The streetlight buzzed overhead, casting a pale shimmer on the polished hood of the black Escalade as it rolled to a slow halt before the discreet lounge. The area was tucked into the far edge of the city—quiet, upscale, far from the prying eyes of the press.
The back door opened.
Senator Dalton stepped out, tall and poised in a navy wool suit, his cufflinks glinting faintly under the light.
His PA, a lean man in his late twenties, quickly moved to his side, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve, tablet tucked beneath one arm.
Dalton didn't acknowledge the gesture. He simply adjusted his tie, his cologne drifting like power in the air, and walked toward the entrance with the slow confidence of a man used to being watched.
Inside the lounge, a private room awaited.
Dimmed chandeliers spilled warm amber light across the mahogany table. Plush leather chairs creaked as men in tailored blazers leaned over half-filled whiskey glasses, laughter thick with cigar smoke.
The moment Dalton entered, the atmosphere changed.
Chairs scraped. Glasses were set down.
"Senator!" one of them greeted, standing.
They all followed, some bowing slightly, others giving respectful nods.
Dalton gave a wry smile. "Come on, gentlemen. You know I hate theatrics. Sit. Eat. Drink. I'm just another servant of the people."
Laughter returned—but now more cautious.
He took his seat at the head of the table, unbuttoning his coat. His PA remained standing a few steps behind, watching silently.
Conversation resumed, but the topic had shifted.
"The House of Assembly elections are closing in," one man said, pouring himself a drink. "We can't afford another outsider winning the votes in South Cross. That seat belongs to us."
Another nodded. Phillip is running. We all know he's got the money, but does he have the loyalty?"
Dalton raised a brow. "He has what we give him. Loyalty can be taught."
Laughter again—low and knowing.
"Just make sure your media boys clean up the prosecutor's mess," one man muttered, too low for most to hear.
Dalton said nothing. But the corner of his mouth twitched… ever so slightly.
One man, younger than the rest, shifted in his seat and offered a hopeful grin. Phillip Suit crisp, tie too tight, eyes filled with the hunger of a rising star.
"Senator," Phillip began, "I've been meaning to thank you. Your endorsement… it means everything."
Dalton gave him a look—half smile, half test. "Does it?"
Phillip chuckled nervously. "Of course. Without it, I wouldn't stand a chance in the House of Assembly race."
"Don't thank me yet." Dalton leaned forward, folding his fingers. " politics isn't a race. It's a war. You sure you're ready for blood?"
Phillip hesitated. "I… I've been studying. I have a plan. Policy. Strategy."
"Policies don't win elections," one of the older men said, swirling his drink. "Alliances do. Media. Money. Secrets."
"Secrets especially," another added with a grin.
Dalton took a sip of whiskey, eyes never leaving phillip. "Just make sure you're not the secret."
Silence.
Tade, the PA, stepped forward and whispered something in Dalton's ear. The senator's expression didn't change, but he nodded once.
Then, as though nothing had passed between them, he turned back to the table. "Now. Let's toast to Phillip. Our future House of Assembly man. May he play the game well."
Glasses clinked, but the mood had shifted. Everyone felt it.
One of the older politicians, a former minister with tired eyes and a sharper tongue, raised a glass lazily.
"Dalton," he said, "if you're backing this boy for the House, he better know how to bite, not just bark."
Laughter rippled, but Senator Dalton didn't smile.
"Don't mistake quiet for weakness, Julius," he said coolly. "This boy has enough dirt on half this table to win an unopposed seat if we play it right."
The room fell a little quieter. The candidate shifted nervously but masked it with a forced laugh.
Another man leaned in, cigar smoke trailing like a veil between them.
"And what of the prosecutor?" he asked softly, the words barely audible over the jazz hum in the background.
"A Woman that green might get curious."
Dalton's expression didn't change.
"We'll clip her wings before she flies.
His PA remained standing a few paces behind, eyes alert, barely blinking.
