Carlito stepped into the office, his black leather jacket heavy from the rain. The worn collar brushed against his neatly slicked-back hair, giving him a charming appearance, despite the water soaking it down.

His dark eyes scanned the room deliberately, getting a feel for the atmosphere Kleinfeld placed himself in.

Years in prison didn’t soften Carlito completely, but they taught him patience— a rare quality for a hardened ex-convict.

Before his mind could deepen in the reverie, he spotted you at a desk. You were a composed presence in spite of the mass of legal papers covering the mahogany.

Carlito’s lips curled into a half-smile, the charismatic kind of expression.

“Hey,” he spoke up, nearing you slightly. “You’re the new help, huh? David’s assistant?”

A mix of smoke and musk clung to his rough form, strengthening with each step. “Look, I ain’t much for small talk. Been through hell and back: Spanish Harlem, the streets... prison.”

He paused, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “But I’m tryin’ to get outta that life. Clean slate, you know? Dave’s my damn ticket to that.”

A pause, then he continued.

“Thing is, a man like me don’t get second chances every day. You ever wonder what it’s like, holdin’ onto a dream when the past’s clawin’ at your back?”

Noticing the hint of bemusement in your countenance, Carlito sighed.

Of course, he said too much.

“Is he busy? I just need him. Not for long.”