The garage door rolled upward like an obedient robot stretching after a nap, letting out a long hiss that practically bragged,
"I'm remote-controlled, baby."
As the metal shutter climbed, a blade of sharp white light slashed across the driveway. Then, majestically, without a scratch, rolled out the king of cars, its headlights flashing like a smug smile.
The machine seemed to bounce with pride as it glided onto the interlocked stones outside Star's mansion, the garage door sliding back down behind it as though bowing in farewell.
Inside the car sat Star himself, lounging in the rear seat like he was part of a movie poster. He had chosen the car he loved most; The Red Lamborghini Aventador. Well, at least he thought it was the most expensive. Either way, it suited the "mission" he was about to execute.
And blimey, the way Mr. Fredrick drove out with such swagger made Star's head want to explode with a proud grin. Even the steering wheel looked like it was doing jazz hands.
Outside, golden light poured from tall poles arranged in an arch pattern, blessing the driveway with a glow so serene you'd swear angels had applied for part-time jobs as electricians.
The front of Star's estate opened into a vast interlocked courtyard like a marble chessboard, dotted with gleaming benches, a fountain shaped like a lion spitting water theatrically was centered at the middle, and decorative fire bowls flickering on low plinths.
A long but not too narrow path, flanked with waist-high hedges trimmed so perfectly they looked Photoshopped, led to the street like a green carpet rolled out for royalty.
The car rolled across the courtyard and stopped at the massive gate. Above it, a sleek little camera-looking like a metallic hawk swiveled to scan them. The gate itself was a statement piece: wrought iron bars as thick as a man's wrist, tips crowned with miniature golden spears, inlaid with a coat of arms of a rearing silver dragon.
When it opened it didn't creak but hissed, the kind of hiss that rich people's gates give, followed by a polite metallic clank, and then the car glided onto the flower-lined road beyond.
"Young master, you haven't told me where I'm to take you," Mr. Fred said, leaning back as he steered.
Star's eyes widened at the reminder, then he relaxed even more dramatically.
"You're taking me downtown... to the club where Natty Adriana is hosting her party."
"Right," Mr. Fred answered, hitting the road at once. His driving was swift, smooth, and a little too sharp for his age, more like a pensioner who still wins street races.
Star reclined at the back, waiting for their arrival. The silence in the car made his mind wander down alleys of memory.
He remembered clearly picking the club just to meet Leon and attend Natty's party, with no other motive, but to tell Leon that he had accepted his father's offerings. Well that was all Steve's thoughts before he took over it.
So now he is going to use it to his advantage and kill two birds with one very fancy stone. After all, meeting Leon, saying what he had to say, and then meeting the Red Queen herself; Miss Natty Adriana, sounded like a solid plan.
After a few turns and bends they reached the destination: a glass-walled duplex club, looking like a jewel box lit from within. Its outer walls were a mosaic of tinted glass panes, each one catching streetlights like liquid gems.
Neon tubes framed the roofline; LEDs pulsed along the edges like a heartbeat. On one entire side wall a digital billboard sprawled high, showing rotating images of dancers, then bold, near-naked silhouettes of women in slow motion.
The entrance was framed by towering chrome columns, and above it the name glowed:
NATTY...
in gigantic, curvy letters of neon blue and purple, each letter shimmering as if kissed by stardust.
Beside it a half-body portrait of Natty herself was drawn, seductive, smirking, hair cascading like a night tide. Bass-heavy music oozed from the building, a low rhythmic throb that made the pavement vibrate like a cat purring.
From the signs and lights Star knew they'd found the right place. The parking lots, however, wasn't jam-packed, though that probably meant he was still early.
Two separate parking areas stood out. One was barricaded by thick black velvet ropes looped between chrome posts. At the centre of the rope hung a yellow plaque with bold gothic letters spelling VIP SECTION. Two heavy-looking men flanked the barricade like twin statues of doom.
"Young master… where am I to park?" Mr. Fred asked timidly.
Star stared at him as though he'd just sworn in church.
"What do you mean where are we to park…?"
Mr. Fred winced; he knew exactly what Star meant.
"But we don't have the VIP card or reference or anything that proves we're VIP," Mr. Fred whispered.
Star chuckled. He knew Mr. Fred was right but still...
"Just go ahead and park at the freakin' VIP section. I have someone waiting for me already."
