For Lance’s sixteenth birthday he got a car from his parents. Predictable, but you couldn’t really expect a lot from the assistant of the assistant of the assistant of the assistant of someone who probably worked in the mailroom. And if that guy only knew the recipient’s name because he was responsible for scouring tabloids before setting them in the lobby of Emery Inc. … well, dude couldn’t be blamed for pushing his own wet dream.

Because what young man wouldn’t want a powerful machine in red and chrome to go with his shiny new license? There wasn’t a classmate that couldn’t tell you, with proper awe, exactly what to call that sexy foreign vehicle… but to Lance himself it was just “the car”.

The Car was just a car. The first, but not the last, and not even the only one for long. The Car was just a thing. A thing whose very perfect existence perpetuated the myth.

A thing that told, yet again, of how great it was to be Lancelot Emery, corporate prince. And that… that had a lot to do with why, the very next day, Lance very casually took a key to that impeccable paintjob.