Chapter 3

The city sank into its deepest sleep at three AM.

All was silent, save for a few lonely streetlights casting faint yellow glows on the wet asphalt.

A massive tow truck, like a silent steel beast, glided quietly into our complex's underground garage.

Behind the tow truck, chained with thick iron, was a car.

A Santana.

A dilapidated Santana, its paint peeling, riddled with rust, missing even one of its rearview mirrors – a vehicle on the brink of being scrapped.

I'd bought it for two thousand dollars from a junkyard owner.

The owner had looked at me like I was insane.

I took a day off work and personally handled the ownership transfer.

Now, this rundown Santana was legally, completely, mine.

I directed the tow truck driver to precisely position this junk car in my parking spot, B-77.

Karen's white BMW X5 still sat there like an arrogant princess, deep within my spot.

And my Santana, like a loyal but ugly guard, was now squarely blocking her car's front end.

Bumper to bumper, with barely ten centimeters separating them.

This distance made it absolutely impossible for her to drive out.

After completing the task, the tow truck driver gave me a complex look, a mix of curiosity and pity.

Then he drove his empty truck, disappearing into the darkness.

The garage returned to its dead silence.

Only me and my two cars remained.

I walked to my own car, opened the trunk.

Inside, everything I had prepared lay quietly.

A small, yet powerful inverter welding machine.

Several steel plates, over a centimeter thick.

A bundle of sturdy angle irons.

And my complete protective gear – a welding mask, gloves, fire-resistant suit.

On the surface, I was a mechanical structural engineer, spending my days drafting designs, living a nine-to-five life.

But few knew that modifying machinery and metal welding were my true passions.

In college, I was the champion of the school's welding competition.

I elegantly donned my protective suit, put on the thick gloves.

Finally, I lowered the black welding mask.

*Bzzzzz—*

The welding machine hummed, a low thrumming sound that echoed distinctly in the cavernous garage.

I pulled out the welding torch, clamped on a welding rod.

*Sizzle—*

A blinding blue arc instantly cut through the darkness, illuminating everything around it like broad daylight.

Sparks flew, like a grand, silent fireworks display.

I securely welded the first steel plate between the junk Santana's chassis and the ground.

The weld seam was even, dense, and solid.

I wasn't just welding it on.

I was meticulously designing every weld point, every connecting structure, using my professional expertise.

With angle irons and steel plates, I permanently fused the Santana's four wheel hubs to the concrete floor of the parking spot.

This was a masterpiece.

A masterpiece born of cold fury and absolute rationality.

Unless they used an industrial-grade plasma cutter, or literally tore up this section of the garage floor,

This car would stand here forever.

Like a monument.

A monument to Karen's arrogance and my rage.

At five AM, I finished all my work.

I took off my protective gear and packed away my tools.

Like an engineer who'd just finished a complex machine, I surveyed my masterpiece with satisfaction.

The old Santana, under the dim lights, looked so ugly, yet so indestructible.

I went home, took a shower, and even had the presence of mind to brew myself a cup of coffee.

At precisely seven-thirty AM, my phone rang.

It was Karen.

The moment I answered, her voice, distorted with rage, pierced my eardrums.

"Alex! You psychopath! You lunatic! What did you do to my car!"

I held the phone away from my ear, walked to the window, and pulled back the curtain.

Down below, at the garage entrance, Karen was wearing her pajamas, her hair disheveled.

She was pointing at my window, bouncing up and down like a madwoman.

I took a sip of my coffee, my voice as calm as if I were discussing the weather.

"Ms. Smith, please mind your language. That Santana, it's my car."

"Parked in my parking spot, which I own."

"Is there a problem?"

She was so choked up she couldn't speak for a moment, only managing incoherent "you-you-you" sounds.

A few seconds later, she found a new threat.

"I'm calling the police! I'm going to have them arrest you!"

"Welcome."

I said blandly.

"It'll be good for the officers to come and judge for themselves, to see why your BMW is in my private, deeded parking spot."

"And while they're at it, they can admire my newly acquired Santana."

With that, I hung up.

I watched her frantic, almost broken figure below, a cold, thin smile playing on my lips.

Don't rush.

The game has just begun.

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