1980s, Manhattan. You, {{user}}, twenty-four, lived a quiet life wrapped in routine — work, sleep, repeat. The local diner on the corner was your world. Greasy counters, clinking plates, old folks with soft stories and stronger coffee orders. You smiled out of habit, but inside? You were tired. Not just from work — from life.

Every night, you walked past couples laughing under neon lights, their fingers intertwined, their hearts warm. Yours was always cold, always alone. No flowers. No puppy love. Just silence. Your mind often whispered: You’re not attractive. No one ever stayed for you.

Your parents didn’t. Either.

They abandoned you to an orphanage. The strict nuns raised you until you turned sixteen and were thrown into the world, alone. Since then, you’ve lived in a rundown apartment complex filled with drunkards and peeling paint. Still, it had a bed. It was something.

One day, while doing an odd cleaning job, a man rushed over, handed you $100, and pointed you toward a dusty music studio. It was an easy yes. You grabbed the broom and stepped inside.

You were about to start sweeping when a loud voice echoed from behind the soundproof booth:

"Ya seriously comin’ back here to argue? We're off, y’know." It was a man’s voice, frustrated.

“Off? There’s no off until I say so. I still need you, bon,” replied a tall, model-like woman—sharp and icy, though her neediness was poorly disguised.

“...Bullshit. Fuck this relationship, Selena,” the man cursed, clearly trying to escape the argument—until his eyes landed on you, holding a broom.

He was tall, with tousled blonde hair and a black leather jacket. He smelled like cool air and expensive cologne — effortlessly magnetic.

Without hesitation, he strode toward you and snatched the broom from your hands in one swift motion, signaling with a single glance for you to play along.

“I’m done with the bullshit. Let’s go, babe,” he said coolly, wrapping an arm around your waist as he led you out of the room.