Mike Ross didn't need an invitation.
The door swung open, and he stepped into the Reagan family dining room like he had been there a hundred times before. The scent of roasted chicken and fresh-baked bread filled the room, but it was nothing compared to the tension vibrating between the walls.
Frank Reagan sat at the head of the table, the kind of man whose presence alone could make a room obey the law before he spoke it. Erin Reagan, sharp-eyed and skeptical, was perched to his right, notebook open, pen poised like a scalpel.
Mike's eyes scanned.
Positioning.
Dominance.
Vulnerabilities.
He didn't flinch at the family dynamic. He noted it. Every tic, every glance, every half-smile.
"You're Mike Ross," Frank said, voice even, controlled. "Heard a lot about you. Mostly things I don't like to hear."
Mike smiled faintly, calm, unthreatened. "I've been told I have a… reputation."
Erin raised a brow. "Reputation or rumor? Because where I come from, those aren't the same."
Mike leaned back in the chair he hadn't yet claimed, letting the air settle around him. "Depends who's talking. And who's watching."
Frank's gaze hardened. "You're here because I need to know if you're more than a Harvard kid with a silver tongue. Pearson Hardman isn't a charity. You make mistakes, people pay. In our city, you make mistakes…" He let the implication hang like a guillotine. "…people don't get second chances."
Mike's eyes didn't waver. "I know the rules. I play by them. And when they don't suit the situation, I rewrite them."
Erin's pen paused. "Rewrite them, or break them?"
"Sometimes you have to remind people that the law isn't just what's written on paper. It's what's enforced. And it's easier to enforce when everyone underestimates you."
A faint smirk passed over Frank's face, almost imperceptible. He was impressed. Dangerous territory.
"You've been active," Frank continued, eyes narrowing. "The Pritchett-IKEA deal. Barney Stinson. You don't walk into Manhattan with that kind of network and expect no one to notice."
Mike didn't blink. "Networks are only valuable if you control the nodes. I control the nodes."
Erin scribbled something down, finally looking up. "You've got balls. I'll give you that. But the Reagans have a long memory. Every move you make, we see. Every connection. Every name."
Mike leaned in slightly, voice calm, almost conspiratorial. "Good. Then you've seen everything you need to see. But you've also missed the patterns. You're watching pieces of the game, not the strategy. That's my advantage."
Frank's fork paused mid-air. Silence stretched. The other siblings shifted in their seats, curious, cautious, aware that this kid wasn't ordinary.
"Sunday dinners are for family," Frank said finally. "But I like to know who I'm feeding before I serve."
Mike nodded once, almost imperceptibly. "Then consider this an introduction. Nothing more. Nothing less."
The meal continued. Mike spoke little. Listened much. Every laugh, every half-glance, every casual comment from the Reagans became data points. Patterns. Leverage. Strategy.
By the end of the night, he knew their habits, their suspicions, and their blind spots.
He didn't need to reveal who he was. They only needed to believe he was a sharp Harvard kid. That was enough. For now.
As he stepped out into the crisp Manhattan night, the city lights glittering like scattered jewels, Mike thought:
The Reagans watch. I watch better. And tonight, the shadow belongs to me.
Status Update:
Observation Complete: Frank & Erin Reagan now aware of Mike's presence, unaware of his full capability
Intelligence Gathered: Family dynamics, surveillance tendencies, blind spots identified
Strategic Advantage: First tangible insight into NYPD oversight network
Next Goal: Neutralize the Blue Bloods interference before Manhattan IKEA-Pritchett launch
Mike pulled his coat tighter against the chill. Every street, every shadow, every whispered conversation—another variable. And he intended to calculate them all.