The conference room at Pearson Hardman was designed to be neutral.
White walls. Frosted glass. A long table polished to the point of reflection. It was a room meant to strip emotion from decisions and turn people into figures on a balance sheet. Mike Ross understood rooms like this. In his previous life, there had been back rooms that served the same purpose—only the lighting was worse, and the consequences were permanent.
Opposite him sat Nancy Whitaker, Senior Vice President of Operations at a Fortune 500 manufacturing firm. Perfect posture. Perfect hair. Perfect confidence born from decades of never being told no. Beside her was her attorney, the kind of man who wore a four-thousand-dollar suit and treated empathy like a professional liability.
They were expecting a boy.
They got a predator.
Harvey had dumped the case on Mike that morning with a lazy toss of a file and a smirk.
"Pro bono," he'd said. "Consider it hazing."
In the original timeline, this case had weighed on Mike's conscience. In this one, Mike saw it clearly for what it was.
A territorial dispute.
Nancy's lawyer slid a single sheet of paper across the table, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
"Five thousand dollars," he said, smiling thinly. "That's generous, considering your client was a temp. No witnesses. No paper trail. And no future in this industry if she keeps pushing."
Mike didn't look at the offer.
He was scrolling through a tablet.
Not case law. Not precedent.
Data.
Sheldon Cooper had called it "basic household networking," dismissing it with academic boredom as he explained how unsecured corporate servers behaved like unlocked doors if you knew which hinges to touch. To Mike, it was something simpler.
Opportunity.
"Nancy," Mike said, not looking up, not acknowledging the lawyer's existence at all. "In my previous life, I knew a man who ran a numbers operation. Smart guy. Careful guy. Thought that because he owned the street, he owned the people walking on it."
Nancy shifted slightly. "I don't care about your stories, Mr. Ross."
Mike looked up then.
The room changed.
"He forgot," Mike continued calmly, "that the little people see everything."
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. The air grew heavy, as if the walls themselves were listening.
"I have your company's 2009 discretionary fund logs," Mike said. "You didn't just harass my client. You used corporate money to pay for the hotel rooms where you did it."
Nancy's face tightened.
"That's not a civil issue," Mike went on. "That's embezzlement. That's falsified expense reports. That's a felony."
Her lawyer laughed, sharp and loud. "You can't use that data. It's inadmissible. You're bluffing."
Mike turned his eyes to him for the first time.
"Am I?" he asked softly.
He tapped the tablet once.
"Call your IT department. Ask them about the 'Ghost Entry' that appeared in your fourth-quarter audit logs. While you're at it, call the NYPD."
The lawyer frowned. "Why would we—"
"Ask for Erin Reagan," Mike said. "She's with the District Attorney's office. I hear she's been looking for a high-profile white-collar case to make a point."
The name landed like a gunshot.
The Reagan family wasn't just law enforcement. They were an institution. Power with history. And Mike wasn't citing statutes anymore.
He was citing gravity.
Nancy swallowed.
"You're a monster," she said quietly. "Harvey Specter said you were a genius, but you're a thug."
Mike didn't react.
"A thug breaks your windows," he replied evenly. "A genius takes your house while you're still inside it."
He slid a new document across the table.
"Five hundred thousand dollars," Mike said. "Paid to my client by end of business today. Non-disclosure. No retaliation. Or I make one phone call, and the only pro bono work I do next week is testifying at your grand jury hearing."
Silence.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
Nancy reached for the pen.
Her hand shook as she signed.
Ten minutes later, Mike walked into Harvey Specter's office and dropped a check on the desk.
Five hundred thousand dollars.
Harvey stared at it, then at Mike.
"I told you to handle it," Harvey said slowly. "Not perform a public execution. What the hell did you do?"
Mike shrugged. "I gave her a choice. Pay the victim, or pay the state with years of her life."
Harvey smirked, but there was something else in his eyes now. Calculation. Unease.
"You're starting to worry me," Harvey said. "You're supposed to be the one with the heart."
Mike met his gaze.
"I have a heart," he said. "It just beats to a different rhythm than yours."
He turned for the door, then paused.
"Oh—and I'll be out tonight. I have a meeting with a man named Barney Stinson."
Harvey raised an eyebrow. "Should I know him?"
Mike smiled faintly. "He says he's legendary. I want to see if his legal vulnerabilities match his ego."
He left the office, the check still on Harvey's desk.
Status Update:
Case Outcome: Total domination
Harvey's Promotion: Secured—credit unclaimed
Reputation: "Pro Bono Predator" circulating quietly among associates
Mike Ross walked back to his office knowing something important had shifted.
The firm no longer saw him as a risk.
They saw him as a weapon.
And weapons, once proven effective, were never given back.