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3rd Person PoV
The moment Liam stepped out of the elevator onto the DA's floor, he could feel the difference.
News of him going to win against Hale's had spread fast, and the air in the office buzzed with whispers and sideways glances.
Some of the younger assistants tried to catch his eye, smiling or giving a congratulatory nod as if attaching themselves to him might pay off later.
A few older staffers, more cautious, offered polite handshakes and reserved "Good job, Harper."
Others, the ones threatened by his sudden rise kept their distance, watching silently as he walked past.
Liam remained polite to all of them, neither encouraging nor dismissing.
He wasn't here to win friends. He had one destination, and only one conversation that mattered right now.
Cameron's office.
He knocked once and entered.
Cameron Dennis was standing near his window with his spectacle on, a case file in hand and his signature smirk firmly in place as he saw Liam waking in.
"Enjoying the attention, kid?" Cameron asked, raising his brow in a mock tone.
"Better get used to it. This is what happens when you pull off miracles under my name and trust me, it doesn't stop here—you keep working under me, the spotlight will only get brighter."
Liam closed the door behind him and stepped forward calmly. "That's fine," he said evenly. "But let's skip the pleasantries. We need to talk terms."
Cameron's brows rose in mock surprise. "Terms?"
He chuckled, taking a sip of water from the table before turning fully to face Liam. "Bold of you to walk into my office and start talking like we're negotiating contracts."
"You did agree to give me two requests if I won," Liam reminded him, his voice steady, deliberate.
Cameron smirked. "So you remembered that, huh? Alright then, kid. Let's hear it. What do you want?"
Liam didn't hesitate. "First—I want Mrs. Potts to be my permanent secretary."
Cameron let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "That's it? You wasted one right there. Mrs. Potts is efficient, sure, but that was already in the works. You didn't have to burn a request for it. Still…" He swirled his glass of water and said "It works in my benefit too. Consider it granted. What's number two?"
Liam leaned forward slightly, his eyes locked on Cameron's. "I want to work my allotted cases alone. No interference."
The smirk slipped, if only for a moment. Cameron lowered his glass and studied him, silence stretching in the room. "Basically, you're saying you don't want me involved," Cameron said at last, his voice carrying an edge now.
"Yes," Liam replied without hesitation. "No buffers, no babysitting, no second-guessing. I win cases my way. That's the only way I can guarantee results."
Cameron narrowed his eyes. "What makes you think I'd allow that? Even Harvey doesn't get such privileges. And Harvey is… well, Harvey."
Liam nodded, acknowledging the point. "I know. Which means this can go one of two ways."
Cameron tilted his head. "Go on."
"One," Liam continued, "you take offense, fire me on the spot, and write me off as another cocky kid who couldn't handle the system or two—you change my mind. You try to keep me on a leash but if you do, I won't work at my best. Which means I'll leave no matter what."
He let the words hang, deliberate and sharp.
"But," Liam added, "if you give me space—my terms, my strategy—I'll deliver. Every win will still have your name on it. You'll be satisfied, and you'll get the results. If I fail, then I'll accept your guidance and work under you however you see fit. No questions, no arguments."
The silence stretched again. Cameron took another sip of his water, eyes locked on Liam as if weighing the truth of his words. The smirk returned slowly, curling into something sharper.
"You're something else, kid. I'll give you that."
Liam didn't flinch or respond
Finally, Cameron stepped forward and extended his hand. "Fine. You've got your deal but remember this—you asked for it. Don't make me regret giving you the rope to hang yourself."
Liam clasped his hand firmly, meeting his gaze without wavering. "I won't."
Their hands released. The terms were set.
The hum of the office was faint outside his door, but inside Liam's workspace, it was just him, his files, and the glow of his HUD. He was scanning through evidence chains when his phone buzzed. Detective Cross.
Liam answered immediately. "Harper."
"Liam, it's Cross," the detective said, his voice steady but carrying the weight of long hours. "Got something for you. Remember the guy who threw hands with Hale outside the club?"
"Yeah," Liam replied. "You managed to ID him?"
"Name's Travis Keane," Cross said. "Ex-sprinter himself, turned coach. Been training a kid—well, not a kid anymore, but young. Ethan Cole, nineteen. Fast as hell. Won a few big regional 100-meter dash races last year. People were already calling him the next American sprinter to watch."
Liam frowned. "Was?"
"Yeah," Cross confirmed grimly. "Ethan retired early due to health issues. Story floating around is some kind of chronic condition, but the details are vague. One day he's on the track blowing past seasoned runners, the next day he's gone. Career over before it started."
"And Travis Keane?" Liam pressed.
"That's the problem," Cross sighed. "His wife reported him missing three weeks ago. No activity on his phone, no financial movement. Just… gone."
Liam leaned back in his chair, processing. "So we've got a missing trainer with a public altercation with Hale, and a prodigy athlete who burned out overnight. Doesn't smell like coincidence."
"Exactly what I thought," Cross said.
"Send me everything you've got on Ethan Cole—medical, race history, sponsorships. If Keane's disappearance links back to Hale, I need the connective tissue."
"You'll have it by tonight," Cross promised. "And Liam—" He hesitated, lowering his voice. "Whatever this is, it's bigger than cocaine in a glove box. Hale's mixed up in something deeper. Just… tread carefully."
"I always do," Liam said. "Thanks, Cross."
He ended the call, his mind already racing. Before he could open the next file, another notification blinked onto his HUD. Incoming system call—John Wick.
Liam accepted. "Wick."
"Got movement for you," Wick's deep voice came through, unhurried but direct. "Two guys tied closely to Hale. First one—Victor Marino. Old-school moneylender. High-interest loans, dangerous clientele, strong ties to some offshore accounts. Has enough connections in the city to make problems disappear if you can pay his rate."
"And the second?" Liam asked.
"Carlos Vega," Wick said, spitting the name like it tasted foul. "Small-time dealer two years ago. Cocaine, weed, some party enhancers. But in the last six months? He's exploded. Market share tripled. He's running one of the fastest-growing distribution networks in the boroughs. Practically overnight he went from corner hustler to top-tier supplier."
Liam narrowed his eyes. "That kind of growth doesn't happen on its own. Where'd the push come from?"
"Capital," Wick said flatly. "Someone bankrolled him heavy. He suddenly had manpower, supply chains, and foot soldiers willing to take the fall if things got messy. That doesn't happen without a serious backer. Hale's fingerprints are are some how connected—just can't see them yet."
"Proof?" Liam asked sharply.
"Not solid enough to hold up in court. Yet," Wick admitted. "But give me a day. I'll get you something cleaner, something no one can refute. A paper trail, maybe a transaction tying Hale to Vega directly. Once that's in your hands, the case isn't just strong—it's bulletproof."
Liam let a rare smile touch his lips. "That's what I need. No half measures."
"Exactly why I called you," Wick replied. "You've got the patience to let this play out right. Anyone else would've gone loud already."
"Keep me updated," Liam said. "And Wick—if Vega really rose this fast, it means he's protected. That protection is going to bite back. Don't expose yourself too far."
A low tone came from Wick's end. "I know where the shadows are, Harper. Don't worry about me. Worry about Hale."
The call clicked off.
Liam exhaled slowly, fingers tapping the desk.
Travis Keane missing.
Ethan Cole's sudden retirement.
Victor Marino's dirty money.
Carlos Vega's meteoric rise.
Different pieces of a puzzle, but they were starting to lean toward the same center: Hale wasn't just another playboy with a cocaine stash. He was part of something larger.
And Liam intended to cut straight to its heart.
The End
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