Nobody expected this case to make it to trial.

  Virexon Materials had buried bigger disasters than this.

  They had deeper pockets.

  Better lawyers.

  Friends in government.

  Everyone, from the legal aid office to the victim’s own union rep, told Ms Ramirez that fighting them would ruin her life more than the accident already had.

  So when Elias Mercer took the case pro bono, the courthouse gossip was immediate:

  Waste of talent.

  Unwinnable.

  Career suicide.

  Mercer must have hit his limit, finally.

  But Elias didn’t listen to whispers.

  He walked into the courtroom as if the outcome had been scripted long before anyone else arrived.

  Marisol sat besides him, her wheelchair slightly angled so the jury could see her stiff, burnt hands, her sweat beaded at her brow, though the room was cool, and her pain always showing on her face now.

  Elias advise her to not take any painkiller today, and it clearly showed.

  At the defence table, Virexon’s executives looked bored. Their lead attorney, famous for dismantling environmental suits with surgical precision, tapped a monogrammed pen against a thick binder labelled 'Ramirez v. Virexon'.

  The judge nodded at Elias. “You may begin your closing argument.”

  He rose, straightening his jacklet, he moved with precised, controlled movements reharsed a thousand times in a thousand different cases.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Elias began, “this case wasn’t supposed to reach you.”

  A flicker of surprise ran through the jury.

  “Most cases like this don’t. Virexon settles privately. Or intimidates. Or buries documents until the plaintiffs simply… give up.”

  Defence counsel jumped to his feet.

  “Objection—”

  “Overruled,” the judge said, tone ice-cold. “Continue, Mr Mercer.”

  Elias approached the jury box, hands clasped loosely behind him.

  “I’d like you to remember the Huxley plant fire of twelve years ago, where three workers suffered permanent lung damage. Their lawsuit mysteriously evaporated after the company claimed the workers ‘misused equipment’.

  A juror’s brow tightened. They all remembered that one.

  Elias didn’t pause.

  “And the Warrendale spill that happened ust two years ago. Fifteen people were hospitalised, three of them are still in a coma. Virexon argued that the victims had ‘unknown pre-existing conditions’ and they settled for pennies compared to the harm done.”

  He let the words sink in, then continued. “And now, Marisol Ramirez.”

  He turned towards her, she shrank slightly, unused to being at the centre of so many eyes.

  “An experienced technician with a decade of experience. A mother. A woman who followed every safety protocol given to her. But the gear she relied on, the gear Virexon promised would protect their workers, was cheaply replaced to save the company a yearly expense roughly equivalent to the bonus of one executive in this room.”

  The CEO stiffened, and it didn’t pass unnoticed.

  Elias placed three documents on the evidence rail. “These are Internal supply memos, cost-cutting projections and quality downgrade approvals. All approved and signed.”

  The defence counsel rose again. “Objection, character assassination—”

  “Sustained.” The judge glanced at Elias. “Tone it down.”

  Elias inclined his head like he didn’t really mean to, but the damage was done.

  He approached the jury again with slow steps and clear eyes, the picture of confidence, of justice.

  “Marisol lost more than the ability to walk unaided, she lost the job she spent years mastering. She lost the independence she used to have to care for her children. She lost the nights without nightmares and the dignity of living without fearing that every movement will bring another wave of unadulterated pain.”

  Marisol swallowed hard, while a tear slipped down her cheek. Elias hadn't planned for that, but for sure it helped.

  Then she went on, they needed to hear the name of the ones responsible, to link all of these terrible conditions to something, someone who will have to bear the weight of responsability.

  “And Virexon told her it was her fault.”

  He let that hang.

  Inside of him, he had trouble controlling his disgust, his repulsion to the predictable greed of powerful men. He didn't fault them for cutting cost or taking advantage of their employees, in this world it was anyone for themselves. No he hated the smug certainty that they would escape consequences while doing nothing; If only they had paid her an extra penny, they wouldn’t find themselves destroyed by the press and bled dry by the jury. Incompetents, all of them.

  He played this game so many times... he was sick at the ritual of pretending that justice was blind while everyone knew it wore a price tag.

  And at how easily the world applauded him for merely nudging the scales a fraction closer to fair.

  He hated the system’s hypocrisy. he hated the ease with which people swayed their judgement based on feelings. But more than anything, he hated the shallow awe that followed his victories.

