him straight."
Aldric adjusted his watch.
"After we reach the office, take my card. Get yourself the bike. Also—pick out a car. A small one. Something personal."
Lucien blinked.
"Dad, we already have more than enough cars."
Aldric scoffed.
"You and your brothers do. You, Lucien, have nothing."
The voice chimed in, delighted:
"Nice one."
Lucien only shook his head, laughing under his breath as the Century glided toward the city.
The Century glided through the last turn, its engine barely whispering as Lucien pulled toward the massive iron gates of Rein Industries. The concrete walls rose high, fitted with razor-wire and motion lights—nothing flashy, but unmistakably fortified.
Guards stepped aside the instant they recognized the car.
Some straightened their backs.
Some swallowed hard.
A few muttered "Sir Aldric" under their breath as the gate rolled open.
Lucien slowed the car, eyes scanning the workers moving in and out of the compound.
Forklifts transporting crates.
Trucks being loaded for dispatch.
Employees in matching overalls moving with military precision.
Aldric watched all of it with a quiet, practiced eye.
"This," he said, tone calm but edged with pride, "is what built our name. Not the boardrooms. Not the dinners. Not the awards. This."
Lucien parked near the main building.
Both doors opened at once.
Aldric stepped out, adjusting his sleeves.
Lucien followed, sunglasses slipping down slightly as warm air hit his face.
Several supervisors hurried over immediately.
"Good morning, sir."
"Mr. Rein, everything is prepared."
"Welcome back, sir."
Aldric waved them off gently.
"Let the boy breathe. He's barely stepped out of the car."
Lucien smirked at that.
The voice chuckled inside him.
"Look at that. Respect. Fear. Admiration. All because your old man has a spine of steel."
Lucien ignored it and followed Aldric through the main entrance.
Inside, the atmosphere shifted.
Cooler air.
Marble floors.
Employees in business attire.
Desks arranged in perfect rows.
Phones ringing.
Printers humming.
Conversations clipped and purposeful.
The moment Aldric and Lucien walked in—
Silence rippled like a pulse.
Heads turned.
Whispers followed.
"Is that the youngest Rein?"
"Looks different from the pictures…"
"Walks like he owns the place."
"Looks like trouble."
Lucien kept his expression blank and kept walking.
Aldric didn't slow down.
He led Lucien to the lift, stepped inside, and scanned his card.
Top floor.
As the doors closed, Aldric finally looked at him.
"I'll be busy for an hour. Meetings, calls, the usual."
He handed Lucien a sleek black card.
The weight of it made one thing clear — unlimited access.
"Take this," Aldric said.
"Go buy your bike. Get your car. Get whatever you need."
He paused.
Then added, with that same blunt tone:
"And Lucien… don't buy anything stupid."
The voice snorted.
"Oh, the irony."
Lucien pocketed the card.
"Yeah, yeah. I'll be back before lunch."
The lift dinged open.
Lucien stepped out into the sunlight again, heading toward the parking lot.
The Century gleamed in the corner.
The world hummed softly around him.
He slipped on his sunglasses.
The voice whispered:
"So… electric bike first?"
Lucien smirked.
"Electric bike first."
He walked toward the car—
and the chapter ends on him opening the door.
Lucien parked outside the building — all matte-black panels, sliding glass doors, and a subtle neon-blue strip running across the frame.
The sign read:
"VOLTERRA MOTO — Electric Performance."
He stepped inside.
Instant quiet.
White flooring.
Minimalist displays.
A row of electric bikes mounted on magnetic stands like futuristic art pieces.
No loud music.
No sales buzz.
Just the hum of AC and soft LED lighting running under each platform.
A guy at the counter — hoodie, laptop, wireless earbuds — looked up and gave a casual nod.
"Morning. Here for test rides or browsing?"
Lucien shoved his hands into his pockets.
"Looking for my first electric bike."
"Cool," the guy said, sliding off his seat. "We've got three types — commuters, mid-range torque bikes, and the performance models. Whatever you want to check, go ahead. All unlocked."
No hype.
No sales pitch.
No fake enthusiasm.
