Brandon eased into the Rolls Royce, the buttery leather seat embracing him like a long-lost lover.
His fingers traced the intricate stitching, each touch a reminder of the opulent world he now inhabited.
He marveled at the opulence surrounding him, from the polished wood trim to the starlit ceiling above. Tiny pinpricks of light twinkled overhead, creating a mesmerizing galaxy effect.
"I could definitely get used to this," he muttered, a grin spreading across his face.
As he lounged in the back, Brandon caught the driver's gaze in the rearview mirror. T
he man was built like a tank, with a square jaw and close-cropped hair that screamed ex-military. His eyes in the rearview mirror were sharp and alert, constantly scanning for potential threats.
"Young Master Brandon, would you like to listen to some music?" the driver asked, his deep voice filling the cabin.
"Yes, please," Brandon replied, then curiosity got the better of him.
"And what's your name?"
"Max, sir."
Brandon nodded, studying the man's reflection.
"Were you ex-military, Max?"
A hint of a smile played on Max's lips.
"Close. My crew and I were mercenaries. Now we're bodyguards."
He jerked his thumb towards the rear window.
Brandon turned in his seat, his eyes widening at the sight of a monstrous black vehicle following them. It looked like a cross between a tank and a pickup truck, all sharp angles and reinforced armor.
"Is that a—"
"Rezvani Vengeance," Max confirmed.
"Built like a fortress on wheels."
Brandon opened his mouth to ask more, but the sudden blast of music cut him off. A cacophony of synthetic beats assaulted Brandon's ears,, followed by what had to be the most ridiculous lyrics he'd ever heard:
"Ooh baby, you're my cosmic muffin
Sprinkled with stardust, oh so stuffin'
Your love's like gravy on my heart
Let's do the chicken dance and never part~"
Brandon's brows furrowed as he leaned forward, his face a mask of disbelief.
"Max, is this what passes for popular music nowadays?"
Max's lips curled into a knowing smirk, visible in the rearview mirror.
"They aren't all that bad, Young Master. Though I'll admit, mainstream music tends to follow a... certain pattern."
"Pattern?" Brandon pressed, his curiosity piqued.
"Well," Max drawled, his fingers tapping the steering wheel, "record labels focus more on selling idols than songs these days. It's all about the image, the dance moves, the social media presence. The music? Sometimes feels like an afterthought."
Brandon slumped back in his seat, processing this information.
"What about other genres? Hip-hop, for instance?"
Max's eyebrows shot up.
"Ah, hip-hop. That's... something else entirely."
He reached for the radio, flipping through stations until a heavy beat filled the car.
A voice, autotuned beyond recognition, assaulted their ears:
"Yo, yo, I'm rich, I'm lit
Got more bling than you can spit
Ladies love my Gucci pants
My rhymes don't make sense, who gives a—"
Brandon's jaw dropped as the lyrics devolved into a string of expletives that bare rhymed. The 'rapper' seemed more interested in listing brand names and body parts than crafting any semblance of a coherent message.
"This is hip-hop?" Brandon asked, his voice a mix of horror and fascination.
Max chuckled, shaking his head.
"What passes for it these days, I'm afraid. It's all shock value and product placement. Actual lyricism? That's become something of a lost art."
Brandon's mind raced with possibilities as he listened to the cacophony masquerading as music.
A slow, predatory smile spread across Brandon's face.
'They have no idea what's coming,' he mused, picturing slack-jawed audiences and critics scrambling to redefine music itself.
'I'm not just going to change the game – I'm going to flip the whole damn board.'
His daydreams of musical domination screeched to a halt as the Rolls Royce glided to a stop.
Before he could fully process the change, Max appeared, opening the door with a flourish.
"Young Master."
Brandon stepped out, his sneakers barely touching the pavement before a blur of motion caught his eye.
Pierre barreled towards him, arms outstretched.
"Brandon!" Pierre's voice cracked with emotion as he enveloped his friend in a bear hug that threatened to crack ribs.
The embrace was fierce, desperate, filled with a year's worth of worry and relief.
As Pierre pulled back, his hands remained on Brandon's shoulders, eyes scanning his friend's face as if memorizing every detail.
"I've missed you B!"
The sincerity in Pierre's gaze was palpable, a mix of relief and joy that spoke volumes.
Brandon, caught off guard by the intensity of the moment, deflected with humor.
"Why're you acting like I just came back from war or something?"
He grinned, patting Pierre's arm.
"Come, show me what you got. I want to get a daily ride and maybe a cool hypercar for NOA since we're here."
Pierre's face lit up at the suggestion.
He grabbed Brandon's wrist, practically dragging him towards the dealership.
"You're in luck, my friend. And guess what? I'm starting at NOA too!"
As they approached the entrance, Pierre swept his arm in a grand gesture.
"Welcome to my little treasure trove."
The doors swung open, revealing a scene that took Brandon's breath away.
The showroom unfolded before them. It was a temple to automotive luxury. The air itself seemed charged with the heady perfume of leather, metal, and ambition.
Sleek hypercars in vibrant colors stood like sculptures, their paintwork reflecting the light in mesmerizing patterns.
Interspersed among the mechanical marvels were living works of art – statuesque supermodels dressed in elegant attire that complemented the cars they stood beside.
Their presence added an extra layer of allure to the already intoxicating atmosphere.
Brandon's eyes swept across the showroom, drinking in the automotive opulence.
Pierre noticed his friend's interest and sidled up next to him, a sly grin on his face.
"So, anything caught your eye yet? Or are you still practicing your miserly ways?"
Brandon raised an eyebrow, turning to face Pierre.
"Miserly?"
"Oh, come on," Pierre chuckled, clapping Brandon on the shoulder.
"You're the most penny-pinching elite I've ever seen or heard of. I'm just glad you're finally willing to spend some moolah on yourself."
Brandon couldn't help but laugh, shaking his head.
"It's called keeping a low profile."
"Low profile?" Pierre scoffed, gesturing around the showroom.
"We're grown now, B. Time to get rid of the peasant disguise."
"Peasant disguise?" Brandon echoed, a mix of amusement and disbelief in his voice.
"I'll have you know, some of us prefer subtlety."
Pierre rolled his eyes dramatically.
"A white T and jeans isn't subtlety, its poverty!"
He swept his arm towards the line of gleaming vehicles.
"Now, shall we find you something worthy of a Blackstone?"
Brandon smirked, a mischievous glint in his eye.
"Alright, alright. Show me what you've got, oh wise purveyor of excess."
Pierre's face lit up like a child on Christmas morning. He grabbed Brandon's arm, practically dragging him towards the first car.
"Oh, you're in for a treat..."
As Pierre launched into an enthusiastic description of the car's specs, Brandon found himself caught between amusement at his friend's exuberance and genuine interest in the mechanical marvels surrounding them.
Despite his jokes about keeping a low profile, he had to admit – there was something intoxicating about the prospect of owning one of these beasts.