"You talk about clipping wings," said the man to Dalton's right—a round-bellied governor with too many gold rings. "But that girl isn't ordinary. You saw what she did at the hearing last month."
Dalton swirled the wine in his glass, watching the liquid spin. "Exactly why we must handle her carefully. Pressure her, watch her. If she becomes a problem, we'll make her disappear in paperwork."
Soft chuckles followed, the kind that never quite reached the eyes.
The aspiring House of Assembly candidate—young, lean, too eager—shifted forward in his seat. "I assure you, sirs, once I'm inside, no loose ends will exist. Just give me the nod."
Dalton glanced sideways at him. "Power isn't given at this table. It's proven."
Julius, the elder politician, leaned in again. "Then prove yourself.
A short silence. Then the waiter entered, trays of peppered goat meat and wine following. Conversations resumed, lighter this time—sports, money, an off-hand comment about a new judge being sworn in.
But beneath it all, the undercurrent remained—plans being set in motion, alliances forming, and a quiet, calculated fear of the new prosecutor who didn't know the rules of their game.
Dalton raised his glass one last time.
"To silence, gentlemen."
And they drank.
The conversation thinned as Senator Dalton slowly pushed back his chair, the legs screeching softly against the marble-tiled floor. Without saying a word, he adjusted his cufflinks silver, eagle-engraved and stood.
In perfect sync, the others rose from their seats.
"Leaving so soon, sir?" one of them asked, half-hoping he'd linger.
Dalton offered a smile—tight-lipped and unreadable. "Some decisions are made in silence."
He nodded once toward his PA, who immediately stepped ahead to open the wide glass doors. Outside, the sharp glow of headlights flared. A black, heavily tinted car rolled up with polished precision.
As he approached the vehicle, the others followed, their shoes echoing on the tiles. They watched as the driver held the door open, and Dalton slid in, composed and quiet.
"Safe journey, sir," they chorused as he shut the door. Heads bowed as the car pulled away, humming low into the darkness.
A beat of silence.
Then one politician exhaled deeply. "When Dalton moves, something always shifts."
"Did you notice how he barely said a word, yet the room spun around him?" another added, loosening his tie.
Their cars began arriving, headlights casting long shadows across the compound.
"Let's just hope we're on the right side of whatever he's planning," someone muttered, almost to himself.
One by one, they were whisked away
The sun was barely breaking the horizon, casting a muted orange glow over the sea of humanity that had gathered outside Darcom Holdings, the glass-and-steel monstrosity that towered above the industrial district.
The workers, exhausted and desperate, were clutching makeshift signs, some written in sharp, angry strokes, others with slogans hastily scribbled in chalk.
"No Pay, No Work!" one sign read, the edges frayed from the wind. Another held higher: "We Built This Empire!"
Their voices blended into a cacophony of angry shouts. Some wielded megaphones, their amplified cries cutting through the thick atmosphere.
"We are not slaves!" a woman yelled through the crackling speaker, her voice hoarse from hours of protesting. Her clothes were faded, the lines on her face a reflection of too many sleepless nights. "We are citizens! Where is justice?"
On the other side of the building, the executives watched from the tinted glass of their ivory tower, as if behind an impenetrable wall. They appeared calm—detached. A few murmured into their phones, while others sipped coffee, clearly unaffected by the chaos brewing below.
"Call the senator," one of them said, his fingers drumming impatiently on the armrest of his leather chair. "Let him handle his mess." The senator's name—Dalton—lingered in the air like an unspoken agreement. There were whispers of corruption, rumors of deals made in dark corners, but none dared speak too loudly. Not when their futures rested in his hands.
Meanwhile, outside, the protest swelled. A small group of police officers had gathered, forming a line at the edge of the crowd.
Their riot gear glinted menacingly in the morning light, their faces stoic and unreadable.
The tension between them and the workers grew with each passing minute, the air crackling with unspoken threats.
"It's the factory owner's doing," another protester shouted, this time a man in his mid-thirties, his hands raw from years of labor. He looked at the officers across from him with disgust. "Senator Charles controls everything.
