CHAPTER 293: CHAPTER 292: PURE EVIL...

The engine purred to life as they settled inside, the tinted windows closing them off from the world outside.

Kaelan asked where he wanted to go.

"Home or...?"

"Let’s go to the university," he replied, settling deeper into the plush leather seat... no, sinking into it, what could only be described as the pinnacle of automotive decadence. He tried not to notice how the seat seemed to mold itself to him like it had been waiting all its life for this exact moment. He wriggled his butt around, the material sighing under him, and couldn’t help a long, slow exhale.

His eyes drifted over the interior, and a low sigh escaped him. God, the extravagances of the rich. It was ridiculous. Absolutely, shamelessly ridiculous.

Like—why the hell did the dashboard have a hundred-thousand-dollar tourbillon timepiece, hand-assembled by some watchmaking hermit in the Swiss Alps? Mounted dead center? What was wrong with the humble electronic clock every other car had? And an espresso machine built in behind a gold-filigree panel? In a car? This wasn’t a café on wheels.

Leather-wrapped air vents — vents — so pampered they apparently needed "conditioning cream" applied by an actual "vent butler."

Oh, and self-leveling crystal champagne flutes, emerging from the armrest on a silk conveyor like they were presenting a crown jewel. A meteor-shower sunroof, complete with built-in micro-projectors firing shooting stars across the glass, on demand! Can you believe that? He clicked on the button and a meteor flew across the sunroof, Oh! That’s pretty neat...

*Ahem!* And the insanity didn’t stop there. A document-signing armrest with a retractable writing desk and a ceremonial quill for those urgent, billion-dollar deals that "simply couldn’t wait." An AI-powered scent diffuser that could "replicate the aroma of victory" (whatever the hell that meant).

And granite interior trims. Granite. As in, actual slabs of rock glued into the car’s interior. Wasn’t that just intentionally making the damn thing heavier so it burned more fuel? These companies were evil. Truly evil. A conspiracy to bankrupt the poor, pitiful rich.

Tch, tch, tch.

Of course, he wasn’t like those other rich idiots. He wouldn’t be seduced byby these completely unnecessary trinkets. No, he was above all that. He was a man of principle—...

Wait. What did this button do?

Click.

A low hum started up. The seat came alive beneath him, purring with a deep, rolling massage that seemed to knead every ounce of tension out of his spine. His head fell back against the headrest. It began to knead his back, then his shoulders, then his thighs, with a precision that felt borderline criminal. The heat adjusted itself automatically, matching his body temperature in real time. Pressure shifted, stretched, pressed—

"Ahhh—oh, f-fuck—" The words slipped out before he could stop them. His eyelids fluttered as a warm shiver ran through him."A-agh... these companies..." His voice trembled. "S-so evil... so f-fucking good."

His hands gripped the armrests. "Ohhh, god... s-so good..."

By the time the massage finished, he’d shifted so far down in the seat he was practically horizontal, a smug little smirk tugging at his lips. He cleared his throat, straightened his jacket, and muttered under his breath, "Pure evil..." — though it was hard to tell if it was condemnation or a prayer for more.

The road blurred past in a lazy stream of lights, and he sank deeper into the seat, the massage kneading his spine like it had personal vendetta against tension.

His gaze drifted to the tourbillon clock again.

No that he thought about it, You’re driving a car worth... what, a few million? You can’t exactly slap a cheap plastic clock in here, right? It’s about... brand consistency, right brand consistency.

He leaned forward, running a hand over the granite trim. "And granite... yeah, sure, it’s heavy, but heavy means stable. Stable means less road vibration. Which, in turn, means..." He trailed off and patted the champagne flutes in their silk cradle, "...these stay upright. Safety first."

And the espresso machine— I mean, if you’re running late for a meeting, you don’t have time to stop at a café, do you? That’s efficiency. Think about productivity.

The vent butler purred softly, adjusting the airflow without him touching a thing. "...Guess that’s... practical."

By the time they hit the next red light, he was staring straight ahead, almost defensively. "...It’s all about... efficiency."

The massage dug a little deeper, and he sighed. "Yeah... efficiency."

The massage worked its dark magic, every knot unwinding until his body felt like it might just slide right out of the seat. His earlier tirade about "capitalist excess" had dissolved into contented sighs and the occasional low groan when the rollers hit just the right spot. A slow, satisfied exhale escaped him. For a moment, all thoughts of business, schemes, and enemies faded under the warm hum of comfort.

Then a stray thought floated in — Monica.

He fished out his phone and tapped her contact, the line ringing a few times before her sultry, slightly amused voice answered.

"Rex? Well, well... calling me at night. Should I be flattered or concerned?" she teased.

"Flattered," he said, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. "Definitely flattered."

"You good?" he asked, referring to her first time.

"I’m fine. Still resting."

He leaned back, the massage rolling across his lower back. "Good. Oh, and if you want, I can have your bodyguards upgraded. Elite team."

There was a pause. "...Really?" She sounded genuinely stunned.

"Yeah," he said, like he was offering to pick up groceries for her. "Why not?"

"You do realize I nearly broke my back just getting the ordinary ones, right?" she said, half-laughing, half incredulous. "These guys are in insane demand. I only got mine because I’m the new shiny face on every billboard and threw obscene amounts of money at them. And even then, it was a miracle I landed them. Elites are—"

"Better?"

"Better?" She scoffed. "They’re ghosts, Rex. People call them untouchable for a reason. No one’s ever broken through them, Not once. Ever... no matter the threat, no matter the payout. And the crazy part? You can’t buy your way in. Even billionaires with presidential detail have to beg, and most still get rejected."

(End of Chapter)