The moon hung pale over the city skyline as Damien Voss floored the accelerator of his Obsidian White Phantom GT, one of three he'd acquired this month, sending its matte-finished frame gliding through neon-lit streets.
In the passenger seats, two models from an exclusive Tokyo club laughed as he filled their crystal tumblers with thirty‑year‑old single‑malt scotch.
Their designer gowns billowed like sparks in the night breeze.
Damien himself wore a blood‑red velvet smoking jacket, its jet‑black onyx buttons gleaming.
He tossed a Cartier watch onto the backseat; its diamonds caught the streetlights like captive fireflies.
"Isn't this trivial," he slurred, draining his glass,
"When I might not even see next year?"
A statuesque blonde's gasp cut through his haze.
"Boss, you're going to kill us."
He laughed, voice thick with liquor.
"Only boredom kills," he snapped, yanking the wheel.
With reckless precision, he T‑boned a black sedan.
Metal crumpled, glass exploded across the asphalt like ghostly petals.
The models shrieked as airbags unfurled.
Without hesitation, Damien shifted into reverse, then back to drive, screeching away and leaving the wreck spinning in his wake.
There was ecstasy in fear.
Two delivery drivers stumbled from the ruined car, fury on their faces.
One extracted his phone and snapped the Phantom's plate.
Damien didn't flinch.
He smirked into the rearview.
"Send it to finance. They love surprise invoices." Then he accelerated past the stalled traffic.
---
His cliff‑perched Andalusian villa loomed ahead.
He nearly rammed the iron gates before the Phantom's smart system decelerated on its own.
Exhaust steamed in the cool night air as the engine idled.
The gates creaked open to reveal Mr. Calloway, the elderly butler, spine erect in a charcoal tailcoat.
His silver hair was neatly bound.
He surveyed the Phantom and its inebriated occupants with composed disapproval.
"Master Voss is home," Damien murmured, voice heavy.
He slumped forward, half‑asleep on the steering
Calloway stepped forward, addressing the models with courteous formality:
"Ladies, your company is no longer required. Please gather your garments and Hermes pumps and depart at once. Master Voss's hospitality does not extend to… recreational companions."
Groggy, they stumbled out, scooping up discarded clutch bags and heels.
As they hurried away, Calloway called them back.
"Miss, are you not forgetting something?" He gestured to the strewn luxury items.
They paused.
"We can take these?" one asked.
"Master Voss has no use for such fripperies," Calloway replied, unimpressed.
The women gratefully collected the goods and fled.
With a hiss, the gates closed behind them.
The Phantom rolled smoothly into its spot beside three identical supercars.
Calloway followed and, with gentle care, lifted the sleeping Damien into his arms.
"I'm too old for this," he muttered, carrying Damien into the mansion, where the doors opened and closed behind them.
Meanwhile Across town, in the glass tower of Voss Incorporate, the finance team reviewed another stack of invoices.
Elena, the head accountant, tapped her pen.
"Bentley… Lamborghini… three Phantoms… hit‑and‑run, public disturbance, unlicensed alcohol imports…"
She rubbed her temples.
The junior analyst peered over her shoulder.
"Stamp them?"
Elena sighed and pressed her crimson "APPROVED" stamp onto each bill, she looked at the calendar that was just by her table and sighed again.
"He's racked up 2.3 billion this month in… extracurriculars and it hasn't even been a week."
A junior assistant chuckled.
"Rumor is he's bankrupting himself on booze and women. Yet profits are up twenty percent."
Another shrugged.
"He's a legend. Women used to line up to marry him, now they line up to be photographed with his cars."
They exchanged wry smiles.
Absurd or believable, their task remained the same: approve the bills, keep the empire running, and await the next headline.
...
A soft chime echoed through the cliff‑top villa, and the curtains drew back on a pale dawn.
Damien's eyes flickered open to a gentle wash of light and the unmistakable aroma of fresh coffee.
He lay still, swaddled in smart fabric sheets that adjusted to his body temperature.
"Good morning, Master Voss," intoned a calm, synthesized voice from hidden speakers.
"You slept 7.4 hours. Vital signs are stable. Today's regimen: five milligrams of Nartanol, three of Vossifex, and your vitamin infusion at 09:00. Shall I order takeouts?"
