Page 6 of The Rules
Near the end of the hall, Joshua Fletcher leans on a desk like he owns it. Smirk loaded. Tie loosened just enough to signal privilege, not laziness.
“Careful, Sinclair,” he drawls. “Keep winning like this and you’ll run out of mountains.”
Ben adjusts his cuff with precision. His tone is flat, almost bored. “There’s always another mountain.”
It’s not bravado. It’s arithmetic. There’s always someone worth burying.
Before Joshua can reply, movement breaks the static.
A young brunette slices through the corridor and steps into Ben’s path like she doesn’t realize she’s a chess piece mid-game.
Her suit screams legacy money. So does the way she grips her leather portfolio—like it’s a shield. But her fingers tremble.
Amateur.
“Mr. Sinclair,” she says, carefully modulated voice hitting the exact midpoint between respect and ambition. “I’d love the opportunity to collaborate on a case sometime.”
He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t blink. “Not interested.”
The blow lands. She freezes—one, maybe two seconds—before stepping aside. Her jaw locks. Her pride flinches.
Ben keeps moving.
Joshua chuckles under his breath, falling in beside him. “Jesus. Cold as ever.”
Benjamin shrugs. “She’ll survive.”
Distractions get people killed in courtrooms.
Or worse—made irrelevant. And irrelevance? In his world, it’s the beginning of erasure.
???
The city sprawls beneath him, a sea of quiet lights carved into the endless dark. Ben stands by the window, whiskey in hand, the glass cool against his fingers.
Tonight went flawlessly—another victory, another calculated step forward. Everything unfolded exactly the way it was supposed to.
Still, something’s wrong.
His reflection stares back from the glass—sharp, composed, controlled. But there’s a weight coiled at the base of his spine, dull and familiar. A pressure. Not loud, not urgent—just steady. Relentless.
He doesn’t let it in. He never does.
Control is everything. That’s the rule. The armor. The price.
He exhales and finishes the whiskey in a single motion, letting the heat swallow the thought before it can fully form.
But he knows what it is. It’s always the same.
A courtroom. A verdict. And what came after.
He turns from the window, walks away like he always does.
The room is silent, save for the faint hum of the city far below—a sound like static, like something just out of reach.
His steps are clean. Measured. But there’s fatigue behind them now, buried beneath the routine. The kind that doesn't rest, just recedes.
Tomorrow will come. It always does. And he’ll do what he always does.