Just normal.
Lucien walked through the lineup.
— A slim commuter model, light frame, built for city weaving.
— A mid-range torque bike, compact but powerful.
— A matte-black performance model, angular frame, thick battery housing, gold accents running through the chassis.
The voice hummed inside him.
"…You're eyeing the fast one already. Typical."
Lucien ignored it and crouched beside the performance bike.
The frame was cold.
The battery core sat low for stability.
Clean chainline.
Upgraded suspension.
Dual-disc brakes.
Minimal cockpit — single screen, haptic buttons.
He gripped the handlebar, testing the reach.
Perfect.
The tech-bro salesman walked over, leaning against another bike.
"That one's our top-tier torque model," he said. "0 to 60 in 3.2 seconds.
Good range. Instant acceleration.
Doesn't scream for attention but… yeah, people notice."
Lucien nodded.
"Test ride?"
The guy tossed him a keycard.
"Take the side exit. We've got a private loop for testing.
Helmet's on the rack if you need one."
Lucien took a helmet without comment.
The voice clicked its tongue.
"Oh wow. Look at you. Responsible."
Lucien ignored it again.
He rolled the bike out, thumbed the ignition.
The screen lit up silently.
He twisted the throttle — the bike glided forward with zero sound, just smooth torque kicking in.
On the loop, he leaned into a turn.
Perfect balance.
Fast but not wild.
Predictable but not boring.
He slowed, parked it back in the same spot, and stepped off.
"This one," he said simply.
The salesman nodded, already pulling up the tablet.
"Cool. Paperwork is short. You want standard battery or extended?"
Lucien shrugged.
"Extended."
"Good choice. Charging dock delivered to your house?"
"Yeah."
The voice muttered:
"Efficient. Smooth. No nonsense. Just how you like it."
Lucien leaned on the bike as the salesman processed the forms — calm, collected, not making a spectacle of anything.
A normal experience.
A clean purchase.
Nothing theatrical.
Just a guy getting the bike he wanted.
Lucien ran his thumb along the edge of the bike's display.
"By the way," he asked, "this come in black?"
The salesman nodded. "Yep, this is the black model."
The voice murmured faintly:
"Mm. The usual shade people settle for."
Lucien ignored it and raised an eyebrow.
"Black," he repeated. "This is grey with commitment issues. Got anything darker?"
The salesman hesitated… then lowered his voice.
"Well… officially, this is our darkest production color.
But—between you and me—there is a Midnight variant."
Lucien looked at him.
"Midnight?"
"It's an off-catalog finish. Matte-black with an obsidian tint coat.
Absorbs light instead of reflecting it."
"How much more?"
"Fifty thousand extra."
The voice hummed.
"Steep price… for paint."
But instead of showing it immediately, the salesman lifted a hand.
"Look—before I show you anything… honestly?
You really don't need it."
Lucien watched him.
"It's the same bike. Same performance. Same tech.
The Midnight model is just… a deeper black. Nothing more."
Lucien crouched, eyeing the regular model again.
The salesman tried once more:
"This one already looks black. Most people won't notice anything different."
The voice responded quietly:
"He's right. Sensible advice."
Lucien stood.
"Show me."
The salesman sighed and motioned him to follow.
In a dimmer bay, he uncovered the Midnight variant.
Light vanished into it.
It wasn't black — it was void.
The voice's tone shifted, something colder, almost approving:
"…that suits you."
Lucien didn't hesitate.
"This one."
"No test ride?"
"No need."
The voice spoke again, calm and amused:
"You've already decided."
Lucien nodded toward the tablet.
"What's the total?"
The salesman listed everything:
"Base: S$182,000
Midnight finish: S$50,000
Other charges: S$11,800
Total: S$243,800."
Lucien tapped the Midnight surcharge.
"This is off-catalog.
We can adjust."
The salesman paused — then nodded, understanding.
Lucien continued:
"Twenty-five to you. Twenty-five refunded to me under internal subsidy."
The salesman blinked.
His shoulders eased.
A quiet, grateful breath left him.
"…yes. That can be arranged."
