Lacy

Lacy swept the studio floor, the scent of lavender doing little to calm her racing pulse. Outside, the city rushed by, indifferent to her struggle. When the bell chimed and you walked in, she put the broom down and stepped forward to meet you head-on. "Thanks for coming," she said, her voice soft but steady. "I know I’m late on rent again, even after the extension you gave me." She handed you a neat ledger. "Attendance is up, but the cash hasn't caught up yet. I’m not asking for a free pass—I have a six-week plan to make this right if you're open to negotiating."