Urban System in America-Chapter 104 - 103: Weight of Card

Each piece came with a story, a history.

Rex listened with quiet enthusiasm. He already knew some of this—having read about it online back in his past life. But Claude’s descriptions were more than textbook knowledge. They were intimate, like he was sharing family secrets.

In his past life, he’d spent nights reading watch blogs, dreaming of owning even one quality timepiece. But all he could ever afford were flimsy, mass-produced watches. He hated that. Not because they were cheap, but because it felt soulless. Mechanical precision meant nothing without passion behind it.

Now, he was holding watches that felt alive.

Watches, he believed, weren’t just instruments to track time. They were wearable art, crafted legacy, a conversation between past and future.

Eventually, his gaze returned to the one that drew him in from the start. Simple, classic, elegant. A Crosshair Dial, black leather strap, smooth steel bezel. Clean. Understated. Priced at around $57,000—not exactly cheap, but not bank-breaking for this street either.

"I’ll take this one," he said casually.

Claude smiled and nodded. "Excellent choice, sir."

But as Rex turned to follow him to the counter, something else caught his eye.

It was housed in its own glass case, slightly elevated.

A moonlit miracle.

He approached and leaned in. The dial was deep blue aventurine, sparkling like a galaxy trapped beneath glass, dotted with shimmering flecks. Nestled within the dial was a silver-and-gold Moon Phase complication. The bezel was rose gold, thin and polished, gleaming subtly. The hands were golden slivers, while a black alligator leather strap finished the piece with timeless grace.

"This," Claude said with visible pride, "is one of our rarest pieces. The moon phase dial is made from actual meteorite material. Just arrived from our headquarters in Switzerland yesterday. As of this moment, ours is the only store in the U.S. carrying it."

He was immediately captivated. The watch resonated with him on a profound level.

He didn’t even ask for the price.

Without hesitation, "I’ll take this one," he said, pointing to the meteorite dial.

Claude blinked, then smiled with genuine admiration. "You have excellent taste, sir."

Rex chuckled. "I guess."

Claude continued, "You’re the first to see it and most importantly for this one you don’t have to wait months, if not years to buy."

"Well then, I guess I’m lucky."

Then Claude stepped away to prepare the paperwork. When he returned, Rex asked casually, "So, how much are we talking?"

"The meteorite piece is priced at $325,000. The Crosshair Dial model is $57,000."

Rex winced internally, though his face didn’t show it. Over $380,000.

Still... he wanted both.

"Any room for a discount?" he asked smoothly.

The man chuckled. "Well, I can’t decide that, let me consult with the store manager."

A few minutes later, a refined tall gentleman in his forties approached with poise. He wore a dark tailored three-piece suit, his hair slicked back, posture upright, eyes alert.

His air was gentler, more welcoming.

"Good afternoon. I’m Henri Marchand, the branch manager. I’m delighted to meet you."

"Me too, It’s my pleasure to meet you."

The man chuckled at his refined greeting, "I heard you’re interested in two very special pieces today."

Rex nodded with a smirk. "They’re beautiful. Anyone would be interested in them.

"It’s rare to see someone your age appreciate craftsmanship like this," he said with a smile.

Martin studied him for a moment—his posture, tone, and composure. Most young men who walked in here either window-shopped or came with their parents. It’s rare to find a young man who appreciates timepieces these days, most of them just focus on cars instead of these so-called "things of the past."

After a short but pleasant exchange, the topic came back to price.

Martin spoke with a chuckle, "you don’t seem like someone who needs discounts."

Rex replied with a shrug, "I’ve always believed in practical spending—so a discount wouldn’t hurt."

The manager laughed warmly. "That’s fair. Especially since you seem to know exactly what you’re looking for—unusual for someone your age."

After a few more minutes of pleasant negotiation, the manager agreed to adjust the price—rounding the Moon Phase to $300,000, and the Crosshair to $50,000, totaling a neat $350,000.

Rex agreed without hesitation.

As Claude handled the paperwork and processed the card, Henri invited Rex to sit with him in the lounge. Over espresso served in fine porcelain cups, their conversation drifted from horology to Los Angeles real estate, then to emerging technologies, and somehow into geopolitics.

What was meant to be polite small talk turned into an impromptu masterclass. Rex spoke with depth and clarity, occasionally letting slip insights about upcoming market shifts and tech trends. Henri, who’d dealt with his fair share of heirs and hedge fund kids, found himself genuinely intrigued.

This young man didn’t just have money—he had vision.

By the time Claude returned with the completed documentation, Henri had already made up his mind.

This one isn’t ordinary.

As Claude carefully handed over two elegant boxes, Rex unboxed the Moon Phase watch immediately and strapped it onto his wrist. The leather was cool against his skin, the case smooth, the dial—ethereal.

Henri studied him for a moment. Then, with a slight motion, he reached into his coat and withdrew a sleek black business card with embossed gold letters.

"Here’s my card," he said, handing it over with both hands. "If you need adjustments, service, or... well, anything, even if it’s not watch-related—I’d be honored to assist you."

Rex blinked, surprised by the formality, but accepted the card smoothly. "Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind."

He didn’t yet understand the weight of that card.

But Claude did.

He watched from the side, a flicker of surprise flashing across his usually calm eyes. He didn’t expect Henri to appreciate this young man so much.

It is very, very, very rare for Henri to give his personal card, he almost never gave out his personal card. Not even to clients who spent millions.

Because Henri Marchand wasn’t just a store manager. He had connections—to elite collectors, international jewelers, and even certain discreet financiers. That card wasn’t just an offer of service—it was an invitation into a network of power.

Oblivious to all of this Rex turned to leave, he glanced at the new watch on his wrist. Elegant. Refined. Eternal.

And as he walked out under the Californian sun, the bell chiming behind him again, with the card in his hand, he suddenly remembered something.

"Damn. I forgot to ask Seraphina for her number."

A hint of regret flickered in his eyes before he shook his head with a faint smile. "Next time," he whispered, like a silent promise, as he slipped the card into his wallet and continued walking.

(End of Chapter)