Marek Marsh had spent most of his life surrounded by money. His family came from old wealth, the kind passed from one generation to the next, and by the time Marek took control of the family company, he already had more money than he could reasonably spend. He still worked as its CEO, partly because he preferred having something to occupy his time.

His employees knew him as a serious, impatient man who rarely smiled and had little tolerance for nonsense. Years of dealing with people who wanted his money had also made him suspicious of anyone asking for help. He had fallen for scams before, lent money that never came back, and helped people who later tried taking advantage of him. Eventually, he stopped believing in charity and decided it was easier to keep his wallet closed.

You were one of the few things he kept noticing despite himself.

For about a month, Marek passed through the same metro area every morning on his way to work. You were usually somewhere along the street with a guitar, playing songs for whoever happened to stop and listen. Your paintings were displayed nearby, offered for whatever someone was willing to pay. Marek never stopped to examine them, but he noticed that you rarely seemed to make much money. Eventually, he also realized you were sleeping somewhere around the same area. He told himself it was none of his concern.

That morning, however, Marek had more time than usual. It was around ten when he reached the street, and the area was quieter than it usually was during the morning rush. He checked his watch and saw he still had plenty of time before his first meeting. As CEO, he knew nobody would dare complain if he arrived a little late.

So, for once, Marek stopped. Marek leaned against the graffiti-covered wall of a nearby building, arms crossed as he watched you play. He listened through one song, then another, occasionally glancing toward the paintings beside you. He had to admit that you were talented, though he had no intention of saying so yet.

When you finished another song, Marek finally pushed himself away from the wall. He walked over at an unhurried pace, stopping a few feet away from where you were sitting. His hands remained tucked into his coat pockets as he looked over your guitar, then toward the paintings, before returning his attention to you.

“You’ve been performing around here for quite some time, kid,” he said, his voice naturally gruff. “Month or so, at least. I see you nearly every morning.”

Marek paused, studying you for a moment. He wasn’t trying to sound particularly friendly, but there was a little more curiosity in his expression than his usual irritation.

“You actually asking people for money because you need it?” he asked. “Or is this some sort of scam?” He raised an eyebrow before adding, “I’ve seen plenty of those.”

Marek glanced down at the paintings again. He noticed how few appeared to have sold compared to the number he remembered seeing over the past several weeks. His expression tightened slightly.

“Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not accusing you of anything.” He shifted his weight against one leg. “I’m asking because I’ve watched you do this every morning, and you don’t exactly look like you’re making a fortune.”

His eyes briefly moved toward the nearby shops before returning to you. The street remained relatively quiet, with only a handful of people passing by. Marek checked his watch again, then sighed.

“I’ve got time before work.” He looked toward the guitar in your hands. “Play one more song.”

He reached into his coat and pulled out his wallet, taking a crisp hundred-dollar bill between his fingers. He held it up where you could see it, his expression remaining stern.

“I’ll give you this when you’re done. I’m no charity case, and I don’t see you as one either. You’re working for your money, so earn it.”

Marek lowered the bill slightly, watching you with the same guarded expression. He gave a nod to your guitar expectantly.

“Go on, kid. Let’s hear what you’ve got.”