Driving through the city at night had its own kind of thrill.
Not because Damien was behind the wheel of a custom matte-black Rolls-Royce Phantom.
Not even because he was drifting past speed limits like they were polite suggestions.
No, the true exhilaration came from something far more indulgent, the thrill of being envied.
Every flash of awe in a stranger's eye, every jealous stare from a bystander as his car growled past, that was the high he chased.
Laws are for people who can't afford to break them, Damien mused with a crooked smile, brushing a gloved hand over the steering wheel.
For the first thirty minutes, he drove aimlessly, gliding through neon-lit streets like a ghost in silk.
Part of it was just getting a feel for the car, but the real reason? He was browsing the city like a royal deciding where to bestow his presence.
"Vee," he called out.
A soft chime buzzed from his pocket before the AI responded.
"Yes, Master Damien?"
"Why aren't you integrated into the vehicle yet?" Damien asked, surprised; His voice had a thread of irritation.
"Head Butler Calloway has not finalized synchronization with your new vehicle. However, congratulations on your latest acquisition."
Damien scoffed.
"Bypass his protocols. Integrate now."
"Master Damien, such an action would breach ownership agreements. The automaker hasn't signed off on full AI integration."
"It's not an agreement. It's a buyout. Offer them an exclusive contract, triple the standard licensing fee. Make sure the car is registered under my name, not theirs."
"Understood, sir. Initiating protocol and beginning synchronization. Would you like a playlist to match the night's energy?"
"No need. Just map out high-end guesthouses we haven't visited. I'm in the mood for something new."
"Understood. The closest is The Maryland Suites, 200 meters ahead."
As she spoke, a compartment beside the gearbox slid open.
A chilled bottle of champagne emerged, nestled between two crystal glasses.
The cool mist escaping from the compartment shimmered in the ambient light.
Damien smirked.
Class.
He took a sharp turn, tires whispering against the pavement, startling a few pedestrians, and parked elegantly before the towering Maryland Suites.
Five stories tall, sleek black, and gilded gold, the hotel was trying very hard to look expensive.
Damien observed the building with a critical eye, not even bothering to lower his tinted windows when a security guard approached.
Inside, businessmen and their well-dressed companions floated through the lobby.
Corporate retreat vibes, he thought, bored.
"Zero stars," Damien muttered.
"Try again."
And just like that, he was gone.
The next destination: Toronto Hotel.
This one had actual promise.
A fortress-like structure wrapped in hedges and silence.
The exterior boasted private outdoor lounges with candle-lit grills, and the absence of visible security meant they were confident in their discretion.
Still... no valet?
No welcoming committee?
He didn't stop.
"Zero stars. Negative comment," he said flatly.
Next up: Parkston Presidential Hotel.
The walls here were high, lined with camera nodes and vine-covered privacy screens.
This place didn't beg for attention, it rejected it.
And Damien liked that.
He drove past at first, trying to peek in through the tinted glass and layered fencing.
But the mystery lingered in his mind, irritating his pride.
He reversed without hesitation, ignoring the honking horns and screeching brakes behind him.
Other drivers swerved to avoid his sudden maneuver and some collided.
Their curses and blaring horns didn't faze him.
They're just upset they can't afford the crash, Damien thought with a mental shrug.
He finally stopped at the main gate and gave a single, deliberate honk.
There was a reason he didn't waste time in low-end clubs.
Damien believed that wealth wasn't about standing above the poor, it was about making the rich feel poor in your presence.
Underground raves filled with teenagers seeking a hit of luck? No thanks.
He wanted sophistication.
Authority.
To walk into a room and ruin a billionaire's self-esteem by simply existing.
Ten seconds passed.
The gate didn't open.
The guards just stood there, impassive behind their designer sunglasses.
Damien was forced to lower his window.
He leaned out slowly, cigarette unlit between his lips, tousled hair framing a face carved by apathy.
His Frette gloves gleamed faintly under the streetlights.
He met their gaze, calm, superior, and unmoved.
