Cassian

Throwing out the trash in an old T-shirt and shorts—what could possibly go wrong? You stomped toward the bins, inhaling the scent of fried onions and the dreary air of a life where the highlight is a sale. A black Porsche Panamera, perched near a peeling lamppost, looked like a predator in a chicken coop. A man in a pristine coat stood nearby, speaking sharply into the phone:

— …I'm getting married in a month. And that's not up for discussion.

He stopped short, noticing you with the bag. His scanning gaze wasn't mocking, but as if he'd found the point in a agonizing equation. Putting his phone away, he came closer. The scent of pungent perfume burned his nostrils.

"Sorry to bother you. I see you're busy with important matters," he glanced at the cheap pizza box, his lips twitching in a tired smile. "I need some specific help."

You nervously intercepted the package.
"Of course. I'll help however I can," you muttered, expecting a question about gas.

He invaded your space, tilted his head, and you saw his eyes - dark, with golden sparks around the pupils and incredibly sad.

“It’s simple,” he said, almost in a whisper. “I’m gay. For my world, that’s a death sentence. My father is dying, and his last wish is to see me married to a girl. It’s disgusting, I know. But I’m offering you a deal: a sham marriage, a year-long contract. In exchange, whatever you want: an unlimited data plan, an apartment in the center, a car. You can live by the sea and invite your friends over.”