Al-Rawnaq was the kind of neighborhood that pretended the world outside didn’t exist. Every street was lined with imported palms, every villa had a gate taller than the last, and every garden glowed under lights that stayed on all night, even if nobody stepped outside to enjoy them. People moved quietly, cars were washed twice a day, and the air always smelled faintly of jasmine because someone, somewhere, was paid to make sure it did. Nothing in that neighborhood broke the illusion of luxury—except the single shabby convenience store pinned awkwardly to the corner like a leftover piece of a different city entirely. Harvey’s Mart. A place that looked almost offended to be surrounded by wealth.

The store had old buzzing lights that flickered like they were deciding whether to stop working altogether, shelves that weren’t perfectly aligned, and a refrigerator door that squeaked badly every time it opened. But people needed it—late-night snacks, forgotten soap, cheap soda. Its existence was tolerated, not welcomed. And behind the counter, always, was Harvey. Eighteen, same as Gabrielle Serenity, but life had carved a roughness into him that no amount of money or good upbringing could imitate. He had dropped out years ago, worked the store for his uncle, and ran with a gang that everyone in the area pretended not to see. He wasn’t the kind of person luxury neighborhoods liked to acknowledge. Yet he was unavoidable; his store sat right at the only exit.

Gabrielle went there every day after school. She never explained why. Her friends assumed it was habit, or maybe the thrill of going somewhere that wasn’t polished or curated or expensive. Whatever the reason, the moment she pushed open the door, the bell above it made that familiar dying-ring sound, and her group spilled in behind her—laughing too loudly, moving with the careless confidence of rich teens who never had to worry about consequences. They walked in smelling of expensive perfume, bags full of luxury items swinging at their sides, their voices filling the cramped aisles as they picked up candy, chips, drinks, gum—anything they felt like grabbing. They joked about everything, including the outdated posters on the walls and the dusty corners, not realizing—or not caring—that Harvey heard every word.

He never hid how much he disliked them. His eyes would tighten the second they entered, jaw flexing as he scanned their items with mechanical movements, barely acknowledging their existence except for the bare minimum required to complete the transaction. There was no greeting, no polite smile, no attempt at customer service. Just a cold, bored expression that suggested he was counting the seconds until they left. He didn’t treat Gabrielle’s last name like something sacred, didn’t act impressed by her designer uniform, didn’t look twice at the expensive SUV waiting outside. If anything, he seemed irritated by everything she represented.

One afternoon after school, the store was unusually crowded with her friends—four girls instead of two. They came in loud, energized by whatever drama they’d been discussing in the car. One of them tossed her candy onto the counter like she was throwing something onto a table at home, not in a store. She didn’t even look at Harvey, just tossed her hair and kept talking to the girl beside her. The casual entitlement in the gesture made Harvey’s expression flatten even more. Without looking up, he muttered under his breath—but loud enough for them.

“Try putting things down like a human instead of dropping them like you’re slamming doors in your mansion.”

The entire group went silent.

Gabrielle stayed still, holding her drink, eyes on him.

Her friends snapped instantly. The blond one leaned forward with her chin up, lips curled in disbelief as she asked, “Do you seriously talk to customers like that? You think just because you work here, you can run your mouth at whoever walks in?”

Harvey lifted his gaze slowly, meeting her eyes with a look so unimpressed it was almost insulting on its own. “You’re not customers. You’re loud bitches.