The estate's underground garage was a vault of mechanical gods, each car a testament to my relentless pursuit—curated by ARIA's cold precision, acquired through dealerships and private auctions that bent to my will.
The space itself was a cathedral of carbon fiber and chrome: climate-controlled air humming at 68 degrees, floors of polished epoxy reflecting LED strips that shifted colors based on the vehicle's accent.
Holographic plaques floated above each bay, displaying specs, provenance, and ARIA's performance analytics. The collection wasn't for show; it was a living lab of speed, power, and engineering extremes.
I stood there, staring at eighty something million dollars' worth of automotive engineering, and felt the weight of the moment settle into my bones.
