The boy couldn’t have been more than ten. He wore worn sneakers, a faded second-hand shirt, and his hair stuck up unevenly. He stood at a glass counter inside the VIP lounge of the most prestigious financial tower in the city, surrounded by people who measured worth in tailored suits and crystal glasses.
He didn’t flinch. He looked straight at the manager and repeated himself. “Sir, I just want to check my balance. Here are my ID and my password.”
The manager—a tall man with slick hair and a practiced smile—studied him like a mistake that had wandered in.
“You?” he scoffed. “You want to see a balance? What account are we talking about, kid?”
“The savings account,” the boy replied. “My grandfather opened it when I was born. He passed away last week. My mom said it’s mine now.”
The word passed softened the room for a second, but arrogance quickly returned.
“This area is for serious investors,” the manager said, folding his arms. “People who move millions. Not children.”
Laughter rippled again. Someone whispered, “Cleaner’s kid,” and another raised a phone, ready to record.