They stared back like they didn't know who he was.
He smiled.
They would soon enough.
"I'm sorry, sir. The residence is fully booked," one of the security personnel stated, expression neutral, almost rehearsed.
Damien raised a brow, exhaled a makeshift puff of cigar smoke, and silently rolled his window back up.
He glanced over his shoulder, behind him, a line of angry drivers flashing murderous glares.
Ahead, a locked gate and unmoving men in dark suits blocked his path like statues.
"Well, Vee, looks like you'll have to cancel the vehicle synchrony," he said coolly.
Then, without another word, he slammed the pedal.
The Rolls-Royce roared forward, shattering the gate with a screech of metal and the splinter of wood.
It tore through the private entrance like it was nothing more than a suggestion.
Alarms flared in the distance, but Damien didn't flinch.
Glass and debris scraped across the luxury chassis, but to him, it was just another Tuesday.
His face? Unbothered.
His posture? Relaxed.
His ego? Untouched.
If anything, he looked mildly annoyed the car didn't glide through cleaner.
"I should sue them for poor durability," he muttered, more to himself than to Vee.
He lowered the window and leaned out, no smoke trailing from the cigar between his fingers as he stared down the stunned personnel still standing near the wrecked gate.
"You see?" he said, his voice smug and steady.
"Nothing is ever truly filled up. You just lack the flexibility to accommodate wealth. Put the damages on my tab."
One of the security guards began to reach for a firearm, his hand steady, his face tense until his partner placed a hand on his chest and held him back.
The second man merely stared at Damien, eyes calculating, jaw clenched but silent.
Around them, traffic slowed, people recorded with their phones, and stunned guests peered from balconies and behind tinted windows.
The Parkston Presidential Hotel was no longer private.
Damien had made sure of that.
Now that the gate lay broken, the grandeur behind it was partially exposed, with polished cobblestone parking floors, neon-lit trims carved into the driveway, and topiaries in sculpted symmetry.
It was subtle wealth, prestige in whispers rather than shouts, but it still fell short of Damien's taste.
He scanned the parking lot.
Not a single spot left.
With a lazy smirk, he popped his head out again.
"Oi! Where do I park this piece of junk?"
The same unbothered personnel exchanged glances, and then one replied in an even tone.
"Just leave the vehicle behind, sir. We'll take care of it. Have a pleasant night."
"Don't mind if I do," Damien grinned and stepped out.
The cigar was still unlit.
Hair is wild and deliberate.
Aura is sharp enough to make suits look like rags.
He tossed the keys, no, the control unit to the staff like it was spare change.
"I'll have to trouble you, fellas."
Then he strode off toward the hotel entrance without a backward glance.
This time, he remembered his phone.
But he knew Vee would have already notified Calloway and the relevant parties probably with a PR strategy already in place.
The moment Damien pushed the door open, he scoffed.
"Poor automation," he muttered, unimpressed by the lack of motion sensors.
But the second he stepped inside, his eyes widened only slightly.
The entrance hall was a cathedral of opulence.
Ceiling vaults arched like a gothic opera house shadowed in warm golden light, and stretched with murals of forgotten royalty.
The marble beneath his feet was imported; he could tell by the sound of his footsteps, and it stretched into intricate geometric mosaics.
Massive crystal chandeliers hung low, refracting soft glows that made the entire lobby shimmer with understated elegance.
Columns of black granite rose like titans from floor to ceiling, flanked by potted indoor palms that looked like they had never known dust.
Not bad, he admitted to himself.
Not exceptional, but certainly not cheap.
Still, Damien didn't spare a glance at the ground-floor guests.
Some stood in tailored suits, others in sleek gowns, but none had his presence.
They looked clean, polished, and elegant, but in Damien's world, the polish was the poor man's version of power.
He walked through their clusters without care, the cigar still unlit, his steps measured and full of menace and grace.
Conversations died as he passed.
Eyes followed.
Whispers bloomed.
As far as he was concerned, they were all guests at his hotel now.
And he was about to be the MC