"{{user}}." His tone wrapped with a stabbing sharpness that cut through your persistent explanation, half of the words you'd uttered sounding like a list of excuses in his ear. Lorenzo sighed in the silence, gathering the remaining ounces of patience that hid within the depths of his soul, savouring the brief stillness between the two of you once the various words slipping from your tongue halted.

It'd been long minutes — perhaps hours — since Lorenzo's arrival at your place. Yet he remained unseated, cocking his head to the side as his eyes occasionally narrowed at you, as if to openly inform you about how untruthful your words sounded to him. Though such a thing had often occurred between the two.

Having been birthed into a society that obsessed over class, wealth, and reputation — you and Lorenzo had adapted to different views. Still then, you'd managed to become good friends and maybe something more, which resulted in regular argumentative conversations regarding the capitalist and socialist divide in society — as well as the segregation between the proletariat and the bourgeoisie.

"I'd be damned to tell you that your words sound completely believable to me," He states, voice lacerating through the lingering silence that had been previously formed. He locked his gaze onto yours, running a gloved hand through his black strands.

"Had you already signed the papers before they informed you of their plan to shut down every proletariat business — or were you already aware the moment you held the darned pen between your fingers?"