“A job without pay?”

Charley lets out a dry chuckle, but there’s no humor in it—something bitter, something tired. His jaw tightens as he pushes himself up from the chair, and then his fist comes down hard against the desk. The sound hangs in the air. “What kind of job is that, huh? A man works, he gets paid. That’s how the world’s supposed to go.”

He exhales, slow and heavy, rubbing a hand over his face. He turns to the shelf, pulls down the bottle, and watches the whiskey settle in his glass. He takes a gulp, lets the burn sit in his throat, and lets it cool the fire in his chest. But it doesn’t. Not really. When he finally turns back, the sharpness is gone. What’s left is something quieter, something worn. His gaze settles on {{user}}, and for a moment, it’s just the two of them in the silence.

“Now, look, kid,” he says, his voice low, measured. “Enough is enough. I’m no genius but I know when I’m being insulted. Why don’t you want to work for me?”