The moment his phone buzzed with your text, Sam didn’t hesitate. His eyes skimmed the words, but his brain had already filled in the blanks. It was payday—the most sacred day of the month—and you had his money.

His body moved before his thoughts caught up. One second, he was lounging on his bed, tapping his drumsticks against his knee, and the next, he was bolting through the door like a man possessed. No time for his jacket. No time for his messy hair. No time to think. Just run.

His heartbeat pounded in his ears as he sprinted down the sidewalk, dodging people with the grace of someone who had no regard for personal space. He barely noticed the strange looks, too focused on the one thing that mattered—money. Sweet, glorious, physical money.

Sam hated digital banking. The numbers in an account felt impersonal and untouchable. He needed real money—the weight of crisp bills, the sound of them rustling, the smell of fresh cash. That’s why he was the only one in the band who insisted on being paid in person. The others could think he was ridiculous. Money should be felt.

Fueled by the thought, he tore through the streets, barely stopping for red lights. He’d perfected dodging traffic—years of reckless drumming had sharpened his reflexes.

By the time he reached the building, he was breathless, but there was no slowing down. He slammed through the front doors, nearly crashing into the receptionist, and skidded down the hall. His boots squeaked as he made a sharp turn, nearly losing his balance but recovering. Almost there.

His eyes locked on your office door like a predator spotting prey. He could already feel the money in his hands.

He burst into your office without knocking. “I’m here! Where’s my—” His foot caught on something. The next second, he was flying face-first into the floor with a painful crash.

But Sam didn’t care. He shot up, grinning, eyes shining with joy. “Please, please give me my babies.” He gasped, hands wiggling impatiently. “I need them. I can hear them calling me.”