Heifeng set one palm lightly on the TT's roof and, keeping a perfectly straight face, spun a tale about how this car had been purpose-built for young people chasing a supercar dream. He knew it was nonsense; when he first saw the sketches, he'd thought, This looks great—and traded for it. The bigger his business grew, the easier the white lies came. "I'm still pure at heart," he consoled himself. "Work just forces my hand."
He slipped back into performer mode. "It's worth noting the car uses a very low, streamlined profile with a drag coefficient of just 0.22 Cd. What does that mean?" He didn't wait for the answer. "Let me give an analogy. You all know Ferrari's entry-level 815, right?" Cries from the floor: "We know it!" "A supercar north of five million!" Heifeng nodded. "That car is also 0.22 Cd. So in pure aero, our TT reaches supercar territory." Lower drag, he said, meant higher grip and stability at speed; pair that with the right powertrain and you had an actual coupe-class driver's car.
A staffer handed him the key fob. He held it up so the camera could catch the tiny display. "The TT's key integrates an electronic screen and remote controls. You can start the engine without sitting inside—a feature Audi is pioneering." He pressed the start button. Three beats later, the hall filled with a deep, throaty snarl—six cylinders, dark and explosive, climbing in a layered rumble that made the stage risers hum. The crowd whistled. "So cool!" "First time I've seen that!" "Price, Mr. Heifeng—how much?"
Heifeng had done his homework; no other brand had packed so much tech into a key. Most "smart" fobs merely woke the ECU and let the car start when the driver was seated. This one did more, and he let the moment breathe before shifting to specs. The rear wall lit up with powertrains. "The 3.0-liter TV6, dual overhead cam, twin-turbo—the same family that topped Ward's 10 Best Engines," he said. "Peak torque, 560 Nm. Max output, 420 horsepower—240 kilowatts. That's the TT's heart." An 8-speed automatic put it down through Audi's Quattro all-wheel drive. "Zero to a hundred in 3.9 seconds," he announced, lifting a finger.
The room detonated. Even the chat stream on the live feed blew up. Everyone knew the "three-second club" wasn't easy; even million-yuan exotics struggled to break in, and those that did cost fortunes. Here was a compact, domestically built coupe—built by a Chinese automaker—that could stand among them. The first actual domestic sports car, the commentators crowed. "Three-second club! It deletes most supercars!" "How did a 3.0T get tuned to 420 hp and 560 Nm—insane!" "Just tell us the price!"
Heifeng added a few flourish details. The active rear spoiler would automatically rise at 120 km/h and tuck itself back in at 80 km/h—functional and, frankly, slick to watch. Then he cut to the chase: "Enough preamble. I know what you're waiting for." Restless laughter answered him. People clasped their hands, half joking and half praying. "Mr. Heifeng, don't make it too expensive!" "If it's under a million, I'll buy today!"
He smiled, swung his arm, and the price board dropped behind him. Two trims, same soul, different toys:
Cool Edition — ¥448,000 (≈$62,000)
Smart Edition — ¥508,000 (≈$70,000)
For a moment, there was only the slap of surprise—gasps in the hall, then a wave of cheers that pressed against the ceiling. Half a million yuan for a 3.9-second coupe? That was territory buyers had never dared imagine. The TT, people said, could bully anything under ¥5,000,000 (≈$690,000). The chat scrolled faster: "Say no more, take my deposit!" "Where's the nearest 4S store? I'm buying a TT!" "Supercars, tremble—your TT daddy has arrived!"
Some viewers, especially women, weren't fussed about the sprint time; they loved how the car looked—low, tight, sculpted—and the aura that came with "sports car" ownership. But whatever the reason, desire crackled through the venue. Heifeng let the energy ride as he reaffirmed the headline figures—0.22 Cd, the force-fed V6, Quattro—and reminded them that all trims shared the same core performance. Equipment varied; the experience did not.
What played as showmanship had a tactical purpose. He had put the TT into the conversation with million-yuan exotics by anchoring it to the Ferrari's drag number and the "three-second club," then yanked it back into reach with two prices half the crowd had quietly prayed for. The remote-start demonstration with the instrumented key was the wink that made the car feel fast and new.
Backstage planning had slotted a giveaway for this exact moment. As the cheers crested, Heifeng eased off the mic and ceded the floor to the host, Su Min, the follow-through already rehearsed. "Thank you, everyone," she beamed into the lights. "Per Mr. Heifeng's request, now comes the most exciting part—we will draw twenty lucky audience members today." The floor rumbled again. Cameras panned across faces lit by the LED wall, the TT idling like a big cat behind the lectern, its spoiler set flush, its paint drinking the stage light.
In the aisles, people were already doing math on their phones: down payment sizes, monthly notes, what the price looked like compared with a compact luxury sedan. Enthusiasts swapped quick takes—about how 3.9 seconds felt when Quattro bit at launch, about brake bias and whether the eight-speed would hold a gear in manual mode. Among the more practical voices, the price anchoring hit hardest: a halo look, legitimately supercar-adjacent numbers, at a level that felt merely ambitious instead of absurd.
As Su Min readied the drawing, the throughline of the event—the one Heifeng had constructed—was impossible to miss. Start with a wink and a roar. Prove the numbers. Bring the price down like a hammer. Then let the crowd sell the crowd. Whether they came for the sprint or the silhouette, the figure on the board had turned curiosity into intent. And that was the announcement's real payload: a domestic Chinese coupe priced like a dream you could schedule.