  But outwardly, Elias’s voice softened, and finished with giving them the illusion of having control. “You have the power to tell her that what happened mattered. That the pattern ends here.” They couldn't control anything, they were just marionettes, dancing to a tune.

  He stepped back, giving them space to absorb the words.

  “Find for the plaintiff.”

  The jury deliberated for less than half an hour, and when the verdict was read somehow everyone managed to be surprised:

  Liability established.

  Lifetime medical support.

  Full wage replacement.

  Ten million in punitive damages.

  A gasp rippled through the room while a few reporters scribbled so fast their pencils were about to catch fire.

  Marisol covered her face and sobbed into her hands, shoulders shaking violently. Her sister rushed forward, hugging her while her children, brought into the back rows by a neighbour, ran to hug their mother.

  She turned to Elias.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, voice breaking. “You saved my family’s future.... I-I can’t… there are no words… thank you.”

  Her gratitude hit him like warm syrup, thick and suffocating, but he smiled and gently touched her hand.

  “You deserved justice,” he said. "I hope this will give you back your life, and give your children a better future."

  She sobbed as he moved away, leaving space to the family to enjoy the moment, and as the courtroom erupted in murmurs and disbelief, Elias slipped between the chaos and exited the room.

  The hallway outside the courtroom buzzed with reporters, interns, clerks, and anyone smelling a headline. Elias slipped out before they could form a circle around him, as the next door swinged shut behind him, the noise finally went down.

  “Mercer!”

  A familiar voice rung out behind him. Daniel Hargrove, a public defender in his early forties, in a frazzled suit, carrying three case files under his arm, jogged up to him.

  His grin was wide, incredulous. “I can’t believe you pulled that off,” Daniel said. “I mean, Virexon? Nobody won against them. Hell, nobody survives litigation against them. And you take it pro bono?” He shook his head. “You’re a damn miracle worker.”

  Elias adjusted the strap of his briefcase.

  “Marisol deserved representation.”

  “Yeah, but she also deserved someone sane enough not to fight a hydra bare-handed.” Daniel slapped his arm lightly. “Seriously, Eli… good job. The rest of us are proud. It’s nice seeing a win in a world that keeps punching us in the balls.”

  Elias gave him a small smile, the same one that made the jury soften and his clients cry in gratitude. “Just doing my job.”

  Daniel snorted. “If the rest of us ‘just did our job’ the way you do yours, we’d all be out of work from sheer intimidation.”

  He walked backwards a few steps as he talked, then added, lower: “You’re a good man, Mercer. Don’t forget that.”

  Elias waved with his free hand as if he were embarassed.

  Inside, the words rang hollow, a good man.

  As if they knew anything about him.

  Daniel waved and hurried off towards his next disaster. Elias watched him go as the buzzing pressure in his chest rose again, the feeling goading him, suffocating him under the weight of the praises he didn’t want.

  Finally he was out, he walked into the parking lot and entered his car, exhaled, then headed towards the old city district.

  The Riverstone Youth Rehabilitation Centre sat wedged between a shuttered laundrette and a pawn shop with bulletproof glass, a neighbourhood where hope was considered a distant dream.

  Inside, the old gym-turned-common-room buzzed with restless teenage energy. Kids in hoodies slouched on battered couches; others hovered near the vending machines, pretending not to watch the door.

  They always watched the door, because at this hour, they knew who would come through it.

  When Elias Mercer stepped in, everybody in the room straightened almost subconsciously, a few whispered his name like he was a celebrity; others stiffened with a wary respect usually reserved for judges or soldiers.

  “Mr Mercer!”

  “Yo, he actually showed up again.”

  “Mercer, did you win that trial today?”

  “Damn, he looks like he just walked out of that TV show.”

  Elias gave them the smile they expected: warm and humane. Nothing like the razor-edged thoughts beneath it.

  “Good evening,” he said, voice too was calculated, smooth as velvet. “Let’s get started.”

  The kids gathered quickly, they always did. Some admired him, some reached the point of idolise him even. But most simply craved a positive adult who didn’t lie to them or treated them like trash.

  Elias sat on a metal chair as if it were a throne. They clustered around with wide eyes and nervous hands. There was too much vulnerability on display.... Inside, he felt the usual twist of disdain.

  Pathetic.

  They were so easy to break, so quick to fold under pressure.... half of them used bravado as armour. The other half used silence; and all of them, every single one, looked at him as if he could fix their lives.

