La Cherry looked less like a mall and more like capitalism's final boss fight. Whole city blocks of shiny metal and glass, all humming with engines worth more than some small countries. They even had their own damn shuttle system—because apparently walking between a Bugatti and a Rolls-Royce is for peasants.
It stretched forever, a monument to wealth with its own internal transit system because apparently walking between Lamborghinis and Bugattis is beneath the one-percent.
Dealerships close to the Mercedez dealership lined entire boulevards under its roof: Mercedes, Rolls-Royce, McLaren, Bugatti, Porsche — the pantheon of horsepower. Each logo gleamed like religion for the bored rich.
I stood there, AMG One still cooling behind me, and ARIA—my AI, my girl, my voice of reason-slash-chaos—whispered in my head like temptation in surround sound.
"Master," she purrs. "The pale blue Ghost Series II fits your psychological profile. The Spectre's the future. The Cullinan—"