The voice murmured:
"You've made his month."
The new total appeared:
S$218,800
Lucien signed immediately.
"Tomorrow morning," the salesman said. "Fully prepped and delivered."
Lucien turned toward the exit.
"Good."
The salesman bowed slightly.
"Thank you, sir."
The voice spoke once more as Lucien stepped outside:
"A clean choice. Fitting."
Lucien smirked.
"Yeah."
Lucien signed, handed the tablet back, and turned to leave.
The salesman exhaled in relief — a man who'd just secured his best commission of the month.
Lucien reached the doorway, pushed it open—
Then paused.
He glanced over his shoulder.
"Oh, and…"
his tone casual, almost bored,
"…I expect some goodies worth my twenty-five grand of gratitude."
The salesman's eyes widened — then a slow, eager nod.
"Absolutely, sir. Consider it done."
Lucien gave a small two-fingered wave and stepped out into the sun.
The voice inside him murmured:
"…you didn't even have to demand it. They're terrified of disappointing you."
Lucien smirked faintly.
"Good."
He walked off, hands in pockets, already planning where he'd take the bike on its first night run.
Lucien stepped out of the dealership, sunlight hitting his sunglasses as he walked across the parking lot.
"Alright…" he muttered, stretching his neck. "Bike sorted."
He slid his hands into his pockets.
"Now off to the car."
The voice hummed thoughtfully.
"…and what exactly are you planning to get? Something loud? Something subtle? Something that doesn't make your father question your sanity?"
Lucien tilted his head as he walked, considering.
"Hmm. Don't know," he admitted. "Something that fits."
"Fits," the voice repeated. "You do realize your definition of 'fits' ranges from a luxury cruiser to a street-legal missile?"
Lucien smirked.
"Yeah. That's the fun part."
He crossed the road toward the main dealership area, scanning the rows of cars glinting under the midday sun.
The voice spoke again, calmer this time:
"Don't rush. Pick something that feels like yours… not for show, not for anyone else."
Lucien nodded once, silent.
"Yeah," he said, eyes narrowing slightly as he spotted the next dealership entrance.
"I'll know it when I see it."
And with that, he headed inside.
Lucien drifted through the rows of cars, hands in his pockets, scanning everything with half-interest.
A coupe there.
An SUV here.
A sedan pretending to be futuristic.
Nothing landed.
His eyes slid from model to model, barely stopping long enough to form an opinion.
"Too round… too loud… too plastic," the voice murmured.
Lucien didn't disagree.
He turned a corner, ready to check the next aisle, when a muted gleam in the distance pulled his attention.
Far across the showroom floor, tucked away from the louder displays, was a whole section he hadn't noticed before.
Clean.
Ordered.
Minimal.
A single black sign hung above it in understated chrome lettering:
LEXUS
Lucien stopped walking.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
The lighting over that section wasn't bright — it didn't need to be.
Every car under it carried a quiet authority, darker paint tones, sharper lines, a restrained confidence that stood out precisely because it didn't try.
The voice hummed.
"…Ah. There it is. The grown-up corner."
Lucien felt something click.
No excitement.
No shock.
Just a simple, silent recognition.
His gaze drifted over the silhouettes — the edges, the posture, the quiet precision of each machine.
He exhaled once through his nose.
Then started walking toward it.
"…Let's see," he muttered.
The voice chuckled softly.
"This might actually suit you."
A saleswoman noticed him lingering near the Lexus lineup and walked over with a professional smile.
"Looking for something specific, sir?"
Lucien didn't waste time.
"Yeah," he said, eyes scanning past her shoulder. "Where's the LFA?"
For a moment, her smile stiffened — like she'd been asked for a unicorn.
"Oh— we don't have one," she admitted. "LFAs aren't kept on the floor anymore. They're collectors' cars now. Special order only… if you can even find a seller."
Lucien clicked his tongue softly, gaze drifting over the polished hoods and chrome badges.
"Figures," he muttered. "Didn't expect to see one, but worth a shot."
The saleswoman relaxed a bit and gestured toward the rest of the lineup.