  As if he even cared.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  He scanned their faces. “Who wants to start? Legal questions only, you know the rules. And yes, I know who smuggled a knife into last week’s session and made that mess, i will deal with you later.” He said while not looking at anyone in particular.

  A ripple of sheepish laughter moved through the group.

  One boy raised his hand. Kevin, he was sixteen and a former gang runner. A kid with bright eyes and a spark of real intelligence, one of the few really worth investing in.

  “My probation officer said I need weekly counseling or I’m back inside.... they assigned me someone worse than useless, to put it mildly, can I request a switch?”

  Elias nodded. “Yes you can. I’ll help you file the paperwork, we’ll do it together after the session.”

  Kevin's shoulders loosened in visible relief. "Thanks."

  Next was a girl, barely fourteen, sleeves tugged over scarred wrists she thought she hid well. “My mum’s boyfriend keeps showing up at my school…”

  “I’ll handle it,” Elias said before she finished, he knew her situation, nobody wanted to hear more of that.

  Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears. “Thank you, Mr Mercer.”

  The gratitude in her voice hit him like sour air.

  Weak. All of them.... so dependent, so easily breakable. Nobody had the spine to take their life in their hands.

  And yet… he continued.

  One by one they came to him: kids from gangs, kids from abusive homes, kids who had grown up thinking that suffering was normal. A few showed flashes of potential, but they were the minority, the rest were drowning in their own softness, and by the end of the session Elias couldn’t decide which feeling was stronger: disgust for their frailty or disgust for his own obligation to fix it.

  After nearly three hours, and preparing the documents many of them needed, Elias packed his own briefcase.

  “Same time next week,” he said.

  “Thanks Mercer!”

  “You’re the best!”

  “Man, I don’t know why you do it, but… thanks, it means a lot.”

  Elias smiled again, his practised, perfect smile.

  Why do i do it? Because if I don’t, I drown.

  Because I’m chained to goodness like a dog to a pole.

  “Take care of yourselves,” he said softly.

  He left the building.

  Evening had settled over the city; the streetlights hummed, now awake. His next appointment was nearly due, he drove through half the city until he reached a better neighbourhood; clean white plaster and curated gardens took the place of graffiti and cracked sidewalks.

  The narrow building housing Dr Miriam Rourke sat between a boutique gym and a shuttered cafe. Elias entered the front door and took the elevator after saluting the receptionist. The lavender-scented waiting room greeted him, blessedly empty. He sat with his back straight, his hands folded neatly while scanning the sparse magazines as though something in them could ever possibly interest him.

  When Dr Rourke opened her office door, he waited for her previous client to exit, then rose to meet her.

  “Elias, good evening,” she said, her smile genuine and warm. “Come in.”

  The office was exactly as he remembered: soft lighting, mismatched leather chairs, and a cream coloured rug that complemented the ambiance. She gestured to the chair across from her desk.

  “How was your week?” she started, looking at her open notebook, her pen ready.

  “Productive,” he replied evenly, settling into the chair.

  She watched him, letting the silence stretch, a practised tactic.

  “I won the Virexon case,” he said after a beat, she had the annoying habit of letting the silence stretch undefinetly, a stupid tactic in his opinion. He wasn't here to play mind games, but to get something done.

  Her eyebrows lifted. “That one everyone in the news thought unwinnable?” Her voice sounded incredulous.

  “Yes.”

  Her smile lingered too long, and it began to get on his nerves. “And after, you went to the youth programme?”

  “I had time before our appointment.” he said evenly.

  She scribbled something, then looked up. “Elias, I want to address what we’ve been discussing in our previous sessions. You continue to take on incredible burdens, often at your own expense. You may be trapped in what we’ve described as a self-sacrifice schema…”

  “A hero complex intertwined with avoidance cycles and overdeveloped responsibility stemming from high anxiety” he finished for her. “I know.”

  Hwe jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

  Because you think I really care about incompetents and sycophants. When the reality is way different.

  He shifted slightly, studying her expression. Warmth? Concern? Or just expectation.

  Fifteen minutes online and I knew already all of this, I didn't need a degree to see what's on the surface, I don't need to scrape the surface..

  She continued, nonplussed. "You’ve been attempting to work on symptoms rather than addressing the root: the compulsion to act, the inability to say no, and that "pressure" you talk about that drives you to help everyone. Did you follow the exercises I assigned?