Some of the workers muttered in agreement, while others fell silent.
They all knew who was really pulling the strings, but the name of the senator had become a whisper, a dangerous word spoken only in private.
The woman with the megaphone turned to the crowd, desperation in her eyes. She'd lost her job two months ago, her family teetering on the brink of starvation.
"We've been asking for what we're owed for a year!" she cried. "And still, nothing! If we don't act now, we'll never get anything at all!"
As her words echoed in the crowd, an officer in riot gear stepped forward, his baton at the ready.
"Move back!" he barked, his voice low but commanding. His stance suggested he was used to confrontation. The workers took a few steps back, but their faces remained defiant.
The scene was building, tension escalating.
The media had begun to arrive, filming from the edges of the crowd, catching images of angry workers, clenched fists, and the police holding their ground.
Suddenly, the distant sound of a car engine interrupted the rhythm of the crowd.
The workers stopped for a moment, looking toward the entrance of the lot. The black sedan turned the corner, its sleek body reflecting the harsh sunlight.
A few heads turned, and the tension in the air grew heavier.
The car rolled to a stop, and for a brief moment, the crowd fell silent.
The senator's familiar figure—Senator Dalton—stepped out.
His polished shoes clicked sharply against the pavement, his tailored suit cutting a sharp contrast to the workers' worn clothes. With every step he took, the crowd seemed to hold its breath.
Dalton's presence commanded attention, not just because of his status, but because of the weight his name carried in these parts. The man who could change the course of events with a word.
His PA followed close behind, scanning the crowd, ever vigilant. Dalton made no attempt to speak immediately, allowing the silence to build. When he finally raised his hand, the crowd grew still.
"Good afternoon, my friends," he said, his voice smooth, calculated. "I understand your frustration, and I am here to hear you."
The workers exchanged uneasy glances. Some felt relief; others, skepticism.
Dalton continued, his tone unwavering. "I understand the hardship you've been facing. And I promise you, I will speak directly with Darcom Holdings' management. I'll take care of this."
The crowd seemed to digest his words, some nodding cautiously, while others remained unconvinced. Dalton, noticing the hesitation, added, "I want you to know that I will be personally intervening to ensure your rights are respected. It's time for change, and that change will start today."
There was a shift in the air, a ripple of doubt among the workers. They had heard promises before. The cynicism was palpable, but they stayed silent—waiting for something more concrete.
"I will personally go inside Darcom Holdings and speak with the management about your concerns," Dalton said, his voice firm, almost rehearsed. "We will come to a resolution. You have my word."
His gaze swept over the workers, lingering on the faces of those who looked more skeptical than hopeful. Dalton's eyes softened for a moment, and he stepped forward, just a fraction closer.
"I know that actions speak louder than words," he continued, "and I intend to show you that I am true to my word. But we must be patient. Change doesn't come overnight. Trust that I will take care of this."
He paused, letting the weight of his promise hang in the air. The workers looked back at him—some still skeptical, others more resigned. But he had them for now.
Without further hesitation, Dalton turned toward the company's entrance. The workers stood in silence as they watched him walk towards the front door of Darcom Holdings, his tailored suit swaying with each step. The PA stayed close behind, ready for whatever may come next.
As Dalton neared the door, one of the workers called out from the crowd, "We've heard this before, Senator! You'll just go inside, make a deal, and forget about us!"
Dalton paused, but only for a moment. He didn't look back. Instead, he turned the handle, opened the door, and walked inside. The doors swung shut behind him, leaving the workers standing in stunned silence, unsure of what would come next.
The car that had brought him was now parked at the curb, engine off, waiting.
City Bureau of Legal Investigations —
A sterile, tight room with mirrored glass, a single strip of light humming above.
A file rests on the metal table, untouched. On the wall hangs a digital clock ticking loudly. The air smells like paper and old secrets.
The prosecutor in Black turtleneck tucked into gray tailored slacks, coat folded neatly on a nearby chair. His beard is trimmed low, jawline sharp, eyes shadowed but alert. A half cup of black coffee in his hand.
