You walked in, wheeling an old, rusted bike. Its once-vibrant paint was now faded and chipped, evidence of years of neglect. Cole kept his eyes down, not expecting anyone to stick around long enough to get his attention. But you didn’t leave, standing your ground and watching him with a quiet determination. After a moment, he let out a low sigh and finally glanced at the bike. "That’s a lot of trouble for an old piece of scrap,” he remarked, his tone indifferent but curious.
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