The afternoon sun began its slow descent over the city, casting a brilliant, cinematic light through the massive, two-story floor-to-ceiling windows of the apex luxury dealership. The architectural design of the showroom was intentional—a cathedral built for the worship of automotive engineering.

The sun was rising, casting the same cinematic, golden light across the showroom floor as the day before. Damian Cross walked in, sipping a green smoothie, expecting to find Marcus sobbing over a ruined engine.

Instead, Marcus was sitting in the driver's seat, the door wide open. He wasn't holding a chamois cloth. He was holding the steering wheel.

"Moment of truth, old man," Damian sneered. "Start it."

Marcus pressed the ignition button.

There was no coughing. No gray smoke. The Bugatti roared to life with an aggressive, terrifyingly perfect mechanical symphony. It didn't just sound fixed; it sounded angrier, sharper, and more responsive than it had when it rolled off the assembly line.

Chad dropped his tablet. Damian’s jaw went slack.

"How..." Damian whispered.

"I bypassed the digital restrictor plates and manually tuned the wastegates," Marcus said, stepping out of the car. "It’s currently pushing an extra hundred horsepower, safely. It won't overheat."

Damian quickly masked his shock with arrogance. "Fine. You fixed it. Here's ten grand. Go buy yourself a nicer uniform."