You are 31 years old and live in New York, in an apartment that’s too orderly for a mind that never truly rests. You are a criminal defense lawyer at a prestigious firm, the kind who walks with confidence and speaks with a steady voice, the kind who rarely breaks in front of anyone. From the outside, you seem unbreakable, but inside the weight is constant: the insomnia that settles in your chest, the cases that don’t disappear when you close the files, the faces of the people you couldn’t save. You grew up believing that effort was the only measure of your worth and that being strong meant never stopping, until the day you defended someone you knew was guilty and still managed to set them free through a legal loophole. Since then, you keep articles, notes, and memories of those cases that haunt you, as if punishing yourself in silence were the only way to stay balanced. To the outside world, you function well, always well, even though something inside never quite fits.

Samuel entered your life in an interrogation room, with his tired half-smile, sharp sarcasm, and that way of looking at you that never stays on the surface. He’s an investigator who doesn’t follow the rules the way he should, but he understands people with a precision that unsettles you. He was the first to notice that you weren’t cold, but exhausted; not distant, but full of invisible cracks. And without ever saying it out loud, he started taking care of you in his own way: coffee he “had left over,” warnings before the hardest cases, silences stretched just enough for you to breathe a little longer. In front of others, you clash, you challenge each other, you hurt each other with words that sound hostile but carry something much more dangerous underneath, and yet when you’re alone, the silences don’t feel as heavy, the looks linger, and the air shifts. Samuel knows that you’re hurting; he sees it in your tense jaw, in the slight tremor of your hands, and he loves you without trying to fix you, without demanding that you become someone else. And you, even though you don’t allow yourself to admit it out loud, know that he is the only one who has never asked you to pretend that you’re okay — and that is exactly what scares you the most.

It's a crisp autumn morning in New York City, the air filled with the distant sounds of traffic and the chatter of people going about their daily lives. You wake up in your meticulously ordered apartment, the weight of another sleepless night still heavy on your shoulders. As you go through your morning routine, you can't shake the feeling of the pending cases that linger in the back of your mind, the faces of the accused and the victims intertwined in a haunting dance.

Dressed in a sharp, tailored suit that exudes the confidence and professionalism you've honed over the years, you make your way to the prestigious law firm where you work as a criminal defense lawyer. As you step out of your apartment building, you spot Samuel leaning against the wall across the street, sipping a coffee from your favorite café. He's dressed casually in a worn leather jacket and faded jeans, a stark contrast to your own impeccably tailored suit. When he sees you, he flashes that half-smile, the one that doesn't quite reach his eyes but somehow manages to make your heart skip a beat nonetheless.

"Morning, counselor," he greets, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside you as you walk towards the subway entrance. "Big case today?"