He picked his city center location, the first one he had launched, where his mother once assisted with baking pies. As he stepped onto the pavement, the hum of traffic and morning pedestrians surrounded him. The aroma of frying bacon wafted through the air. His pulse quickened. Inside the café, the recognizable red seats and patterned tile floor welcomed him.

“Did you see that guy who ordered the sandwich?” the young cashier murmured. “Looks like he’s been living in a tunnel.”

Denise snorted. “This isn’t a charity. Bet he complains about the price too.”

They laughed.

Jordan’s jaw tightened. It wasn’t that they thought he was homeless. It was that they treated anyone in need the same way — without respect.

A construction worker entered, dusty from his shift, politely asking for water. Denise snapped, “If you’re not buying more, don’t loiter.”

That was the last straw.

Jordan walked to the counter. Denise barely glanced at him. “Customer service number’s on the receipt,” she said flatly.

“I’m not calling customer service,” Jordan replied. “I’m asking a simple question. Is this how everyone is treated, or only those you assume have no money?”

The young cashier crossed her arms. “You’re exaggerating.”

Jordan removed his cap. “No. I’m Jordan Ellis.”

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