"SCREEECH—!!!"
An ear-piercing screech of friction tore through the air.
The tires left two charred arcs across the ground, accompanied by the acrid stench of burning rubber.
The car swung sideways in an almost perfect ninety-degree drift, slipping precisely into the only narrow parking space by the roadside. Its undercarriage scraped against the curb in a shower of sparks before coming to a steady stop, its front end less than a palm's width from the pillar ahead.
Dead silence.
Then, the two security guards in black uniforms at the auction entrance snapped out of their shock and charged over with furious expressions.
The bald guard in front slammed his hand against the driver's window, his voice hoarse with rage. "You lunatic! Do you fucking know where this is?! What the hell kind of driving is that?! Get out of the car!"
The window slowly rolled down.
The first thing to emerge was not a face, but a hand wearing a platinum watch.
A thick stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills was pinched between its fingers. The next second, the stack slapped squarely onto the bald guard's greasy face with a sharp gust of wind.
"Take your franklin," said a young, cold voice dripping with mockery, "and get the hell out of my way."
The bills scattered, Franklin's portrait strewn all over the ground.
The guard froze as he finally got a clear look at the man inside: a white handmade Italian suit, tortoiseshell sunglasses obscuring the upper half of his face, revealing only a sharply defined jaw and an undisguised, arrogant smile.
One hand rested casually on the steering wheel, as though that life-or-death ride had merely been a leisurely spin around the block.
Faced with the man's undisguised aura, the guard's anger went out like a flame crashing into an