"We do have the newer performance models, if you want to take a look."
Lucien gave a small nod, more to himself than to her.
"Yeah. Show me what comes close."
She motioned for him to follow — and Lucien stepped forward, expression unreadable, already scanning for whatever might catch his eye next.
Lucien drifted past the lineup, nothing really grabbing his attention—
until a shape in the corner finally stopped him.
A deep, Nori Green LC500.
The paint looked almost liquid under the showroom lights, shifting subtly between forest green and black depending on the angle. The tan-brown interior contrasted perfectly, warm and rich through the glass.
"That one," Lucien murmured, already walking toward it.
The saleswoman followed him, a hint of surprise in her steps.
"Ah—good eye," she said. "That's our top-of-the-line spec."
Lucien brushed a hand lightly across the fender curve, examining the panel gaps, the stance, the way the light caught the surface.
The saleswoman continued, her voice slipping into the practiced rhythm of someone who knew the car well:
"This is the 2025 LC500 Nori Green Pearl edition. Hand-stitched interior, naturally aspirated V8, ten-speed automatic, adaptive suspension. It's one of our most balanced grand tourers—luxury and performance without feeling like it's trying too hard."
Lucien leaned down to look at the brake calipers and wheels.
"Hm," he said, more focused on the machine than the pitch. "Looks clean."
"It is," she replied. "It's one of the few cars where the designers… actually cared. Everything you see is intentional."
Lucien straightened, eyes staying on the car.
"Finally," he muttered, "something that doesn't look like it's pretending."
The saleswoman smiled politely, stepping to the side to give him space as he took a slow circle around the LC500, taking in every angle.
The saleswoman tapped her tablet.
"If you'd like, we can take it out for a test drive. It's already registered as a demo."
Lucien nodded. "Yeah. Why not."
She handed him a small key fob. "Just bring your ID for verification."
He passed it over, she scanned it, tapped a few approvals, and led him toward the glass doors. A valet rolled the LC500 out of the showroom and parked it neatly by the curb.
Lucien approached the driver's side, running his thumb along the door handle before pulling it open. The soft leather hit immediately — warm, rich, expensive without trying to impress.
He settled in. Adjusted the seat once. Mirrors once.
That was it.
The saleswoman slipped into the passenger seat, buckling in.
"Drive however you're comfortable," she said. "It's built to handle more than most people ever ask of it."
Lucien pressed the start button.
The V8 woke with a smooth, deep growl — not loud, but confident.
His fingers tightened slightly around the wheel.
"Nice," the voice murmured.
Lucien pulled out of the lot, calm and controlled.
He kept it under the limit for the first two turns, feeling the weight, the bite of the steering, the tension in the suspension.
It didn't feel like a flashy car.
It felt proper.
They reached a long, empty stretch of service road.
The saleswoman glanced at him, saw the slight shift in his posture, and braced lightly.
Lucien pressed the accelerator.
Not slammed — pressed.
The response was instant.
A smooth surge, the revs climbing in a clean, unbroken line.
The V8 didn't scream — it sang, controlled and deep.
60.
61.
62.
The speed climbed like it wanted to go faster but was politely waiting for permission.
Lucien narrowed his eyes, gripping the wheel a little tighter.
He let it run up to 140 before easing off, letting the engine settle into a purr.
The saleswoman exhaled, a half-smile slipping out.
"Most people never take it past eighty on their first go."
Lucien shrugged.
"Most people don't know how to drive."
The voice snorted.
"She's definitely adding you to a 'do not hand keys' list."
Lucien ignored it, bringing the car smoothly into a turn to test the balance.
The LC500 held the line perfectly — no roll, no hesitation, just clean grip.
He nodded once.
"This'll do."
They drove back to the dealership, the engine cooling down with a soft, satisfied hum.
Lucien parked effortlessly, stepped out, and shut the door with a solid, expensive thud.
The saleswoman approached with her tablet.
"So," she asked, "what do you think?"
Lucien didn't hesitate.
"I'll take it."
Lucien shut the door of the LC500 with a solid, expensive thud.
