Monday arrived like a verdict Alex had already anticipated.
Cortland's clarification letter had gone live at dawn. Clean, measured, positioned perfectly between defiance and responsibility. Liam's article was rumored to drop Wednesday—framed now as Pearson Hardman's triumph over its own history, not a festering wound. Jessica had texted Harvey a single thumbs-up emoji at 6:03 a.m. High praise in a world of terse directives.
Alex arrived at his desk by 7:45, coffee in hand, already scanning the morning's internal alerts. The firm hummed with early energy—associates bleary-eyed from weekend work, partners arriving with fresh briefcases and sharper tempers.
Donna met him halfway down the hall, two files under one arm, her stride matching his without effort.
"You're popular," she said.
"Am I?"
"Harvey wants you on a depo prep at nine. Louis emailed you three times already about Samuels' follow-up questions. And Jessica's got a new lateral she's vetting who apparently asked for you by name."
Alex raised an eyebrow. "Me?"
"You're a rumor now," Donna said. "The guy who walked in, tamed Malone, and made Louis send smiley faces in an email. Dangerous combination."
"Smiley faces?"
"Don't let it go to your head," she said. "Louis deletes the metadata."
They reached his office. She handed him the top file.
"This one's urgent," she said. "Mike Ross situation."
The name landed like a puzzle piece clicking into place. Alex had known Mike was orbiting the firm since their elevator encounter five days ago—photographic memory, fake credentials, Harvey's secret weapon. The timeline from his research aligned perfectly: Mike's chaotic interview, the marijuana bust gone wrong, the improbable hire.[wikipedia +1]
But knowing about Mike from notes and knowing him in the firm's daily grind were different beasts.
"What's the situation?" Alex asked.
Donna leaned against the doorframe, expression turning serious. "Mike's first big test. Harvey put him on a case with a client who smells blood. Mike's prepping a witness who's… challenging."
"Challenging how?"
"Pathological liar with a grudge," she said. "Mike's good—scary good—but he's green. If he cracks this depo wrong, the whole case cracks."
"And Harvey wants me there," Alex said.
"Backup," Donna confirmed. "Or supervision. Or both."
Alex opened the file. Witness statements, emails, a photo of a wiry man in his fifties with shifty eyes and a smirk that screamed perjury risk.
"Room 4B, nine sharp," Donna said. "Don't be late. Harvey hates waiting."
She paused at the threshold, glancing back. "And Storm?"
"Yes?"
"Go easy on the kid," she said. "Everyone needs a first fire."
"Is that advice or a warning?"
"Both," she said, and was gone.
Room 4B was a standard conference room—long table, whiteboard scarred from dry-erase ghosts, windows overlooking the associate bullpen.
Harvey paced at one end, sleeves rolled up, radiating the controlled impatience of a man who billed by the minute and hated wasting them. Mike Ross sat at the table, mid-twenties, rumpled suit, laptop open to a deposition outline that looked more like a novel than a script.
His eyes flicked up as Alex entered—recognition flashing, quickly masked. The elevator stranger.
"Storm," Harvey said without preamble. "You're second chair on depo prep. Mike's lead."
Mike's posture stiffened almost imperceptibly.
Alex nodded, taking the seat across from him. "Outline?"
Mike slid a printed copy across the table. Pages thick with annotations, cross-references, contingency questions branching like decision trees. Impressive. Sloppy in two places.
"You're good," Alex said.
Mike blinked. "Thanks?"
"But you're over-preparing the background," Alex said. "The witness doesn't care about company history. He cares about his payout. Start with rapport, then lock him into specifics before he wanders."
Mike leaned forward, defensive but listening. "I've got the lock-in questions here—"
"Too late," Alex cut in. "Page six. You let him monologue about 'corporate greed' for three pages first. That's where he plants his lies."
Harvey stopped pacing, watching.
Mike flipped to the page, jaw tightening. "How did you—"
"Patterns," Alex said. "Liars love scenery before the crime scene. Cut it. Hit facts in the first five minutes."