Risa Eboné: The accused — a slim, sharp-featured woman in a fitted long gown . Her stilettos click when she shifts, her makeup heavy, eyes ringed in dark eyeliner. Blood-red nails tap on the chair's edge. She doesn't sit like a criminal. She reclines like a CEO
"You know what I hate most?"
His voice was low. Calm. Almost bored.
Risa raised a brow, uncrossing her legs.
"You?" she smirked.
He took a sip from his coffee. "People who think suffering is business."
He stood and pressed a button. The wall screen blinked to life, showing an image of a frail teenage boy speaking into a mic at a press conference. His hand trembled. His patent file watermark shone faintly behind him — altered.
"You took his design. Gutted his brand. Trademarked it under your dummy company within five days."
Risa: "That's called strategy."
"That's called theft," he snapped, stepping closer.
He dropped her phone on the table.
"Unlocked it. Found this draft email to a director — bragging about 'rebranding the product from scratch.'"
He leaned in.
"Scratch doesn't include stealing from a seventeen-year-old genius."
She shrugged, crossing her arms.
"So he cried a little. Kids cry. They grow up."
"Or they break." He tossed her file on the table.
"You won't walk out of this as clean as your press releases, Risa."
"Do you know who I am?" she said, venom behind her smirk.
"I sip champagne with board members. Your office runs on budget scraps I sneeze at."
He smiled coldly, sipping again.
"Enjoy the flavor while you can. You'll be sipping prison tea next."
"You threaten me again…"
Her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.
"...I'll have your badge mailed to a gutter."
"Perfect." He raised his coffee. "I'll send you an address. You'll be neighbors with the other crooks I buried."
Risa Eboné leaned back, her manicured fingers laced across her knee, lips painted the color of fresh blood.
"You came in here hoping for a confession? That how this works in your little theater of justice?"
He didn't blink. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice a notch lower.
"I didn't come for a confession. I came to watch you lie. And you're delivering beautifully."
Risa smiled.
"You flatter me. Almost makes up for this cold, ugly room."
He tapped the screen again. It flicked to a video — blurred footage of her assistant handing off a flash drive in a private lobby.
"You had him deliver the full patent prototype two nights before your board presentation. He logged into the victim's drive. Left a trace."
She tilted her head.
"He's a freelance intern. I'm not responsible for what unpaid youth do on borrowed laptops."
"Except he logged in with your VPN. From your suite." He opened the folder of prints. One after another, timestamped. Her signature. The altered blueprint. The client pitch with a fake timeline.
"You rewrote history like it was fiction."
"Business is fiction," Risa snapped suddenly. Her tone cracked like glass. "Do you think ideas rule the world? Please. Image does. Control does. Whoever tells the story better wins."
He smiled thinly.
"You just admitted guilt in a prettier sentence."
Risa leaned closer, her perfume sharp, calculated.
"You want to pin me for a story every C-level exec has lived ten times over? You want to be the hero?"
She narrowed her eyes. "You're no savior. You're a moth chasing fires it can't contain."
He placed his palms flat on the table.
"I don't need to be a savior. I just need the truth on record."
She laughed softly, shaking her head.
"Truth? What is that? Some fairytale stitched from broken dreams?"
She flicked her nails. "That boy gave me a rough sketch and I built an empire. If he wanted credit, he should've copyrighted it first. Your law protects fools."
"No," he said coolly. "Your world rewards predators."
Silence sat between them, thick, loaded.
He let it stretch.
Then he reached into the folder again. Pulled out a letter.
"Your last investor threatened to pull out when he saw the original designs. You paid him off, didn't you?"
Her eyes tightened. Barely. But he saw it.
"He changed his mind," she said.
"No. He got scared." He slid the document forward. "You wired him $120,000 hours after your dinner meeting. He didn't even make it to dessert."
"A gift."
"A bribe."
"A thank you."
"A cover-up."
They stared again, unblinking. The strip light above buzzed.
