The night wind from the East River struck James Aron's face without mercy.
The cheap jacket that had long since lost its buttons offered no protection, and he did not care.
He stood on the Manhattan Bridge in filthy shoes, unkempt hair, and carrying a single decision that would end his life.
Three cases.
Three consecutive losses.
In Manhattan's legal world, the name James Aron carried no meaning. To himself, each defeat felt like a punishment delivered without explanation. For years, he endured low-paying lawsuits, minor criminal cases, endless stacks of files, and an office that felt almost lifeless—all for one conviction: to become an honest private attorney, someone who stood for those who had no voice.
Now, that conviction was nothing more than residue.
As if losing in court was not enough, another truth arrived uninvited. His fiancée—the one he had leaned on for so long—had chosen to share her affection with the man he trusted most: his own best friend. Aron no longer knew which hurt more—the betrayal itself, or the realization that perhaps he truly was worthless.
"What did I do wrong…?" His voice broke in the cold of the night.
The bottle in his hand was nearly empty when the words escaped, no longer a question, but exhaustion long suppressed.
"I just wanted to be a good lawyer. I just wanted to help people."
No answer ever came.
Only the sound of night insects filled the air, as if the world had closed its eyes, indifferent to who was left behind. Aron let out a hollow chuckle before lifting his face toward the dark sky.
"What's the point of me living? What's the point of me living!" Aron screamed with all his strength.
Half-conscious, his steps staggered toward the edge of the bridge. His trembling fingers touched the cold steel. With the little strength he had left, Aron began to climb—slowly, heavily, as if every movement required permission from a body and heart too exhausted to resist any longer.
"Wait."
Aron stopped. His body swayed slightly before he turned, blurry eyes squinting against the dim glow of the bridge lights.
"Yeah… can I help you?" he asked, his voice drowsy, as if the question itself hardly mattered.
"What are you doing here?"
Aron looked down—the black river water glistening far below—then turned back. His lips curved into a smile that lacked full awareness.
"I'm going for a swim."
"Swimming… in the middle of the night?"
"What's wrong with that?" He shrugged. "River water's colder at night. Good for the body."
"While you're drunk?"
Aron laughed, short and rough. "If I were sober, I wouldn't have the courage to jump."
The woman's tone changed, more direct. "Just say it if you want to kill yourself."
Aron nodded slowly, as if someone had finally spoken the most honest thing that night.
"Yes. That's right." He gave a hollow smile. "Just pretend you didn't see anything after this—if you don't want to be questioned by the police."
The woman fell silent for a moment.
"Before you jump," she said at last, "can you help me?"
Aron glanced at her, half-interested. "Sure. What kind of help?"
The woman stepped a little closer. Her face was pale—too pale for such a cold night. Her eyes were fixed on Aron, not on his face, but on his neck.
"Please let me drink your blood."
Aron froze. Several seconds passed as his mind searched for logic in that sentence, failed, and then gave up.
"Oh."
Without thinking further, he pulled back the sleeve of his jacket, exposing the skin of his arm, and extended it toward her.
"Okay," he said calmly. "Drink as much as you want."
**
The sun slowly rose from the eastern horizon, washing pale light over Manhattan's towering buildings. The city came back to life. Pedestrian walkways filled with hurried people, faces tense as they chased the clock. The roads roared with traffic, horns calling out without emotion.
Yet in one corner near the bridge, the world moved a little more slowly.
On a narrow sidewalk, a man lay motionless on the cold concrete. His jacket was rumpled, his hair disheveled, and his pale face stood out against the surrounding morning rush.
Two police officers approached.
"Check him first," one of them ordered, his tone flat. "See if he's dead."
His partner knelt, pressing two fingers to the man's neck. A few seconds passed, quiet amid the city's noise.
"He's still alive."
The standing officer let out a rough sigh. "Argh… what a hassle."
He lifted his hand to his right shoulder, pressing the button on the radio clipped there. His eyes flicked toward the man lying on the concrete—not with sympathy, but with the weariness of someone far too used to dealing with drunks mistaken for corpses.
"Hold on."
The kneeling officer didn't stand up right away. His brow furrowed as he studied the man's face more closely.
"What is it?" his partner asked.
"I think I know this guy." He wiped some dirt from the man's cheek, making sure he wasn't mistaken. "James Aron."
The other officer snorted. "James Aron? That broke lawyer?"
"Who else?" He pointed at the disheveled face. "It's him."
The standing officer grinned faintly and shook his head. "Wake him up."
"Pak!"
A slap landed squarely on Aron's right cheek. His body jerked, eyes flying open as he gasped for air.
"Who slapped me?" His voice was hoarse, barely forming a full sentence.
"Get up," the standing officer ordered, then lightly kicked the tip of Aron's shoe.
Aron rubbed his eyes, trying to focus his spinning vision. "Am I… dead yet?"
"Yes," the officer replied casually. "You're in hell now."
"What—!" Aron's eyes went wide.
"Get up, Aron."
Aron narrowed his eyes, staring at the officer crouched in front of him. A few seconds passed before recognition finally reached his brain.
"Hey… Officer Gordon."
"Yes." Gordon's tone did not change. "Now get up."
Aron tried to stand, but his knees were too weak. His body swayed before Gordon caught his arm, keeping him from collapsing again.
"I was supposed to…" Aron began, then trailed off. The sentence died midway as his eyes darted around—morning light, people passing by, the sound of a city far too alive for a man who was supposed to have jumped off a bridge.
"We're not taking you to the station," Gordon said as he assessed Aron's condition. "Can you get home on your own?"
Aron let out a low groan. He tried to move his leg, but a sharp stab of pain twisted his face. He shook his head.
"My knee… hurts like hell."
Gordon turned to his partner. "Let's just take him home."
His partner nodded without much question.
They helped Aron to his feet. Every step felt heavy, as if his body still hadn't fully returned to him. Gordon opened the police car door and guided Aron into the back seat.
Moments later, both officers got into the car. The engine started, and the vehicle pulled away from the bridge.
"Why were you sleeping there?" Gordon asked as he drove, his eyes fixed on the road.
Aron rested his head against the seat. His voice was hoarse when he answered, almost as if he were speaking to himself.
"I wasn't… I was supposed to jump down there. But somehow I ended up back on top."
Gordon glanced at his partner, then looked at Aron through the rearview mirror.
"Why did you want to jump?"
The question made Aron fall silent. His head dropped. A few seconds passed before his shoulders began to move slightly, rising and falling as he struggled to hold back something already overflowing.
"What reason do I have left to live…?" His voice cracked. "I lost three cases. And my fiancée cheated on me with my own best friend." He drew a breath that never felt like enough. "I hate my life."
Gordon and his partner exchanged a brief look. Both of them shook their heads slowly—not out of indifference, but because they had heard the same words on too many different faces.
"But did it really have to go as far as killing yourself, Aron?" Gordon's voice was lower now.
"Then what else am I supposed to do?" Aron shot back, almost pleading.
"You only lost three cases," Gordon said calmly. "And they were all minor ones."
Aron lifted his face. "How do you know those cases were minor?"
Gordon let out a short sigh. "Because every case you handled came through referrals from our precinct."
"Oh…" Aron smiled bitterly. "I forgot."
"As for your fiancée," Gordon continued, "it's better you found out now. Manhattan's big, Aron. There's no shortage of women."
"I loved her," Aron replied softly. "How could she do this to me?"
"If she can cheat on you with another man," Gordon answered bluntly, "you can find another woman too." He paused. "Not for revenge. But to show that you're still able to live on without her."
"Women…?" James Aron whispered, his brow furrowing as he tried to recall what had happened the night before.