Page 5 of The Rules

Standing before the mirror, he adjusts his sleeves, his gaze sweeping over his reflection with clinical detachment. Every hair in place, every line of his suit crisp. Yet, something gnaws at him. A tension grips him, shadows lurking beneath his eyes. His fingers tremble at the silk, threatening to undo the Windsor knot. Specters of past choices circle, indicting him until his jaw clenches, grinding his resolve to dust. Finally, the voices recede, silenced by the iron in his gaze.

He pivots from the mirror, abandoning his reflection to dissolve in the soft light. The city lies in wait, another day of skirmishes to conquer and triumphs to seize. Yet, the vice around his chest endures, a wordless testimony to the inner demons even he cannot evade.

For a moment, his mind turns traitor. The courtroom flickers back to life—the stale air, the suffocating weight of a dozen eyes, the gavel’s merciless crack. "Guilty." The word lingers,

a ghost in his bones. A man condemned in a corruption case, his life reduced to a few damning words. He saw the evidence,

the glaring inconsistencies that screamed innocence.

He remembers the look on the colleague’s face when he pointed it out—a knowing smirk, a careless shrug. "Not all cases areabout justice, Sinclair." The words hang in the air like a noose, coiling slow and deliberate around his conscience.

His throat constricts, but he forces it down. The memory is a specter—relentless, uninvited—haunting the edges of his mind, never spoken, not even to himself. The man's face, etched with despair, flashes before his eyes. His breath hitches, a subtle betrayal of his composure. His fingers flex, the knuckles whitening as he grips an invisible ledge, fighting to maintain control.

The past is a shadow that refuses to dissipate, casting a pall over every victory, every accolade. It's a reminder of the fine line he walks, the balance between justice and ambition that threatens to tip at any moment. His gaze hardens, a green fire flickering deep in his eyes. The city may lie in wait, but Benjamin Sinclair knows the real battle is internal—a silent war against the demons that refuse to die quietly.

His fingers smooth over his tie, brushing the thought away as easily as dust on his sleeve. That was then. He isn’t that man anymore. He doesn’t lose. Not anymore.

???

The courthouse doors swing open, and he steps out, pace unhurried, expression unreadable. Another case closed.

Another name in the papers. He moves through the crowd effortlessly, cutting through the noise without needing to say a word.

At the bottom of the steps, Gregory Ranford waits, arms crossed, amusement flickering in his gaze. “Flawless execution, Mr. Sinclair," he says, as Ben reaches him.

He adjusts his cufflinks, the motion smooth, absent.

“As expected."

Ranford tilts his head, studying him. “Tell me, have you looked at our new associate’s file yet?"

Ben hums, a ghost of amusement playing at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, I have. Quite the underdog story."

His tone is light, but there’s an edge beneath it. He flips through the folder in his hand, glancing sideways at Ranford. “No family name, no connections. Top of her class, though."

His smile is all edge, a blade rather than a greeting. Too clean. Too driven. He’s seen what that kind of hope looks like before—just before it’s crushed.

Ranford exhales sharply, shaking his head. “You tell me, Benjamin. You’re the one who doesn’t believe in luck."

He smirks, fingers flicking the file shut with a sharp, decisive snap. “I don’t," he says, the words rolling off his tongue with an easy confidence that belies the intensity in his eyes. “Which is exactly why I don’t trust a nobody getting hand-delivered to us by the dean." He tucks the folder under his arm, a subtle shift in his stance as he leans slightly closer to Ranford, his voice dropping just enough to hint at a darker undertone. “Either she’s a genius… or someone’s pet project." The implication hangs in the air, a silent challenge that lingers between them, unspoken but palpable.

Ranford watches him, something unreadable in his expression. “You never did like variables, did you?"

Ben doesn’t hesitate. “I like knowing where the pieces on the board come from."

Ranford chuckles, a low rumble that seems to echo the impending storm, shaking his head as they advance toward the waiting car. "Then I suppose time will tell, won’t it?"

???

The polished floors gleam beneath the midday light, and the air shifts the moment Benjamin Sinclair enters. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Murmurs dry up like water on a hot plate. Lawyers who were whispering five seconds ago now bury their eyes in documents, fingers hammering keyboards like their lives depend on it.

He doesn’t acknowledge any of it. He doesn’t have to.

His presence announces itself—sharp suit, sharper reputation.

This firm doesn’t reward effort. It feeds on it. Only the predators thrive. The rest learn to bleed quietly.

A junior associate lifts his head, half a glance, then drops it instantly—like one look could get him buried in cold cases and grunt work. The silence buzzes, not with reverence, but with calculation and survival instinct. Benjamin walks through it like smoke—untouchable, unreadable, uninterested.