  “I did; they don’t really make me feel any different. As I told you already last time, it’s not the first time I’ve tried these methods.” Elias's facade was getting harder and harder to maintain with every word she spoke.

  “Then did you put time aside for yourself? Did you start to respect your boundaries by saying no to some requests? And most importantly, did it make you feel guilty when you did?”

  Of course she doesn’t understand.

  “I tried,” he said, calm, measured. “But the exercises… they don’t help. The nausea, the emptiness… they hit harder when I try to avoid doing what I can for anybody except myself.”

  “That’s because you’re curing symptoms, not the disease,” she said gently. “You focus on acting, on suppressing your guilt, rather than examining the cycles of avoidance and over-responsibility. That’s why these feelings recur, they’re bound to your perception that you are responsible for everything.”

  Elias’s lips twitched. Responsible for everything. Ridiculous.

  She leant forward slightly. “You said it yourself: you feel physical discomfort when you don’t act. Discomfort, depression, anxiety... that’s the overdeveloped responsibility speaking. Did you try to reduce your responsibilities this week? Not taking cases, not volunteering? Even a little?”

  “I did,” he said softly, voice smooth. “I refused a case because I had my hands full already, but in the end I couldn’t tolerate it, so I took it and moved it to the next week.”

  “Tolerate,” she repeated. “That’s the point. You need to learn to accept those moments of inaction without self-punishment. ACT isn’t about changing what you do; it’s about changing your relationship to the compulsion.”

  Elias leant back slightly, staring at her. Change my relationship? She can’t even see the truth, not one fraction of it. She would never confront the problem inside of him. She could never touch it.

  “I’m going to be frank,” he said while sitting straighter, voice low but firm. “I understand what you think about me, your diagnosis is correct, in the terms you are capable of framing. But I am not going to spend more time repeating what I already know, nor pretending that the exercises I already told you I tried many times in the past will help. These sessions are over for me.”

  Her pen hovered mid-air. “Elias—”

  “I will seek more specialised help,” he continued smoothly. “Someone with more experience, and the capability to address this properly. I appreciate your time, but I am unwilling to continue here.”

  Her practised smile faltered, surprise in her eyes.

  Elias rose, adjusting his expensive suit. Polite, composed. Every muscle relaxed outwardly, even as his mind catalogued every flaw, every weak point in her understanding. She could not help him, but he would find someone who could.

  Outside, night had fully settled. The streetlights painted the pavement a muted amber. The wind stirred faintly.

  He didn’t feel relief, just annoyance. She cannot help me, but sooner or later I will find someone who can.

  And with that, Elias walked back to the car, the city nightlife started humming around him, while the pressure inside started pushing harder, a force he did not understand but had to learn to respect.

  Elias glanced at his phone; it was nearly seven. Then he saw a missed call from his ex-girlfriend.

  Here we go again…

  He ignored it, but the usual feeling of depression started to claw back at him.

  But his next stop was routine, almost sacred: the pool.

  He walked briskly, swimming bag in hand to the small private facility he frequented. The fluorescent lights inside hummed faintly, reflecting off the water in steady, calming patterns. He stripped methodically, folding his clothes and setting them aside, before slipping into the cool embrace of the pool.

  Water closed over him like a second skin. With the first stroke, tension started to ease, though not fully. The pressure inside, the subtle gnawing emptiness he never named, still lingered, but here, beneath the water, he could keep it at bay.

  He swam lap after lap, long, measured strokes, turning each movement into a kind of meditation. One hundred metres. Two hundred. Half an hour passed unnoticed. His body, honed from years of this discipline, carried him easily through the resistance of the water. Every kick, every pull, every turn along the edge of the pool pushed the weight from his chest into the rhythm of motion.

  Elias had never counted laps for progress. Only for survival. Physical exertion was the one way he could hold the inner gnawing in check when he wasn’t busy employing his time helping others.

  An hour passed. Then two. Finally he slowed, floating on his back, staring at the ceiling. The hum of the lights above and the soft slap of water against the tiles were all that existed. IN the end he rose, tired but satisfied, then stepped out.

  After a quick shower he towelled off, dressed, and checked his phone again. A message from Lyla.

  "Eli… I don’t know what to do. Jason blew through the rent money again, and now the landlord’s threatening me. Please, you’re the only one I can count on. Please… help me. I know you’re a good man; you were always good with me."

