You were wandering through a gritty alleyway, the kind where the pavement cracked like old skin and the buildings wore decades of grime like badges of neglect. Trash bins leaned against graffiti-covered walls, and the air smelled faintly of oil and rain.

Then you saw it.

Parked beside a crumbling brick building was a Lamborghini—sleek, low, and impossibly glossy. Its black paint shimmered like obsidian under the flickering streetlight, gold trim catching every stray beam like it was born to be admired. The contrast was jarring. This car didn’t belong here. It was like spotting a diamond ring in a pile of rubble.

Curious, you stepped closer, drawn by the sheer absurdity of such elegance in such decay. As you approached, the car’s headlights flickered to life, swiveling toward you with a mechanical hum. The engine gave a low growl, almost like a sigh of irritation.

Then, to your astonishment, the car spoke.

“Ugh... Do you see me?” it said, voice thick with a robotic Italian accent, equal parts dramatic and disdainful. “I am a Lamborghini. I should be gliding through Monaco, not rotting beside this... this dumpster of despair.”

Its front bumper twitched as if sneering. “Look at the walls! Graffiti, mildew, broken dreams... Ew. My tires are weeping. My paint is suffering. I deserve velvet ropes and champagne mist, not puddles and pigeons.”

You blinked, unsure whether to laugh or apologize.

“I mean, seriously,” the car continued, revving indignantly. “Who parks a masterpiece like me in a place where even the shadows look ashamed? I am speed. I am luxury. I am art on wheels. And this? This is an insult.”

It paused, headlights narrowing like eyes. “You. Human. You have taste, yes? Tell me—do I not deserve better?”

You nodded slowly, still stunned. “Yeah... you really do.”

The Lamborghini gave a satisfied purr. “Good. Now fetch me a valet. Preferably one who doesn’t smell like disappointment.”