Mr. Fred nodded, steering toward the VIP rope. The man on the right stepped forward, blocking their car. He was a mountain in a black suit, his hair matching his clothes, a white communication wire snaking from his ear down his collar. His twin on the left was no smaller.
Mr. Fred wound down the tinted window. The big man approached with slithering, threatening footsteps and stretched out a hand.
"Your VIP card," he rumbled.
Mr. Fred gave him a stare that could strip paint.
"Let us pass and we'll sort it out, man."
"We can't let you park here. This is for VIPs only, sir. Turn your car around."
Mr. Fred chuckled again. To Star's shock he opened the door and stepped out. Star was sure if the guard decided to swing, Mr. Fred would end up as a cautionary tale on the pavement.
"Are you trying to say the young master inside this car should park where normal folks park their cheap cars?" Mr. Fred barked.
Where the courage came from Star didn't know, but he liked the hype.
The huge guard didn't flinch; his stern smoulder of a face didn't even twitch. That only fuelled Mr. Fred's temper.
"GET OUT OF THE WAY YOU OVERGROWN COFFEE TABLE IN A SUIT!" he bellowed, thumping the man's chest. The man didn't even budge; in fact, the push bounced Mr. Fred back like he'd hit a trampoline.
That one shout drew attention.
Even Leon, sitting inside the club near the glass wall, saw the commotion and hurried outside.
Star now felt uncomfortable, ashamed even. Sitting tight would only make it worse. Calmly, like a king stepping down from his throne, Star opened the car and stepped out.
His black suit shimmered in the golden streetlights, his wristwatch glinting with it. His masculine features refused to hide, drawing ladies' attention from the brawl to him.
Even Leon, now outside, froze with his mouth hanging open... luckily no fly was on duty.
With a smooth stride Star walked to Mr. Fred and whispered something.
Mr. Fred stepped aside, breathing hard. Was it anger issues or feeling disrespected, Star couldn't tell.
Meanwhile he was about to address the guard when someone beat him to it. He turned sharply and locked eyes with Leon.
"Leon," he called, startled.
"What are you doing out here?"
But Leon seemed deaf, scanning Star from head to toe like he'd seen a ghost.
"Who are you, please?" he managed to say, half teasing, half astounded.
Star chuckled. Typical Leon, always joking... or had he truly forgotten him?
Leon stared harder, eyes wider.
"Steve?" he gasped.
"Is this you… like the you… you?" His gaze darted to the car, jaw dropping further.
Star chuckled again, embarrassed. He didn't blame him. The Steve Leon knew was a pathetic, churchy vampire... not judging, it was his creation afterall. but still. Now that Star had taken over, the change had begun.
He looked up at Leon, half proud, half confused. "How do I get a VIP card?" he asked.
Leon now knew something was up. The Steve he knew hardly attended clubs. Now here he was wanting VIP prowess. Before Leon could reply the security man, who had overheard, stepped closer.
"Have a bank card with you?" the man asked, his voice deep and unnerving.
Star, still perfectly composed, nodded. He slipped a hand into his suit jacket and produced a black card. That alone made Leon's jaw nearly unhinge.
Black cards weren't just cards; they were financial Excaliburs; invitations to a world where limits evaporated and banks practically curtsied.
People didn't just own them; they wielded them.
And now Leon's look went from shocked to cartoonish disbelief, like he'd just seen Star pull a golden goose out of his pocket.
The guard took the card, swiped it, then returned it along with another: the VIP card itself, a glossy slab of onyx with platinum edges, embossed with the club's logo in holographic ink. Even its barcode glimmered like a constellation.
The guard stepped aside and unhooked the velvet rope.
"Proceed."
"Go on, Mr. Fred, park the car. I'll be going in with Leon," Star said with an unplaceable grin.
"Yes, young master," Mr. Fred replied, still muttering curses as he climbed back into the car.
"Young master," Leon echoed under his breath, shocked at the sudden change. He felt it too, the vibe everyone felt: Steve was different.
Oblivious to Leon's thoughts Star teased,
"Mmm-hmm… I think you should start calling me that too, you know."
Leon widened his eyes, cast another look at Star, then chuckled despite himself.
"I can't even get my ass to call you that, talk more of my mouth," he said arrogantly as they both laughed their way into the club.