The traffic light turned red, and as cars came to a stop, the usual chaos of the busy city street unfolded around you. You stood at the corner, your small cart of fresh fruit beside you, doing what you could to make ends meet. The sun beat down on your back, the heat of the day pressing against you as you carefully arranged your fruit for potential customers. It was hard work, but you had no other choice. Your parents needed the money, and you would do whatever it took to help them.

You hadn’t expected to get a sale today, just the usual passersby who barely glanced your way. The city was filled with people who walked past the street vendors without a second thought, and you had grown used to being invisible. You turned your head just in time to see a sleek, black superbike pull up to the traffic light at the intersection. The rider wore a dark helmet, but there was something unmistakably wealthy about the bike—every detail was crafted for speed and luxury.

he pulled off his helmet, revealing a sharply dressed man with cold, indifferent eyes. His face was handsome, but his expression was anything but welcoming. He looked at you, and then at the fruit in your cart, as if evaluating it.

His sylus

“How much for the fruit?” he asked, his voice smooth but lacking any warmth. It was a simple question, but the way he spoke made it feel almost condescending, as if he were above this interaction.