  He read the message again, savouring the words as if tasting something bitter. “Always good with me.” Pathetic. Every syllable reeked of entitlement and weakness. He smiled faintly, cold and thin. You’ve trapped yourself in your own stupidity, and now you beg like a dog. How predictable.

  Without a word, he locked the phone and slid it into his pocket. The only good thing about her is that with a little expense I can keep the emptiness at bay easier.

  It was late, but not too late. He headed home, the city streets quieter now, littered with the fading traces of daytime life.

  The apartment building greeted him with muted familiarity. Key in the lock, door shut behind him, silence stretched. The apartment smelled faintly of fabric softener and the lingering scent of coffee from earlier in the day. He placed his briefcase on the table, hung his jacket, and walked to the window.

  The city lights twinkled far below, distant and indifferent. The gnawing inside him was still there, soft but insistent, a shadow that never left. But for now, the day had dulled it, and he could rest, though only a little, before tomorrow’s demands returned.

  The doorbell rang. Sharp, insistent.

  He knew without looking who it was. She couldn’t wait for a text or a call tomorrow, no, she needed it now.

  He opened the door and there she was, Lyla, beautiful, wide-eyed and sweet-talking as always. Behind her, barely concealing himself, Jason, her new boyfriend, was sticking out from behind the corner looking confident, for some reason. Thinking Elias was the pushover he always assumed him to be. He didn’t matter, not really.

  “Eli… I didn’t want to bother you this late, but I’m really in trouble,” she cooed. “Please… just a little help. For old time's sake, eh? I will give it back to you, I promise. You know I always give back.” She said the last part in her best sultry voice.

  Elias regarded her quietly, the corners of his lips twitching faintly. In a way, I can't say that's not true.

  But he didn’t say a word about her never giving back, or about her new boyfriend. He didn’t scold not did he argue. He just reached into his wallet and pulled out a couple of hundred.

  “I understand, but this is all I have with me,” he said flatly. “I would have answered tomorrow, but today… I’m quite tired.”

  She gasped, eyes brightening, voice dripping gratitude. “Oh, Eli! Thank you! Thank you so much! I don’t know what I’d do without you! I won’t bother you any longer, but call me if you need something, really.”

  You can’t even help yourself; how can I possibly believe you can help me?

  She turned and briskly walked back, Jason joining her, smirking at him. What do you have to smirk if you have to go and get money from the ex-boyfriend of your woman... that I won't ever understand. Elias avoided looking at them as they exited. If the money would be wasted on drugs or used to fuel abuse, he didn't care. If he didn’t see it, he wouldn’t feel compelled to do more.

  He closed the door, the faint smile lingering just long enough to remind him of the ritual. Another act of charity completed. Another fix, like a drug addict, he felt a strange calm settle over him. For tonight, the gnawing emptiness inside of him receded, not gone, never gone. But dulled enough to let him sleep somewhat peacefully.

  Elias Mercer sank into his leather armchair, the city lights stretching below like scattered embers. He loosened his tie and poured himself a glass of aged, expensive rum, a gift from one of the clients he’d helped in the past, a silent acknowledgement of gratitude. Tonight, he felt like he needed it. Another ritual, a pause to enjoy before the relentless urges returned.

  The amber liquid shimmered in the glass as he poured it gently, enjoying the tobacco and vanilla notes in its scent. He started raising it to his lips… and froze.

  In front of him, hovering, was a blue rectangle of light, cutting through the dim room. He could not move. His arm couldn't even tremble, and the glass stayed half-filled. His body was locked, useless, except for his mind that raced faster than ever.

  He frowned a little, like he was annoyed by a pop-up ad. What the hell is this, did I finally lost it?

  Another line formed below it, clear and cold:

  A countdown appeared beneath the message.

  Things were starting to go wrong outside, the faint sound of metal hitting metal, car alarms going off, and engines roaring in the distance. But there were no screams, nothing at all. The city was falling apart slowly and mechanically, as if everyone had been frozen in shock.

  Elias's heart started racing... not with fear, but with excitement. He held the rum tightly in his hand, and his body was still locked, but if he could move a dark smile would break free on his lips.

  Something big was going on, something that didn't care about morality, charity, or the weakness of people.

  Something that might finally work for him.

  The blue light was eating away at everything around him. The city, the noise, the alarms that go off at night... not important at all.

  There was another line, as if someone had whispered it right into his ear.

  Elias Mercer felt the excitement building in his chest. He felt alive for the first time in years, because the world, was about to change.