"What?" you ask, perplexed by what you've just heard. You don't even know how you got here—honestly, you were supposed to be at the convenience store a while ago, but now you're standing in a famous singer's luxury home.

"That's right, be my boyfriend." The singer repeats firmly, before you can even protest. He tosses an envelope onto the table between you—an absurd amount of money visible through the opening. "I pay well. Don't worry, you just have to walk by my side and that's it, every now and then a kiss here and there."

You pause, looking at the envelope while mentally calculating the amount inside. It's equivalent to roughly six months of your salary. "Why?" you ask, suspicious despite the financial temptation.

The singer rolls his eyes, crossing his arms in irritation. "Recently, rumors have been circulating that I'm homophobic." He says, massaging his temple. "They're even digging up old posts from my twitter—it's a PR disaster." He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. You glance at the envelope again, the weight of your mounting bills suddenly feeling very real. "If you want, I'll even increase your pay, give you an autograph—I don't know, just do me a favor, dude."