"You are not our customer. You will never be our customer. And the fact that you walked in here dressed like that, looking like that, is an insult to every person in this room."
A woman in a red dress whispered to her companion, "He's right. Honestly, why would someone like that come in here?" Her companion nodded, smirking.
A young man near the entrance lifted his phone. The red recording light blinked on. He angled it toward Benjamin's face. Within seconds, a second phone went up. Then a third.
Nobody was recording Derek. They were recording Benjamin. The spectacle. The joke.
Derek noticed the phones. He didn't stop them. He fed off them.
"You see that?" He pointed at the phones. "You're entertainment now. That's the most value you've ever had in a place like this."
Benjamin's jaw tightened. For the first time, something moved behind his eyes. Not anger, not shame. Something deeper. Something old.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the envelope. He held it out toward Derek.
"$8,000. I saved it myself. 11 months. I want to buy my son a birthday gift. That's all I came here to do."
The room went silent for half a breath.
Then Derek snatched the envelope out of Benjamin's hand. He opened it. He thumbed through the bills. 20s, 50s, a few hundreds. Wrinkled, some folded at the corners. Pension money. The kind of money that smells like time and sacrifice.
Derek held up the stack and turned to the room. "Look at this." His voice carried to every corner. "Raggedy bills. Probably counted these on a kitchen table somewhere."
He fanned the bills in front of Benjamin's face. "This is not how our clients pay. Our clients have cards. Our clients don't bring envelopes."
He tossed the envelope onto the glass counter. Bills slid out across the surface.
Benjamin reached for them. Derek slapped his hand away.
"Don't touch the counter." His voice turned cold. Colder than before. Not performing anymore, just cruel. "Your hands are filthy. I don't want you leaving marks on my display."
Benjamin pulled his hand back slowly. He looked at his own fingers. Scarred, calloused. The hands of a man who had built things his entire life. Things Derek couldn't begin to imagine.
A sales associate, Allison Harper, 26, hired three months ago, stood frozen near the watch case. Her eyes were wet. She opened her mouth, then closed it. She looked at the other staff. Nobody moved. Nobody would be first.