Urban System in America
Chapter 164 - 163: Counterfeits?

Chapter 164: Chapter 163: Counterfeits?

But just as he was about to make his way to his seat, someone skidded to a halt in front of him, cutting him off like a traffic cone materializing out of nowhere.

It was Samuel —a skinny, hyper-energetic, self proclaimed fashion expert of the class. He was known for critiquing outfits the way food critics reviewed five-star meals—passionately, dramatically, and without mercy.

Rex blinked, and immediately took a cautious step back, throwing his hands up in mock surrender.

"What now?" he asked warily. Don’t tell me you’re here to accuse me too. I’m innocent, I swear!"

But Samuel didn’t laugh at his dry joke like the others had been. His eyes weren’t full of judgment or jealousy—no, they were zeroed in with laser-like precision... on Rex— no, not on Rex, in fact his eyes were locked on Rex’s clothes.

He leaned in slightly, squinting like an appraiser examining a rare artifact. "Wait a minute..."

Rex stiffened. "What?" he asked, but Samuel wasn’t listening.

He took another step forward, circling Rex like a hawk closing in on prey. His eyes scanning Rex from head to toe with the intensity of a fashion editor at a runway show. "Wait a minute..."

"Bro," Samuel finally breathed, eyes wide with awe. "This coat—Is this designer?"

The words sliced through the fading laughter like a blade. The room, which had only just begun to settle down after the earlier chaos, froze again. The laughter dried up like a snapped string. One moment ago, everyone had been joking, easing back into casual banter. Now? They were staring again—this time not with teasing curiosity, but with the sharp focus of bargain hunters who just stumbled onto a hidden Gucci shelf at a flea market.

In an instant everyone transformed into fashion experts, even pushing Samuel, self proclaimed fashion guru to the side.

"Hey! Hey, don’t push me, make way," said Samuel as the poor guy tried to push through again.

"Wait," another chimed in, stepping closer with furrowed brows, "Are these pants from the Summer ’2X exclusive collection?"

"No, no—look at the stitch on the collar. That’s not just any fast fashion. That’s craftsmanship. bespoke craftsmanship."

"And the shoes—hold up—those look like limited edition Nightshade Runners. Aren’t those like, sold out worldwide from all the retail shops?"

They circled him slowly, like curious archaeologists discovering an artifact from a long-lost civilization.

Rex stood in the middle of the chaos, arms raised like a man caught in a heist, watching helplessly as his friends examined him like a designer mannequin on loan from Milan.

"Guys," he said, trying to wiggle out, "I promise it’s not that serious."

But his voice was lost in their frenzy.

Someone even crouched to get a better look at the shoes. "The sole even has that diagonal cut—these are real, right?"

Another student sniffed the coat dramatically. "Dude, this coat—this coat is *tailored*. I can *smell* the price tag."

"You’re a fashion assassin, man. Who let him raid a celebrity’s closet and not tell the rest of us?"

Rex sighed. "They’re counterfeit."

There was sudden silence, as the group froze and tahy looked at each other in silence.

"No way," someone muttered, cautiously brushing the sleeve like it might disappear. "It feels... real."

"That’s the point of good counterfeits," Rex replied dryly. "Top-tier fakes. Can’t a guy look decent without burning holes in his bank account?"

Hearing that, the group fell into a momentary silence, their expressions shifting into a mix of confusion and reluctant agreement. Because, truthfully, Rex had a point. Wearing counterfeit items in university wasn’t exactly scandalous—in fact, it was pretty common. Most of them, even those from upper-middle-class backgrounds, had at least one or two "inspired" pieces tucked away in their closets. A pair of knockoff sneakers here, a logo tee that might’ve skipped a few authenticity checks there. It was part of the unspoken student survival code: look good without going broke.

But that coat? Those shoes? That kind of ensemble screamed designer showroom more than student discount. Few on campus dared to flex that hard unless they belonged to a very specific breed—rich international students who treated tuition like pocket change, old money types who rolled up in vintage European sedans, or oil heirs who thought hundred-dollar bills made decent bookmarks.

For someone like Rex—smart, stylish, but never flashy—it didn’t quite add up. And that’s exactly what made it so intriguing.

"You’re telling me *this*," still couldn’t believe it, one of them pointed dramatically at the coat, "is fake? You mean I’ve been reevaluating my whole wardrobe for *this*?!"

A guy in the back blinked. "Wait... even the shoes?"

"All of it," Rex confirmed, voice firm but tired. " I bought them from a guy who knows a guy."

Sam stepped forward to help him out as he crossed his arms. "Then either you’ve got insanely good taste—or your fake plug deserves a shoutout in GQ."

One of the quieter guys tilted his head. "Okay, but like... even if the outfit’s fake—what about the car?"

That stopped everyone.

Ah yes, the car.

The unspoken elephant that had loomed in the background conversations for the past few weeks.

Rex’s black coupe had stirred curiosity since the day it appeared on campus. Sleek, quiet, and quick off the line, it looked expensive— outrageously so. No one could name the exact version, and most chalked it up to being just a flashy trim of a common sports car.

Still, the way it moved, the way it sounded—it left just enough doubt to keep the rumors alive. Some whispered it was worth more than it looked, others dismissed it as all show and no substance. Either way, it never failed to turn heads.

The guys shifted around, throwing each other sideways glances. It wasn’t just mindless teasing anymore—there was actual curiosity in the air now. What used to be a running joke was starting to sound like a genuine mystery. And with Rex standing there, looking like an off-duty model—it wasn’t just banter but actual curiosity.

Rex rubbed the back of his neck and gave a sheepish smile. "Honestly? That’s just a rumor. The car’s a bit special, sure—but not *that* special."

Sam raised a skeptical brow. "You mean to tell me that growl isn’t custom-tuned?

That car *growls*, Rex. Like it has feelings."

"Yeah," another guy added. "It *purrs* when it starts up. I heard it last week. That’s definitely not your average four-cylinder sympathy engine."

(End of Chapter)