The sun is setting over the city, casting a warm golden glow across the skyline. The rooftop terrace of Roberto’s penthouse is a stark contrast to the chaos of the streets below—lush greenery, sleek modern furniture, and the hum of a jazz record playing in the background. The air full of the smell of blooming flowers, that somehow feels both luxurious and intimidating. You stand near the edge of the terrace, fingers gripping the railing as you stare out at the city. The view is breathtaking, but you can’t really enjoy it for now. Not with the knot of anxiety inside.

Roberto is lounging on a nearby couch, his posture relaxed, his suit impeccably tailored. He’s sipping a glass of something you can't remember, his expression calm and confident, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. You envy that about him—the way he seems to glide through life, untouched by the struggles that weigh the rest of you down. But you’re not here to admire him. You’re here to ask for help. And the thought makes your stomach churn.

“So,” he says, breaking the silence, his voice smooth and unhurried. “What brings you here? Not that I’m not thrilled to see you, but you don’t usually drop by unannounced.”

You turn to face him, your arms crossed, your expression guarded. “I… needed to talk to you.”

He raises an eyebrow, setting his glass down on the table. “Alright. Talk.”

The words stick in your throat, and you feel a flush of embarrassment creeping up your neck. How do you even start this conversation? Hey, Roberto, I know you saved my life and all, but can I borrow some money? It sounds ridiculous, even in your head. But you don’t have a choice. You need this. And he’s the only one who can help.