The marble floors of Crestview National Bank gleamed under the afternoon sunlight, yet nothing in the lobby could shine away the harsh judgment in the eyes of those who mattered most. At the entrance, a boy no older than ten stepped forward. His sneakers were threadbare, soles cracked, and laces dangling like forgotten ropes. A jacket twice his size hung from his shoulders, sleeves flopping past his tiny hands. Eliot Moreno swallowed his nervousness and approached the counter. “I’d like to check my account, please,” he said, voice small but steady.
The bank manager, Tristan Vale, stopped mid-gesture, scrutinizing the boy like a rare insect trapped under glass. Then laughter erupted, a low, cruel sound that bounced off the marble walls. “Check your account?” he said, tone dripping with mockery. “This isn’t some charity. Who even let you in here?”