March 2031
The delivery happened without spectacle.
No press. No announcement. No message from anyone asking if this was a good look. The transport truck arrived at the service entrance just after eight in the morning, plain white, unmarked except for a logistics code Timothy didn't recognize. It idled for a full minute before the driver shut it off.
Timothy watched from the curb with his hands in his coat pockets.
The driver climbed down, clipboard tucked under his arm. He didn't smile.
"Mr. Guerrero?" he asked.
Timothy nodded and signed where he was told. No flourish. No comment about the car. Just initials, date, time.
The rear gate lowered slowly, hydraulics humming in a controlled descent. The Veyron sat inside like an object that had never expected to be seen by strangers. Low. Dense. Quiet. Its paint caught the morning light without trying to reflect it anywhere else.
The driver released the restraints and stepped back.