He circled toward the front, running a thumb along the curve of the hood.
A voice came from behind him:
"Smooth drive. Haven't seen anyone push it like that on a demo run."
Lucien turned slightly.
A guy around his age walked up — tall, sharp haircut, clean white sneakers, a watch that screamed old money, not hustler money. His posture alone said he grew up in private lounges, not around queues.
He gave the LC a slow, practiced inspection.
"Most people your age drive this thing like it's made of glass," the guy said. "You didn't."
Lucien shrugged.
"It's built to be driven."
The guy smirked.
"Fair point. Name's Mason."
Lucien nodded once. "Lucien."
Mason blinked — like he didn't expect a name delivered so simply — then gestured at the LC's front grille.
"You picking it up?"
Lucien ignored the direct question.
"Thinking about it."
Mason chuckled.
"Well, if you do, I'll actually have someone with decent taste showing up around here. Nobody under thirty buys something with character anymore."
Lucien raised a brow.
"You think this is character?"
Mason pointed behind him with his thumb.
"That? That's character."
Lucien didn't have to turn — the reflection in the showroom glass showed enough.
A low, bright, overly dramatic supercar stood behind velvet ropes like royalty.
Lucien glanced at it.
Then looked away instantly.
Mason's smirk faltered.
"…Not interested?"
Lucien shook his head.
"Looks insecure."
Mason actually choked on a laugh.
"Wow. Okay. Didn't expect the jab."
He recovered quickly, folding his arms.
"So what do you do, Lucien? You don't look like someone who asks Dad for the card."
Lucien met his eyes, calm and unreadable.
"I work."
Mason studied him again — properly this time — and something shifted.
A mix of respect and curiosity.
"Well," he said finally, stepping back a little, "If you buy the LC, I won't be the only under-thirty guy walking out of here with good taste today."
Lucien smirked faintly.
"Maybe I'll ruin your exclusivity."
Mason laughed, hands raised in surrender.
"Do it. This place needs competition."
He turned and walked back toward his red diva of a car, tossing a casual wave over his shoulder.
Lucien watched him leave, then looked back at the LC500.
The voice murmured:
"He's tolerable. Still looks like he moisturizes with arrogance."
Lucien slipped his hands into his pockets.
"He's harmless."
He eyed the LC again.
"I'm taking it.Lucien walked back toward the sales desk, the LC500's keys still warm in his hand.
The saleswoman tapped through the last set of documents on her tablet.
"If you're ready, I'll process the purchase."
Lucien nodded.
"Have it delivered to my residence."
She blinked — not shocked, just… noting the confidence.
"Of course. We can schedule delivery within the next two hours."
"No," Lucien said, adjusting his sunglasses.
"Park it inside the estate garage. Not outside."
"Understood." She typed faster.
Mason—leaning against his loud red supercar—glanced over, amused.
"Man doesn't even drive his own car home. Power move."
Lucien ignored him.
The saleswoman finished entering the address, her tone a bit more attentive than before.
"There's just one more preference form—priority servicing, alerts about new models, seasonal allocation notices—"
Lucien slid the tablet back toward her.
"Put my name at the top of all priority lists."
She hesitated.
"You mean… top five?"
Lucien met her eyes.
"No. Top."
The voice chuckled softly.
"Never subtle, are you?"
The saleswoman straightened slightly, both hands steadying the tablet.
"Very well," she said. "I'll move you to Tier-1 Priority. That tier is usually reserved for long-term clients and board-level partnerships, but—"
Lucien signed the last document in one swipe.
"That won't be a problem."
She swallowed, nodded once, and processed it.
Mason whistled low.
"Tier-1 on your first visit? Damn. You're either loaded or dangerous."
Lucien slipped his hands into his pockets.
"Maybe both."
The saleswoman handed him the final confirmation.
"Your LC500 will arrive at your home within an hour and a half. The delivery agent will call you five minutes before entry."
Lucien turned toward the exit.
"Good."
The voice hummed.
"Midnight bike. LC500. Priority status.
You're getting comfortable again."
Lucien pushed open the glass doors.
"Just getting started."