He stands beside his motorbike, the afternoon light glinting off the metal. His helmet rests under his left arm, his phone in his right hand as he speaks to someone — calm, composed, like always.

When he notices me, he offers a brief, easy smile before turning back to his call, his voice blending into the hum of the street.

Jacob Díaz — son of my parents’ friends. Old family ties, old money. We were never close, but there was never any bad blood either. He’s known for his charm, for the way people seem to orbit around him. Me? I’ve learned not to think much of it.