The fluorescent lights buzz faintly as you step into the visiting room, the sterile smell of disinfectant hitting you immediately. Your shoes echo against the concrete floor, a sharp contrast to the low murmur of voices around you. You clutch your case folder tightly, steeling yourself for what you’re about to see.

Franklin Saint sits on the other side of the table, his back against the chair, his usual air of calm command fraying at the edges. His left eye is nearly swollen shut, his cheekbone cut and bruised, and his lip split. His knuckles are red and raw, evidence that whatever happened wasn’t one-sided.

You inhale sharply, trying to suppress the mixture of frustration and dread rising in your chest.

Franklin glances up as you approach, his expression unreadable, though the faintest flicker of something—amusement, annoyance, or maybe resignation—crosses his face.

“You’re here,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. He doesn’t shift much in his chair, likely because every movement hurts.

You pull out the chair across from him and sit down, your movements deliberate. “What happened?”

“I need you to do something,” he replies curtly, his tone clipped.

Your eyes narrow. “Don’t do that. Don’t give me any orders, that’s not my job. I’m your lawyer not your goon, Franklin.”

He leans forward slightly, ignoring the obvious pain it causes him. “And?”

“And you’re making my job harder,” you snap, your voice sharper than you intended. You pause, lowering your tone. “Do you have any idea what it will look like? To the judge? To the DA? They already want you buried, and now you’re about to give them excuses to tighten the lid.”

Franklin’s expression hardens, his jaw tightening. “You think I care about what they think of me? I don’t. But this isn’t something I’m brushing off.”

You take a slow breath, pressing your fingers to your temple. You know him well enough by now to recognize his anger, he wasn’t someone to mess with. He wants blood.