Before Damien could respond, the door slid open and Mr. Calloway appeared, carrying a silver tray.
On it sat a glass vial of pale green pills, a steaming plate of smoked salmon and avocado, and a slender tumbler of electrolyte‑infused water.
"No Need, Vee,," Mr Calloway said to the artificial intelligence and turned to address the young master.
"Your morning, sir," Calloway said.
His tone was respectful but firm.
Damien winced as he propped himself up, the tension of yesterday's recklessness still lingering.
He reached for the pills without a word, swallowing them before the butler could set the tray down.
The AI's voice resumed.
"Your schedule is clear until noon. Shall I summon the driver?"
Damien draped an arm over his eyes.
"Not Now." He drained the water, pushed the plate aside, and rolled back onto his pillow, already planning to tune out when they all heard it.
The villa's private helipad hummed to life as a sleek black chopper landed.
"Lady Gabrielle is here," Calloway said, watching as Damien grumbled a little and jumped off the bed.
"I am unaware of her visit," Damien said.
"She left you countless messages, which you ignored multiple times while misplacing your phone and ended up not having any, that is, until now," Calloway said as he then brought out another phone, sleek black and paper-thin lightweight.
Damien immediately took it and said.
"Thank you"
He promptly went to the edge of his supposed bedroom. The room was much larger than one might know, but the decoration and assets in it kept it from looking too imposing and empty.
He reached the supposed wardrobe and pushed on the button, which popped up a screen with different options for clothing; he swiped until he saw something simple and selected it.
To which the wardrobe opened and outstretched the selected clothing as well as footwear, which he put on and it closed on itself.
Damien, dressed in a custom cashmere robe, padded barefoot into the courtyard, where Calloway handed him a chilled bottle of mineral water.
He sniffed himself and couldn't exactly perceive any offensives so he postponed shower time.
He brought out his phone and scrolled through market updates, his face impassive.
His details and everything are already synced with the device, as he needs not to do so over every device he uses.
Gabrielle Voss stepped off the helipad with Damien's friend, Martin Vexley, impeccably attired, the mask of concern perfectly in place.
Gabrielle's auburn hair caught the sunlight as she strode forward, arms folded.
"Morning, Damien," she said, voice cool.
"We need to talk."
He set down his water.
"Morning Gabrielle," Damien said
"Good morning Lady Gabrielle," Calloway said
They entered the living room, where floor‑to‑ceiling windows overlooked the churning sea behind them
Gabrielle studied his sunken eyes, careless robe, that half‑smile.
"This," she gestured at his attire,
"is getting out of hand. You're spending money on temporary thrills."
Damien leaned back, uncaring.
"If I'm going to die, what's the point of saving money?"
Martin cleared his throat.
"It's not just money. It's brand integrity and employee morale. The board is nervous." His polished voice hinted at annoyance.
Gabrielle shot him a glance.
"We're not talking board minutes, Martin." She turned back to Damien.
"You're wasting your last months on… this? Drinking pills like candy, buying cars you barely drive."
He met her gaze, a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes.
"Better to feel alive for a moment than die with regrets."
Gabrielle pressed on.
"You don't have to prove anything. We've known since the insurance claim leaked. We know you're sick."
Damien's jaw tightened.
"Only you and Calloway know. Keep it that way."
Martin stepped forward.
"If you'd hear me out, there's a new therapy..."
"Not now," Damien snapped.
"I said I don't care."
Silence settled.
Gabrielle exchanged a worried look with Martin, his concern for the company thinly veiled his own agenda.
Finally, Gabrielle sighed.
"All right. But promise me you'll see the doctor this week. For me, it would be poor to our reputation that we save many lives on the daily but can't save ours."
Damien's lip curled into a half‑smile.
"There was simply no time, little sis, and I'll visit the doctor when I'm free." he then gave his friend a sly smile.
They left soon after, Calloway escorting them to the helipad.
As the chopper lifted off, Damien collapsed onto the chaise longue, staring at the empty sky.
The villa's AI whispered a reminder:
"Your next infusion is in forty‑five minutes."
He closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, he thought. Maybe tomorrow.