Urban Plundering: I Corrupted The System!-Chapter 286: Arrival at Wilder Automotive Pavilion, LA

The Wilder Automotive Pavilion wasn't a showroom—it was a statement. A declaration that luxury wasn't just about money, but about exclusivity, legacy, and power. Situated on the edge of expensive L.A office region, where billionaires strolled and old money whispered, the building itself was a masterpiece of modern architecture—black glass, sweeping curves, and a minimalist design that oozed quiet, undeniable authority.

There was no grand sign outside, no flashy advertisements, nothing that screamed for attention. Because the right people already knew. And those who didn't?

They weren't meant to.

TheAs the glass doors slid open, guests were met with a hushed, almost reverent silence.

The air smelled of rich leather and the faintest trace of gasoline—an intoxicating mix of old-world craftsmanship and cutting-edge technology. The floor? Polished black marble with gold inlays forming the subtle shape of the Wilder crest—a crest only a handful of families even recognized.

A concierge, dressed in a sleek, custom-tailored charcoal suit, offered a knowing nod. No salesmen here—only specialists, engineers, and curators. Each guest was greeted by name, their preferences already known, their vices anticipated.

Behind the concierge, a massive, vault-like door with biometric scanners stood—a deliberate design choice. Entering the showroom wasn't about wandering in off the street. It required access. Wealth alone wasn't enough. You needed significance.

Stepping inside felt like stepping into a sanctuary of speed and opulence.

Soft, ambient lighting bathed the hyper-exclusive fleet in a glow that was almost religious—each car positioned on a slightly elevated, turntable-style platform, as if on display at an art museum. But these weren't cars. They were one-of-a-kind creations, custom commissions, experimental models that never hit the public market.

Some of the standouts included:

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The Wilder Lykan Noir – A hypercar so rare only three exist, featuring a full-carbon black body, a twin-turbo V12, and diamond-studded headlights. Price? If you had to ask, you couldn't afford it.

The Vortice X – An electric super sedan that outperformed the Bugatti Chiron on acceleration alone. Custom-built for one client.

The Phantom Monarch – A fully armored, bulletproof, self-driving luxury saloon, designed for a Middle Eastern royal who wanted a mobile fortress that moved like a ghost.

The Chimera X – A prototype car with a hybrid gas-electric jet engine, rumored to have been tested against military aircraft in covert speed trials.

Each car had a small, discrete plaque, no price tags, and no explanations. Because if you needed a brochure, you didn't belong here.

****

The entrance to Wilder Automotive Pavilion was not the kind of place where people just walked in. It was a fortress of exclusivity, a shrine to wealth, power, and "if you know, you know" energy. This wasn't where you came to shop—this was where you came to flex.

And right now? Parker, Tessa, and Atalanta were about to walk through that door like a goddamn scene straight out of a cyberpunk billionaire heist film.

Except Parker was lowkey dying inside.

His body still wasn't at 100% after everything that went down before. His movements were calculated, controlled, like he was running on sheer force of will rather than actual functioning muscles after what he just found out. Every step he took? He felt that shit. But he wasn't about to let it show—not here, not now.

Tessa? Oh, she was built for this. The heiress to the Wilders, the family that owned this damn place. She walked like she owned the building—because, well, she did. Dressed in a sleek black outfit that blurred the line between fashion and combat gear, she wasn't just a rich girl. She was Wilder royalty.

And Atalanta?

Yeah. That Atalanta. A-class Olympian, divine athlete, literal legend incarnate. This was a chick whose presence alone made the air feel denser. She wasn't walking; she was striding, like every step was measured in Olympic records and war victories.

And the way she carried herself? Like a goddess pretending to be a human for the fun of it.

The second they stepped in, the entire showroom felt it.

This wasn't a normal entrance.

This was the kind of arrival that had people adjusting their collars, sneaking glances, pretending to be engrossed in conversations that suddenly didn't matter anymore.

The concierge, a man who had probably seen every type of ultra-rich client before, took one look at Tessa and immediately straightened like he just got drafted into a war.

"Miss Wilder."

Tessa gave a lazy nod, the kind of acknowledgment that said yeah, yeah, I know I'm that bitch, but keep it moving.

"Where's my lounge?" she asked.

The concierge—who probably had no right to be sweating in a fully air-conditioned showroom—nodded toward the vault-like elevator.

"Prepped and secured, ma'am."

Tessa smiled. Dangerously.

"Good."

Parker, meanwhile, kept his poker face on, but inside, he was still trying to ignore the way his entire soul hurt from the past 24 hours. If Tessa or Atalanta noticed, neither said anything.

The three of them stepped forward, and it was the kind of power walk that could make an action movie jealous. The marble floors echoed under their steps, and every person in that showroom felt the shift—the way the atmosphere got thicker, like the air was suddenly charged with something unseen.

Parker did have a god-tier senses, but didn't need it to see the way a few executives at the VIP section adjusted their Rolexes, the way some high-rollers subtly turned their heads, and the way a billionaire's trophy wife nearly choked on her champagne when he walked past her.

Yeah. This was different.

The elevator doors slid open without anyone pressing a single button.

Because, of course they did.

Ding.

The elevator doors slid open, revealing a vaulted underground chamber that looked more like a futuristic museum than a car garage. The air was cool, controlled, carrying the faintest scent of leather, motor oil, and generational wealth.

This was the Wilders' personal collection—the stuff no one saw unless they had a last name that made banks shut down for them.

The walls? Lined with glass cases that held priceless memorabilia—old racing suits, blueprints of unreleased prototypes, steering wheels from legendary F1 victories, even a damn plaque signed by Enzo Ferrari himself.

And the cars?

Yeah. This wasn't your "Oh, nice Bugatti" kind of collection.

This was the kind of lineup that made billionaires reconsider their entire life's work.

Tessa led the way, flicking her wrist toward the first row of cars, her voice dripping with that casual, "I grew up in this" confidence.

"Alright, let's start with the ghosts."

****

How's it so far? I wonder guys. Gifts? Reviews? Comments? Votes? What have you got for our Parker and where do you need improvement. I will listen!