Page 255 of The Rules
The back room reeked of power dressed as decay.
It wasn’t just the stale cigar smoke pressed into the wallpaper like a second skin, or the floor tacky with spilled liquor and time—it was the silence. Heavy, loaded, conspiratorial.
The kind of quiet that knew names and kept them.
The overhead light flickered, buzzing like it resented the intrusion. Ben didn’t blame it.
He stepped in behind Julian, tension knotted beneath his cheekbone, every instinct screaming that this place wasn't meant for people like him.
But maybe that was the lie he needed to stop telling himself.
Julian slipped through the door without hesitation, movements fluid, assured—like a man stepping into his own reflection. One handin his coat pocket, the other nudging the door open with lazy confidence.
The man waiting for them was already seated.
Older. Hair gone silver at the temples. Suit pressed so sharp it looked carved from bone. His eyes flicked up as they entered—measuring, not greeting. He wasn't interested in conversation. Only results.
Julian's smile was lazy, verging on smug, as he gestured toward the man. "This is our friend," he said, like they were just here for a favor and a drink. He turned slightly toward Ben, voice dipping into that familiar, mocking drawl. "He's going to help us bring the truth to light. One carefully managed detail at a time."
Ben didn't move.
Didn't speak right away.
He studied the man. The details.
The Rolex. The ink barely peeking from beneath his cuff.
The kind of hands that hadn't lifted anything heavier than a fountain pen in years—but still looked capable of breaking bones if needed.
Ben's stomach coiled.
But his face stayed blank.
Benjamin watched the exchange unfold, something sour curling in his gut. The room was warm, close, the air thick with old smoke and older rules. He saw how Julian moved here—relaxed, fluent—and it hit him harder than he expected.
This place didn’t tolerate strangers. But Julian wasn’t a stranger. He belonged to it.
And Ben—Ben was already too deep to pretend he didn’t.
"And you trust him?" he asked, voice measured, flat.
Julian laughed. "No," he said. "But I do trust his price."
The man—The Forger—leaned forward, tapping a folder against the scarred wood of the table.
His voice wassmooth. Practiced. Like a man who dealt in truth as a weapon, not a principle.
"It'll be done," he said. "You'll have exactly what you need. Timelines. Signatures. Surveillance. The kind of details that convince judges to cry." He added, almost casually, "I’ll need a few days. Some of the dates need verifying, and it takes time to seed the files in the right databases—court systems, firm archives, secure registries. But it’ll hold. It’ll look real. Because it will be, in all the ways that matter."
Ben didn't blink.
"But if this goes south," The Forger continued, closing the folder again with a soft snap, "I don't know you. You don't know me." He paused, then added with a flicker of a smile, "Not that it will. This kind of thing? It's never gone wrong. Not once."
Ben stepped forward. Didn't hesitate. He met the man's eyes, expression carved from stone.
"I understand," he said, voice low.
They shook. Brief. Tense. Final.
