Urban Plundering: I Corrupted The System!

Parker was still mentally juggling how to blow more cash when his phone buzzed, snapping him out of it.

Unknown number.

He frowned but picked up anyway.

"Mr. Black?" The voice was sharp, professional—definitely someone corporate. "This is Patricia from JPMorgan Chase's executive services. Your requested cash withdrawal has been prepared and is ready for pickup at our branch in LA. Would you prefer us to arrange private delivery instead?"

Parker blinked, then remembered. Cassidy. She must've processed the request for a hefty stack of physical cash, it was ready now. He smirked, leaning back. Well, might as well make a show of it.

"Nah, just have it in the I'll swing by myself. Thanks." He hung up before she could reply, already standing and stretching. Experience tales with My Virtual Library Empire

A trip to get some cash, why not? Sounded like the perfect excuse to finally test drive one of his Rolls Royces. "Yeah...definitely feels like a Rolls kinda day," he muttered, heading toward the master bathroom.

Shower time.

The water hit perfectly—that borderline-too-hot heat that made his muscles relax after days of grinding. His mind drifted, running over the details of his next move. Blackwood Co. was circling the drain, his accounts were overflowing, and Robert? That bastard was probably still scrambling to put out fires Parker had started over the weekend.

Grinning to himself, he stepped out, towel-dried his hair, and opened his massive walk-in closet. Time to dress like the cash he had.

Dark, fitted designer jeans. A crisp white t-shirt—$1000, obviously. Off-white Jordans. Then the real flex: his Patek Philippe Nautilus watch, subtle but so damn expensive it practically whispered old money.

Phone? Check. Wallet? Check.

Finally, the car keys. He opened the drawer, and there they were—all of them. The Lamborghini Revuelto. The McLaren Speedtail. Two Rolls-Royces. The Range Rover's key wasn't there, it's which Elena had been using lately so she had the key, full control over that one.

Parker hovered his hand over the two Rolls fobs, debating between the Phantom and the Spectre. Both stupidly luxurious. Both stupidly him.

"Eh, screw it." Closing his eyes, he mixed them up and grabbed one at random.

The Phantom. He snorted. "Guess fate wants me feeling presidential today."

This? This was the Parker people didn't get to see—the one who actually let himself be a teenager for a minute. Rich, reckless, and stupid enough to play games with multi-million-dollar cars.

Chuckling under his breath, he pocketed the key and headed downstairs.

Naomi and Elena were in the living area, half-watching the stock market news while chatting quietly. The second Naomi spotted him, her eyes narrowed.

"Going out, boss?"

"Yeah. Bank run. Gonna test the Phantom, too," he replied casually, one could tell he was feeling damn good today.

Naomi, hands already on her juicer, called out, "Boss juice?"

Parker blinked, halfway to the door. "Uh, Naomi, thanks, but I'm kinda—"

"I insist boss." She turned with that look. Sweet, polite, but not giving him an option. A little thrown off, Parker raised a brow but let out a breath, walking back to take the glass from her.

"Fine, fine." He sipped, the fresh juice cool and tangy. Damn, was that mango? "Happy now?"

She gave a knowing smile. "Always."

Shaking his head, Parker finished the juice in one go, set the glass down, and smirked.

'Okay. Let's test out this Phantom.' Only Erebus was missing on this one.

Parker strolled into the garage, the Phantom's key fob spinning lazily around his finger like he owned the whole damn world—because, honestly, he kinda did. The space was pure, unapologetic luxury. Polished marble floors that reflected the glow of sleek LED strips embedded into the walls.

The air was cool, crisp, carrying that faint scent of motor oil mixed with high-end car wax. Every machine parked here felt like a statement.

The Revuelto sat aggressive, sharp lines practically daring him to let it loose. It had been perfectly fixed after the recent wreck, Elena is always thorough!

Next to it, the Speedtail, a hypercar masterpiece that looked fast even when standing still. And then there were the two Rolls-Royces—the Phantom and the Spectre—twin titans of wealth but in completely different flavors. The Spectre, a fully electric vision of the future, while the Phantom? The undisputed king of quiet power.

His gaze lingered on the blacked-out Phantom for a beat longer. That was the one for today. No screaming speed, no flashy stunts. Just dominance in motion.

"Guess you're up, old man."

He pressed the unlock button on the fob with a soft click. The Spirit of Ecstasy—that elegant silver figurehead—gracefully rose from the hood like royalty reclaiming its throne. The massive doors unlocked with a controlled hiss, barely audible but somehow commanding all the same.

He approached, the Phantom's deep black paint so perfect it reflected the soft glow of the lights above. With a flick of his wrist, he opened the driver's side door.

And damn, the interior?

The second the door swung open, it was like stepping into another world. Soft, cream-colored leather—hand-stitched perfection—wrapped every surface, from the plush seats to the dashboard. Polished walnut veneers traced the console, merging flawlessly with brushed chrome accents.

The starlight headliner? Lit. Tiny fiber-optic stars twinkled across the ceiling, delicate constellations glowing against a midnight sky. The air inside even smelled expensive, that rich leather scent mixed with just a hint of whatever luxury smelled like.

Parker ran his fingers lightly over the wheel, the double-R emblem practically daring him to grab hold. But he wasn't in yet. Not yet.

Instead, he got out circled the car, running a hand along the smooth body as if checking the curves for imperfections (there were none, obviously). He opened the back door next, revealing the lounge seating. Two reclinable thrones with enough legroom to stretch out completely. A champagne cooler between them. The foldable picnic tables.

He caught sight of the Lambswool floor mats—the kind so soft it felt criminal to step on them with shoes. Closing it with a soft thunk, Parker returned to the driver's side and finally slid into the seat.

And fuck, it felt more like piloting a private jet than driving a car.

The seats hugged him just right. The headrest embroidered with the Phantom's insignia. The digital instrument cluster blinked to life, the screen so clean it was almost invisible until powered on.

His finger hovered over the start button for a second. Then—

Press.

The 6.75-liter V12 came alive with a deep, controlled hum. Not loud. Not obnoxious. Just pure, restrained power. The kind of growl you didn't need to show off because everyone already knew it could break necks.

But Parker?

He wanted to feel it.

Shifting into neutral, he grinned and tapped the accelerator—

VRRRMMMM.

The garage trembled. Not a snarl. More like a rich, refined thunder rolling through the space.

Again.

VRRRMMMM. VRRRMMMMMMM.

That V12 didn't scream. It growled—like an aristocrat cracking his knuckles before wrecking someone's night at a gala. Heavy. Dangerous. And perfectly calm.

"Yeah…you're awake now," Parker muttered, the grin lingering.

Letting the engine settle into a silky purr, he exhaled, fingers drumming lightly on the wheel.

No hurry. No rush.

But when he finally shifted into drive?