The alarm clock on Rio's phone didn't buzz. It played a gentle, rising orchestral swell that supposedly "optimized cortisol levels upon waking."
Rio groaned, slapping the off button. He sat up in his new bed. It was the size of a small island. The sheets were Egyptian cotton with a thread count higher than his weekly wage at Leeds.
He looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows. Manchester. It was raining, obviously. But from the 40th floor of the Deansgate skyscraper, even the rain looked expensive.
"Leo!" Rio shouted, rubbing his eyes. "Where's my protein shake?"
"I am not your butler!" Leo's voice echoed from the kitchen. "I am a super-agent! I negotiate millions! I do not blend bananas!"
A second later, Leo walked in wearing a silk robe that cost more than a Honda Civic, handing Rio a green sludge in a glass.
"Drink," Leo commanded. "The nutritionist sent the recipe. It has spinach, kale, and... sadness. It tastes like a lawnmower."
Rio chugged it. It was vile.
