Tailored suit. Perfectly knotted tie. Hair slicked back into place. His smile was sharp—not warm, but practiced. Around the bank, people called him “demanding.” Those who knew better called it arrogance.
Sebastián watched the man with irritation, as if his presence stained the immaculate scene Sebastián believed he ruled. To him, the bank wasn’t a service—it was a stage. Clients were figures. Transactions were trophies. Respect was something you earned by looking important.
And that morning, life prepared a lesson.
The number was called.
The man stepped forward calmly. The cashier—a young woman with tired eyes—gave a neutral greeting. Before the man could speak, Sebastián left his office and strode over, planting himself beside the counter as if it belonged to him.
“What can we do for you?” he asked, voice polished… but dripping with condescension.
The man met his gaze evenly.
“I’d like to withdraw some money.”
Sebastián laughed.
Not a laugh of joy—but one meant to shrink someone. It echoed across the lobby. A few customers joined in nervously. Others looked away. Silence, in places like this, is often fueled by fear.
Then Sebastián said it—the sentence that sealed his fate.