By 6:30 AM, my run wrapped—lungs burning sweet fire, veins electric with endorphins, mind a laser-etched blade. Cooling down by our gates, sweat-slick and invincible, a mechanical death-rattle shattered the dawn hush. The fortress across the street—that hulking mansion with gates sealed tighter than a nun's chastity belt—groaned alive, jaws parting like some billionaire's grumpy awakening.
Then boom: a sapphire streak detonated onto the asphalt. No mere car—this was a carbon-fiber hypersonic dick-swing, Bugatti Chiron mid-orgasm, vanishing in a heartbeat with an engine snarl that could've cracked mountains. Power? The kind peasants drool over but never tame. I tracked its taillights winking around the bend, that feral itch clawing my gut.
Soon. I will have mine. My Chiron—and a fleet to make gods jealous—would roar louder.
I grinned, wolfish. Shopping? Cute sideshow. Today was empire chess—BioLa solution and Madison's grin will be my checkmate.