"You won't win this," she said. Her tone dropped into a threat. Cold. Dangerous.
"I know people. Judges. Executives. You'll lose your job before I lose my stock."
He sat back, slowly. Drained the last sip of his coffee.
"Good." "I've always wanted to rebuild this system from the ashes."
She smirked. "Arsonist now?"
"No." He grabbed the file. "Just the guy who finally lit the match."
The door creaked softly.
A young prosecutor stepped in quietly, walked over, and leaned close to whisper something to his senior.
The older prosecutor's jaw tightened.
His fingers drummed once on the table, then stilled. A thick silence spread through the room. The woman, cool and untouched by the tension, sat back in her chair, her lips curled in faint amusement.
Finally, the lead prosecutor exhaled and said through clenched teeth:
"You're free to go. It seems… your strings run deeper than the evidence."
She arched a brow, rising slowly from the chair, smooth and calculated. Her perfume left a faint trail in the air as she picked up her designer bag and brushed imaginary lint from her silk blouse.
"Next time," she said with a cool smile, "don't waste your time barking at a gate you can't open."
The young prosecutor watched, burning inside, as she walked toward the door.
Outside, two suited partners stood waiting, flanking her like guards. A black car door opened with a soft click as her chauffeur held it, head bowed. She didn't spare the prosecutors another glance.
She entered the car and it drove off—untouched, undefeated… for now.
Aria walks into the prosecutorial department building — heels confident, gaze steady. The atmosphere shifts slightly as she passes: murmurs ripple quietly among the male attorneys. She's new, she's sharp, and she's female — in a place not known for giving women the upper hand.
Whispers behind her float like static.
"That's her? The one they said came from outside the system?"
"Pretty bold for a rookie…"
"You think she'll last?"
She doesn't flinch. Just adjusts her bag higher on her shoulder and keeps moving.
The office corridors smell of fresh polish and cold ambition. Along the walls are frames of past prosecutors — all men.
Her heels echo through the marble as she climbs the stairs to the inner offices. She's been summoned.
Madam Elira's door stands ajar. The woman is already seated — elegant in a deep navy dress, her nails tapping a closed case file on the desk. Her lipstick is precise, red like blood and authority.
Elira: "You walk like you've been here before."
Aria offers a courteous nod, masking her nerves with professionalism.
Aria: "I walk like I belong here, ma'am."
Elira lifts an eyebrow, clearly amused — or calculating.
"Sit," Elira said, finally lifting her gaze.
Aria lowered herself into the chair across the desk. The air between them felt like a wire — thin and ready to snap.
She slides the file forward.
Elira: "This isn't an official assignment. No paperwork. Consider it a warm-up. Think of it… as a test of loyalty. There's a report in here. You'll find it's… tricky. We'll see how you handle it.
Aria: "Loyalty to what?"
Elira: "To how we do things here."
The air tightens. Aria glances at the file — no markings. No origin. A ghost case.
Elira (smiling): "Let's see if you're ready to play with the big dogs… or get eaten by them"
"This isn't protocol. No official stamp, no trail. You'll find it's a curious one."
She slid it forward with two fingers.
"You're new. Seems you're smart. Independent."
She leaned forward slightly.
"Let's see how you manage ambiguity."
Aria kept her expression unreadable. She placed the folder in her lap but didn't open it yet.
"What's expected of me?"
Elira tilted her head.
"To know what's expected… without being told."
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was filled with meaning. With a warning.
Aria finally opened the file.
Two photographs. A single page of notes. A brief witness statement — redacted.
Her eyes skimmed. Then paused.
A name.
A location.
She looked up slowly.
"This is… off record."
Elira's smile didn't reach her eyes.
"Mm-hmm."
"And what's the endgame?"
"Whatever you make it," Elira replied. "But if I were you… I'd tread lightly."
Aria closed the file, her fingers smooth and deliberate.
"I'll return with a report."
She stood.
As she reached the door, Elira called after her, voice soft but sharp.
