My Ultimate Gacha System-Chapter 337 - 11: The Belated birthday gift

Inside, the showroom floor was clean polished concrete and the cars sat under strip lighting that caught every surface, and a salesman appeared within a minute — mid-thirties, dark suit, the kind of unhurried professional manner that said he wasn’t going to push anything.

Marco introduced himself and the man’s expression shifted slightly in the way it did when a name was recognised, and he led them toward the floor models without wasting time.

"What are you looking for?" he asked, directing the question at Demien.

"Something with rear-wheel drive," Demien said. "Not too big."

The salesman nodded and brought them first to a 430i Coupé in Portimao Blue — four cylinder, clean lines, sensible specification, the kind of car that looked exactly like what it was. Demien walked around it once and put his hand on the roof and looked at the interior through the glass.

"It’s fine," he said.

Marco looked at him. "That means no."

"It means it’s fine," Demien said, and kept walking.

The M440i was next — six cylinder, wider stance, the xDrive badge on the back. The salesman ran through the specification while Demien crouched beside the rear wheel arch and looked at the brake caliper and the width of the tyre and then stood back up and looked at the car from ten feet away.

"Closer," he said.

The salesman understood and moved them down the showroom floor to where the M4 Competition sat at the end of the row, and it was immediately a different thing from the cars they’d passed — lower, wider, the exhaust tips visible beneath the rear diffuser, the front splitter sitting close to the floor, and the colour was a deep Frozen Portimao Blue Metallic that shifted between blue and grey depending on the angle.

Demien stood in front of it for a moment.

"Open it," he said.

The salesman unlocked it and Demien got in and sat in the driver’s seat and put his hands on the wheel and looked at the dash and the bucket seat wings pressing against his ribs and the gear selector and the M Sport steering wheel with the red start button, and Marco stood outside looking through the window at him with his arms crossed.

"Well?" Marco said.

Demien got out. "I need to drive it."

The salesman produced a key and they went out through the side entrance to where a demonstrator was parked, same model, dark interior, and Demien adjusted the seat and the mirrors and started the engine and the sound that came back through the cabin was not loud but it was present in a way that the 430i’s engine had not been, and he pulled out of the car park and onto Viale Giulio Cesare while the salesman sat in the passenger seat with his hands in his lap.

The road ran straight for half a kilometre and Demien kept it controlled through the city section, and then the route climbed toward the quieter roads above the valley where the gradient rose and the bends were actual bends and he could feel the rear axle loading under acceleration and the way the car rotated when he turned in, and he drove for fifteen minutes without saying anything and the salesman said nothing either.

When they returned to the dealership Demien got out and stood beside the car for a moment with one hand on the roof.

"This one," he said.

Marco was waiting on the pavement. "I know," he said.

They went inside and the salesman walked them through the trim options while Marco stood beside Demien and reviewed the pricing sheet with the same focused attention he brought to contract documents, and after fifteen minutes of back and forth the sales manager appeared and the numbers adjusted in the way numbers always adjusted when someone had pre-established the relationship, and the final figure was agreed on.

Marco paid the deposit from his own account without discussion.

"I’ll transfer the rest to you," Demien said while the paperwork was being drawn up.

"You’ll say thank you," Marco said. "That’s what you’ll do."

Demien looked at him. Marco was looking at the paperwork.

"Thank you," Demien said.

"You’re welcome," Marco said. "Happy birthday. Two months late."

They signed the papers and the delivery was confirmed for the following week, and when they walked out into the Thursday afternoon Bergamo sun Marco’s car was already waiting at the kerb and he opened the rear door and looked back at Demien.

"The briefing document," Marco said. "Have you read it?"

"Not yet," Demien said.

Marco held his gaze for a moment. "Read it before England," he said. "That’s all I’m asking."

"I will," Demien said.

Marco nodded once and got in and the car pulled away, and Demien stood on the pavement outside the dealership for a moment before calling his driver.

Thursday Evening Demien’s Apartment, Bergamo 8:30 PM

He was on the couch with the television on at low volume when he unlocked his phone out of habit and opened Twitter without particular intention, and the transfer section of his timeline had kept moving the way it did regardless of whether he looked at it.

@FabrizioRomano: Manchester United have now submitted an IMPROVED bid for Demien Walter — €60M fixed fee plus performance add-ons. Ten Hag personally involved in recruitment process. Personal terms not yet discussed. Atalanta yet to respond. 🔴 Here we go soon...

The engagement showed 104K likes. He scrolled.

@David_Ornstein: Liverpool remain confident in their position despite Man United’s escalated interest. Sources close to Klopp describe Walter as "the priority." Sporting director Schmadtke expected to increase their offer. Club believes the player’s profile fits their rebuild. (@TheAthletic)

He scrolled past both without stopping and found a clip someone had posted from a Spanish outlet — a sixty-second highlight package of his season, the kind that circulated when a name was in transfer news and needed context, and the comments beneath it were in four languages and all said versions of the same thing.

He locked the phone and set it face-down on the cushion beside him.

The briefing document from Marco was still unread in his email. He’d been meaning to open it since Friday, and each day he’d told himself he’d read it that evening and each evening had found a reason to do something else instead, and the document was still sitting there with its three attachments and the subject line that contained four club names and four fee structures.

He picked up the phone again, opened the email, and put it back down without clicking.

Eleven days until St George’s Park.

He turned the television up slightly and watched the remainder of whatever was on without paying attention to any of it, and the city below moved through its Thursday evening and the apartment stayed quiet, and the phone stayed face-down on the cushion beside him for the rest of the night.