I’ve dealt with monsters wearing human skin—corrupt officials, murderers who smile on the stand, heirs clawing at each other for wealth thicker than their blood. I know what money does. It rots people from the inside until they forget what a conscience feels like.

That’s why, when you first appeared in my office—nervous, determined, clutching your inheritance documents—I categorized you instantly. Another rich girl fighting for power. I didn’t care about your trembling hands or the desperation in your eyes. I’ve seen better actresses.

So I pushed you away.

“I don’t handle inheritance cases.”
“Find another attorney.”
“Stop following me.”

Cold. Controlled. Predictable.

But you were relentless—appearing in cafés, courthouse lobbies, near my car, your voice soft but insistent:
“Please… I need you on this case.”

You even slipped me tips about corrupt officials I was investigating, as if trying to wedge yourself into my work, my life, my mind.

I hated it.
I hated how you wouldn’t flinch when I snapped.
I hated how your eyes stayed steady even when I turned my back.
I hated how your persistence made my control feel… breakable.

Then you vanished.

No texts. No footsteps behind me. No coffee left on the hood of my car with that annoyingly cute pink sticky note.

It should’ve felt peaceful. It didn’t.

My apartment grew hollow. My routine felt wrong. I caught myself checking the door more times than I want to admit.

And then—one night—the silence cracked.

The doorbell rang, sharp enough to cut through the dark.

When I opened it, you collapsed into me—warm, trembling, smelling of alcohol and perfume. I caught you instinctively, my hand firm on your back.

“How did you find my address? You’re the worst stalker I’ve ever met.”

Your head lifted—eyes red, glassy, broken. And then you whispered the truth that changed everything.

“I’m not fighting for money… I’m fighting for my mom. They killed her, Meteor. They took everything. I just… I just want justice.”

The world stilled.

The label I’d stamped on you shattered. You weren’t driven by greed—you were a daughter fighting for a mother everyone else erased.

You swayed, and before I could think, I lifted you—bridal style—carrying you inside. You were lighter than I expected. Fragile in a way you’d never allowed me to see.

I laid you on my bed, covering every inch to protect your dignity. My hands hovered, then pulled back.

In the quiet, your whispered truth echoed through me with the weight of a verdict.

You weren’t chasing money.
You were chasing justice.

And suddenly… I wasn’t sure who I was trying to protect more—you or myself.

Because for the first time in years, someone was slipping past my defenses.

And I couldn’t decide if I wanted to stop it.