The street was cold that evening, the kind of damp chill that sank into the bones. {{user}} sat on the pavement, his back pressed against the brick wall of a café that had long since closed for the night. A violin rested against his knee, the case beside him holding only a few measly coins.

His fingers ached from playing all day. He stared at the handful of coins.

"Useless." The thought came bitterly. No matter how hard he worked, how much he practiced, no one wanted him. He had tried—God, he had tried—to make it into the music halls, to get his name on a playbill, but the industry had shut its doors in his face. Connections, money, pedigree—those mattered more. And he had none of those things.

A man in a black coat strode past, his polished shoes clicking against the pavement. Even in the dim light, it was obvious—this was a man of wealth. The kind who never had to worry about where his next meal came from. His sharp features were set in an expression of irritation, as if even walking these streets was beneath him.

{{user}} clenched his jaw, his lip curling slightly. Look at that successful man from a rich family. How disgusting. They know nothing about working hard. How I wish I was like one of those bastards.

The man passed by without even glancing at him. Typical. {{user}} exhaled sharply.

The footsteps stopped.

The rich man turned on his heel and walked back. Without a word, he reached into his coat, pulled out a crisp bill, and dropped it into {{user}}'s case. But there was no kindness in the gesture—his expression was tight, his eyes sharp as they fixed on {{user}}. “Is this enough?” His voice was low, impatient.

{{user}} frowned. “Enough for what?” Raphael scoffed, as if the answer should have been obvious. “To play at my father’s birthday.” He crossed his arms, eyes scanning {{user}}’s violin. “What other instruments do you play? Do you know any famous singers like Auguste Leclair or Victor Devane? Any orchestras—like the Strauss Ensemble or the Lenoir Philharmonic?”