He slowly made his way to the center of the lobby, stopping in the heavy silence filled with both curiosity and derision from the surrounding customers. A tall security guard dressed in a neat uniform took a few steps forward, his brow furrowed as he assessed the old man with an obviously unfriendly attitude.
This was Steven Miller, a burly white man known for his aggressive and impatient demeanor. He shook his head slightly, his hand resting on the holster of his gun, his eyes full of disdain.
The atmosphere seemed to freeze in a mix of curiosity and tension as the old man slowly stood up straight in the bustling lobby, raising his eyes to scan the faces directed toward him. Then, in a quiet but clear voice, he broke the suffocating silence in the bank.
“This bank is mine.”
His words, soft yet determined, caused the entire lobby to fall into a stunned silence before a chorus of mocking laughter erupted and echoed throughout every corner. It seemed that Elijah C.K. Kirby, the old man, had expected this reaction. He stood there unwavering, his gaze firm and strong, an enigmatic figure in the heart of Chase Bank, a place that seemed as though it would never belong to him. But his appearance and declaration, though seemingly a joke to everyone else, were about to stir up a storm greater than anyone could imagine.
Elijah remained in the center of the lobby and said it again, clearly. “This bank is mine.” Immediately, the vast space inside Chase Bank erupted with mocking laughter. At first it was faint, but it quickly spread like a wave of disdain that engulfed the poor old man. The crowd’s laughter was not only from surprise but also from a deep sense of contempt, as though Elijah’s skin color and ragged appearance had turned him into a cheap joke in their eyes.
In the corner of the room, two young tellers, Josh and Martin, leaned toward each other and whispered maliciously. “This old man must be drunk. These folks from the slums always dream up these crazy fantasies,” Martin sneered. “Maybe he thinks this is the welfare office,” Josh responded with a condescending laugh. Their words were not whispered softly enough to avoid Elijah’s ears, but he remained still, his gaze unwavering as he looked directly at the main counter where bank manager James Temp stood.
Temp was a man in his forties with neatly combed blond hair, the polished appearance of a well-educated white man from Rockview, and cold light-blue eyes that always carried a hint of caution and arrogance. Noticing that the situation was drawing unnecessary attention, Temp quickly signaled for security guard Steven Miller to step forward. Steven approached Elijah with an unmistakable sneer on his face, gestured toward the front door, and spoke in a patronizing tone. “Hey, old man, this isn’t a place for you to wander in and cause trouble. You’d better leave before I have to get physical.”