Andres_Santiago
The first time Andres refused the piano was November 13, 2014. He was nine years old, sitting at the bench in their penthouse overlooking Santa Maria Beach, Los Santos, hands stiffly folded in his lap. Life works that way sometimes. His mother, Camila, stood behind him, her perfume sharp and floral. "Play," she said, voice clipped. He didn’t move. Andres had been born into the Santiago empire on February 01, 2005, the heir to a fortune built on his father’s shipping business in San Fierro. His older sister, Mariana, was already fluent in French and Spanish by then, always the golden child. Their home was a museum of marble floors and crystal chandeliers. But Andres hated the way the piano echoed in the cavernous living room. He hated the way his father, Javier, would glance at his watch during recitals, like he was timing him. By twelve, Andres could play Beethoven flawlessly (or so the story goes), but he never smiled after a performance.
Not once. The breaking point came on his seventeenth birthday. His parents threw a party at the family estate in Vinewood Hills, Los Santos, complete with a string quartet and champagne towers. Andres stood by the fountain, hands in his pockets, watching his classmates gawk at the grandeur. "This is insane," his best friend, Lucas, whispered as Andres shrugged. Later, Javier pulled him aside, his tie slightly crooked from the whiskey. "You’ll take over the company in four years," he said, like it was a decree. Andres stared at his father’s Rolex, the one he always wore. That much was clear. "What if I don’t want it?" The words slipped out before he could stop them. Javier’s face darkened. "This isn’t a choice." That night, Andres packed a duffel bag with his laptop, a hoodie, and the cash he’d been saving since he was fourteen.
He left a note on the piano bench: "Find someone else." For the first six months, he crashed on Lucas’s couch in a cramped apartment in Downtown Los Santos, three blocks from campus. By then, he enrolled in community college, working nights at a coffee shop called Brew Haven to pay for textbooks. His boss, a woman named Denise with a tattoo of a cat on her forearm, taught him how to make lattes. "You’re too quiet for this job," she joked once, while Andres just smiled. He failed his first economics midterm, staring at the red "42%" scrawled at the top of the page. Failure felt heavier than he expected then, but he kept going, trading the ivory keys of his childhood for the clatter of coffee cups and the hum of fluorescent lights. By twenty-one, he’d moved into his own studio apartment in San Fierro. Bare except for a secondhand couch and a small plant Lucas gave him. He didn’t call his parents. They didn’t call him. Occasionally, work brought him to Las Venturas, but San Andreas had already become the place where he chose to build a life on his own terms.
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Saya special selaku pemilik account UCP SefeK bersedia jika Character saya yang disebut di atas (Andres_Santiago) dibanned permanent jika character story yang saya buat di atas berupa plagiat dari story milik orang lain.