On a weekend night in New York, in the Chelsea district, neon lights stained the sky a sultry violet-red.
A fiery red Lamborghini Aventador pulled up to the entrance of 1OAK Nightclub, its scissor doors slowly rising.
Sebastian, dressed in a flamboyant Givenchy print shirt, stepped out of the car like a peacock fanning its tail. He casually tossed the keys to the valet, stuffing a hundred-USD bill into his hand as a tip.
"Fack!" he said. "It's so fucking cold."
"No shit," Li Wei said, practically tumbling out of the passenger seat. A car like the Lamborghini Aventador was built for smaller frames and was not kind to his height and broad shoulders. "You're wearing a print shirt in New York in March. Of course you're cold."
"This is French romance," Sebastian said, shivering. "Hurry, we won't be cold once we squeeze into the crowd."
