The manager's voice shifted as if he had just swallowed a jagged stone. The earlier confidence vanished. “I apologize, sir.” Lucien did not wait for the apology. He did not need it.
The contract was printed, and the key was handed over. There were no flowers, no photograph, and no congratulatory “Enjoy your new car,” like he had seen offered to other customers in the showroom. Just a reluctant nod and an unsettled stare that lingered. Lucien took the key and stepped outside. A female staffer stood near the door, clipboard in hand, turning her face away, but clenching her jaw as she heard the soft beep of the car unlocking.
The engine purred gently as if whispering a welcome to its true owner. Lucien settled into the seat, his hand resting on the steering wheel as though it were a vow. He had nothing to prove that morning. He just wanted to drive. But clearly the world was not yet ready to let him.
The driver's seat wrapped around Lucien's body like a discreet embrace. The scent of new leather lingered in the air. The dashboard glowed with a soft light, and the engine hummed as if it recognized who was behind the wheel. He loosened his wrist, let his breath steady, and closed his eyes for a few seconds. He didn't need anyone to validate that he deserved this car.
He didn't need fake congratulations or smiles from people who only treated him well once they knew who he was. He simply wanted to feel the drive. It was a private moment in which power and refinement merged into a single, pure motion. But that peace didn't last. Fewer than five minutes after leaving the Orum Drive showroom, just as the car eased off the ivory-paved boulevard, flashing blue and red lights appeared behind him, and that same voice returned, this time through the car window.
“Step out of the vehicle immediately.” Lucien exhaled for the second time that morning. He carefully shifted into park and rolled the window down slowly. The middle-aged white officer, mirrored sunglasses on, eyes scanning with X-ray precision from the car's logo to the watch on Lucien's wrist, rested his right hand near his holster, not tense, but clearly signaling caution. “In a hurry?” the officer asked, tone devoid of goodwill.
“No,” Lucien replied calmly. “I just picked up the car.” The short, simple statement only seemed to thicken the air around them. “This one?” The officer tilted his head as though trying to make sense of something illogical.
“You’re saying this car is yours?” Lucien nodded slowly. “Got any papers?” He opened the glove compartment again, pulled out a freshly printed contract on high-quality stock, still warm from the printer. But before he could hand it over, the paper was snatched from his fingers.
The officer skimmed it, pausing for a few seconds on the name. Lucien R. Darnell. His lips tightened.