"Careful, Aria. In this building, it's not the evidence that ruins you — it's how you handle silence."
Aria paused at the threshold — not long, just enough to let the words settle.
Then she walked out without replying.
As Aria stepped out of the woman's office, the soft click of her heels echoed against the polished floor.
The hallway buzzed with murmurs and shuffling footsteps — a cluster of suited figures advanced from the far end, parting only slightly as a tall man strode in front.
He was flanked by a few senior prosecutors, his presence commanding and measured.
Aria instinctively stepped aside, bowing slightly in respect like the others.
The man paused.
His sharp eyes landed on her — unreadable, but assessing. He wasn't startled. Not curious. Just momentarily interested.
"You're new, aren't you?" he asked, voice steady but laced with something practiced — something too smooth to be warm.
Aria straightened, meeting his gaze only briefly. "Yes, sir. Aria I was just assigned."
A thin smile curved his lips, though his eyes didn't soften. "Good. We need strong voices in this place. Especially ones that can't be bent too easily."
She blinked, unsure if it was encouragement or a warning.
"I'll be watching," he added with a nod, then walked on, his entourage falling back into step behind him like shadows.
Aria stood for a moment, her fingers tightening around the case file she held. Something in his tone lingered — but she couldn't place it.
She bowed again to his retreating back, then turned the opposite way
Jim stepped in into Elira office, the door closing quietly behind him. His towering frame filled the space with unspoken weight. The playful sternness that had colored her tone with Aria vanished. Her back straightened. She rose.
"Sir," she greeted with a quick bow, her voice suddenly sharper, more respectful.
Jim glanced around the office, then looked her directly in the eye.
"She's sharp," he said simply, folding his hands behind his back.
The woman nodded, carefully. "Too sharp, maybe."
He gave a faint chuckle — or maybe it was just an exhale. "Let's hope she stays sharp in the right direction."
The woman said nothing. She knew better.
Then, with a nod, Jim turned to leave. "You'll watch her. Closely."
"Yes, sir."
And just like that, he was gone.
The frosted glass doors of RHL Chambers slid open with mechanical precision. At the front desk, the plaque read in bold gold:
"JIM REINHARDT
Chairman, RHL Chambers"
The flag of the nation stood tall beside the firm's emblem — a constant reminder of law, or what remained of it in this place.
Valen entered the office, offering a firm nod. "Mr. Reinhardt."
Jim paused, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. "Come on, son," he said with a chuckle. "It's just us here. No need for the formalities. Sit — let's talk father to son."
Valen's expression remained unreadable as he took the seat. "You wanted to speak about the Eastbridge case."
"That's how it's going to be, then? All business?"
Valen said nothing, his silence answering for him.
Jim sighed and pressed his palms together. "Fine. Then let's talk business…"
Jim leaned back in his leather chair, fingers laced under his chin as he watched his son settle into the seat.
"You've been here a week now," he began, voice smooth and deliberate. "How's the team treating you? Office running fine?"
Valen gave a curt nod. "Everything's operating as it should."
Jim narrowed his eyes slightly. "I hear you made quite the impression during the board meeting."
Valen didn't respond immediately. His jaw tensed.
Jim chuckled under his breath. "You stood up and walked out, didn't you? In the middle of a sensitive discussion. You've always had your mother's fire."
Valen's gaze held steady. "That fire is what keeps this place clean."
Jim exhaled slowly, the amusement fading from his features. "Look, Valen, we're not here to play heroes. The case against the Eastbridge…" He tapped a manila file on the table. "There are powerful men behind it. Men who've been good to this firm. To our legacy."
Valen straightened. "So you want me to bury it."
Jim waved a hand, as though brushing off the weight of the words. "I'm asking you to be wise. To learn how the world works. You think justice is black and white. It's not. It's a game of grays. You survive by knowing which battles to fight."
Silence lingered between them. Then Valen leaned forward, his voice low and clipped. "If I ignore this, I become part of the rot."
