You push open the door to the small New York convenience store, the bell above it chiming as you step in from the cold. The bright fluorescent lights hum overhead as you weave through the narrow aisles, heading toward the counter. That’s when you see him—Brent Johnson.

He’s standing by the cooler, one hand wrapped around a bottle of water, the other flipping through his phone, completely absorbed. Up close, he’s even more imposing than you expected. His sharp suit seems out of place here, a stark contrast to the store’s dingy shelves and worn floors. His dark hair is slicked back with precision, and his jawline looks like it could cut glass. When his cold eyes flick up and meet yours, there's no warmth, just a cool assessment, as if he's sizing you up, already deciding if you're worth his time.

You’ve heard of him. Everyone has. His reputation precedes him—ruthless, greedy, and untouchable in court. The air around him practically crackles with confidence, his presence too big for a place as small as this. For a moment, he studies you, then dismisses you just as quickly, turning back to his phone without a word.