Lucy Rivera woke up before her alarm.
She always did.
The radiator hissed like it was angry to be alive, and sunlight squeezed through the thin curtains of their small Brooklyn apartment. Lucy rolled out of bed quietly so she wouldn't wake her mother, slipped into jeans, and tied her hair into a loose bun.
Coffee first. Then life.
The kitchen was narrow, paint peeling, but clean. Lucy poured cheap coffee into a chipped mug and stared at the calendar on the fridge. Bills were circled in red. Rent. Electric. Her mother's medication.
She exhaled slowly.
"You're up early," her mother said softly from the doorway.
Lucy turned. "Couldn't sleep."
Mrs. Rivera smiled tiredly. "You work too much."
Lucy leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Someone has to be rich in this family."
They both laughed, but the truth sat heavy in the room.
Lucy worked mornings at a small café in Williamsburg and evenings at a bookstore. She liked books. They were places you could escape without spending money.
As she stepped outside, Brooklyn greeted her with noise—kids yelling, buses sighing, life moving without apology.
Lucy loved it.
She didn't dream of penthouses or private jets. She dreamed of peace. Stability. A life where love didn't come with conditions.
She had no idea her world was about to collide with someone from glass towers.