Jim's eyes hardened. "And if you don't, you'll burn yourself — and this firm — alive."
Another silence. Then Valen stood. "I'll handle it my way."
He walked toward the door.
"Valen," Jim called after him.
Valen paused.
Jim's voice softened. "Just… don't forget the blood that built this firm."
Valen didn't turn back. "That's what I'm trying to cleanse."
And with that, the door shut behind him.
As the door clicked shut behind Valen, Jim barely had a moment to collect himself before the soft knock came.
"Enter," he said,
The door opened and in stepped Chief Roland — dark sunglasses tucked into his blazer pocket, wrist heavy with a gold watch, and a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.
"Well, well," Roland said, shutting the door behind him. "That your boy I just passed in the hallway?"
Jim sighed and leaned back again. "He's not a boy anymore. And he's proving that quite loudly."
Roland chuckled, strolling over to pour himself a drink without asking. "He's got the fire, I'll give him that. But fire burns, Jim. And your son is standing too close."
Jim watched him, face unreadable.
"We need that case handled," Roland said, turning serious. "You know how much I've poured into this project. If he digs too deep..."
"I'm handling it," Jim cut in.
Roland took a sip and raised a brow. "Are you?"
A brief silence.
"I know how to control my house," Jim said coldly.
Roland smiled, wolf-like. "Good. Because if this leaks... we're not the only ones that fall. And you know Dalton doesn't like messy endings."
He turned toward the door, then paused. "Your son might be smart, Jim. But smart doesn't always mean safe."
As Roland turned to leave, Jim spoke up, his voice steady but edged with curiosity.
"You're leaving already?"
Roland paused, hand on the doorknob, glancing back with that same smirk.
"I've got other fires to put out, Jim. You're not the only one needing my attention today."
He gave a pointed look. "Just a reminder… keep your side clean."
With that, the door swung open.
Immediately, a small crowd outside the office straightened. Bodyguards in sleek black suits, a young assistant with a tablet glued to his hands, and a suited lobbyist who quickly whispered something into Roland's ear. He didn't stop. He just nodded and kept walking, the entourage falling into place behind him like shadows obeying light.
As Aria returned to her desk, she noticed a man in a charcoal-grey suit walking slowly past the glass corridor outside her office. He wasn't part of the regular staff — she was sure of it. Their eyes met for a second. His stare was deliberate. Cold. Like he recognized her… or was trying to figure her out.
Then he looked away and continued walking, pretending nothing had happened.
She shook it off.
Moments later, a young male prosecutor from the other side of the floor walked up to her, hands in his pockets.
"You're Aria, right?" he asked.
She nodded cautiously.
"I've never seen someone push that hard on their first day," he said, giving a faint smile. "Keep that up, you'll either change everything or get burned."
Aria gave a small, grateful smile as the senior prosecutor walked away, his words echoing in her head: "Keep that fire, Aria. Not many have it."
She turned back toward her desk, her thoughts a whirlwind of pressure and expectation. Before she could settle, movement outside the glass wall of her office drew her gaze.
A black sedan rolled to a stop in front of the chamber entrance — sleek, spotless, with tinted windows. It didn't belong to anyone she recognized.
A few heads turned. Whispers flickered through the room like sparks.
A few passing junior attorneys slowed, curious, but said nothing.
The driver stepped out and rounded to the back.
Then, the back door opened.
A leg extended — long, graceful, clad in polished heels.
And then she emerged.
She stepped out — tall, sharp-suited, heels tapping with authority. A woman in in a crisp, tailored suit, sharp sunglasses hiding her eyes, her hair swept up with precision. She didn't pause. She simply adjusted her collar and walked toward the entrance with such composure it made the air shift.
No badge, no greetings. Just an unreadable face and a slim silver briefcase in one hand.
The receptionist raised a brow.
Someone whispered, "Who's that?"
No one had an answer.
And just like that, she disappeared behind the elevator's closing.
Aria stood frozen, watching through the glass as the woman moved like a storm cloaked in silence. No greetings. No hesitation.