The Tuesday afternoon crowd inside Meridian National Bank moved with the impatient rhythm of people who believed their time had value and everyone else’s was an obstacle.

The walk down Fifth Street was unlike anything the district had seen in months.

Ethan Carter walked at an eight-year-old's pace, holding the hand of a barefoot girl who was clutching a cardboard box with four rag dolls inside. Behind them, two paces back, walked Ethan's personal security detail—a massive, silent man named Marcus—alongside Miller, the bank manager, who was sweating through his linen shirt as he carried the freshly printed cashier's check like a bomb about to go off.

Passersby stared. A barista standing outside a coffee shop stopped mid-wipe to watch the billionaire tech mogul walking alongside a ragged child.

"Is your knee hurting, Mia?" Ethan asked as they crossed the asphalt, feeling her slight limp.

"A little," she said, squinting up against the humid afternoon sun. "I tripped on the curb when I was running from our apartment. I didn't want the pharmacy to close."

"We're almost there," Ethan said.

They reached Mercer's Community Pharmacy, a worn, brick-front shop with yellowing posters in the window. The door chimed as Ethan pushed it open, guiding Mia inside. The cool air smelled of rubbing alcohol, peppermint, and paper files.

Behind the high glass counter sat a middle-aged pharmacist with thick glasses and a pinched, tired face. His tag read D. MERCER.

"I told you an hour ago, kid," Mercer said without looking up from his computer, his voice heavy with irritation. "I can't give you the specialized antibiotic without payment. The insurance denied the claim, and I run a business, not a charity. Tell your dad to call the clinic."

"He doesn't need to call the clinic," Ethan's voice echoed off the narrow aisles.

Mercer looked up, his eyes widening as he recognized Ethan Carter—a man whose company logo was painted on the side of the shipping containers down at the harbor.

"Mr. Carter," Mercer stammered, standing up straight. "I... I didn't see you there. How can I help you?"

"My associate here," Ethan said, gesturing toward Mia, "wants to purchase the blue bottle for her sister, Lily Vance."

Mercer sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Mr. Carter, with all due respect, that medication is a liquid compound for severe pediatric respiratory infections. It’s four hundred and twelve dollars out of pocket. The girl brought me a pocketful of shiny rocks earlier today."

Miller, the bank manager, stepped forward hastily, practically slapping the cashier's check onto the pharmacy counter.

"Payment is rendered," Miller panted, trying to regain some favor with Ethan. "One hundred thousand dollars, certified by Meridian National Bank."

Mercer stared at the check, then at the check's source, his jaw slackening. "One hundred thousand? For a four-hundred-dollar prescription?"

"Keep the change as a retainer for every medical supply the Vance family ever needs from this day forward," Ethan said coldly. "Now get the medicine. Right now."

Mercer didn't ask another question. He turned and sprinted into the back dispensary like his heels were on fire. Three minutes later, he returned with a brown paper bag containing two glass bottles of dark blue liquid, a dosage syringe, and a box of medical wipes for Mia’s scraped knee.

Mia reached into the bag, pulling out the blue bottle. She held it against her chest as if it were made of solid diamond.

"Thank you, mister," she whispered, looking up at Ethan, fresh tears spilling over her lashes. "Thank you so much."

"We're not done yet, Mia," Ethan said, looking down at her dusty feet. "Marcus, call Dr. Harrison. Tell him I need the pediatric unit at St. Jude's prepped for a private house call."