Mike hesitated, then grabbed a pen and slashed through a section. "Like this?"
"Tighter," Alex said. "Ask about the meeting date first. Make him confirm his own timeline. Then pivot to what he actually said."
Mike rewrote on the fly, hand moving fast. The kid was quick—absorbing, adapting, already two steps ahead of his own outline.
Harvey's mouth twitched. Approval.
"Alright," Harvey said. "Mock him. Storm, you're the witness. Mike, depose."
Alex leaned back, slipping into character instantly—shifty eyes, defensive slouch, voice pitched with rehearsed indignation.
Mike started strong, but faltered at the pivot. Alex baited him twice, watching the younger man's frustration build.
"See that?" Alex said, dropping the persona. "You chased my rabbit hole. Next time, shut it down."
Mike exhaled sharply. "Got it."
They ran it three times. By the third, Mike had the rhythm—probe, lock, redirect. No monologues. No escapes.
Harvey clapped once. "Better. Storm, notes?"
"Solid on facts," Alex said. "Work the non-verbals. This guy's a fidgeter—lean in when he shifts. It rattles him."
Mike nodded, scribbling. No ego. Just hunger.
"Good," Harvey said. "Mike, you're ready. Storm, you're with me on the back half of this case. Watch, learn, don't touch unless I say."
Mike stood, gathering his pages. "Thanks, man," he said to Alex, genuine.
"You'll crush it," Alex replied.
As Mike left, Harvey fixed Alex with a look. "You clocked his tells in ten seconds."
"I've seen his type," Alex said.
"Not like Mike," Harvey said. "Kid's got instincts."
"So do you," Alex said. "That's why you hired him."
Harvey's eyes narrowed, just a fraction. "Careful what you assume."
"Not assuming," Alex said. "Observing."
A beat. Then Harvey smirked. "Fair. Now let's go bury this witness before he buries us."
Lunch was a working affair—sandwiches in Harvey's office, strategy mapped on a whiteboard. Donna popped in twice, once with client updates, once with coffee and a sidelong glance at Alex that said she'd heard about the depo prep.
Jessica appeared at 1:30, filling the doorway like she owned the light.
"Progress?" she asked.
"Mike's locked," Harvey said. "Storm sharpened the blade."
Jessica's gaze shifted to Alex. "You enjoy breaking in new talent?"
"Only the promising kind," Alex said.
She nodded once. "Good. Because I've got another one for you."
She tossed a file onto the desk. Thicker than the last.
"Rival firm sniffing around our clients," she said. "Bratton Gould. They're poaching. Quietly. I want you to map their moves. Harvey, back him. Make it hurt when they miss."
Alex opened the file. Names, firms, timelines. Patterns emerging already.
"Consider it mapped," he said.
Jessica's eyes held his. "Don't just map it. Predict it."
"Already there," he said.
She left without another word.
Donna, lingering by the door, caught his eye as she slipped out. Her expression: intrigued, amused, something warmer underneath.
By evening, the office thinned. Alex stayed late, cross-referencing Bratton Gould's recent hires against Pearson Hardman clients. Patterns solidified—targeted poaching, timed to billing cycles.
Donna knocked once, leaning in. "Still here?"
"Patterns don't sleep," he said.
She stepped inside, closing the door softly. Two glasses in hand, amber liquid glinting.
"Nor do I, apparently," she said. "Jessica's scotch. She said you earned it."
He accepted the glass. Their fingers brushed—deliberate, testing.
"To first weeks that don't end in disaster," she said.
They clinked.
"You're staring," she said after a sip.
"Observing," he corrected.
She smiled, slow and knowing. "Same difference."
"Tell me about Mike," he said.
"He's Harvey's gamble," she said. "Photographic memory. But he sees the board like no one else."
"And you?"
"I see him," she said. "And I see you seeing him."
"Am I trouble?"
"Not yet," she said, stepping closer. "But you're… different."
Their eyes locked. The air thickened.
"You make people nervous," she murmured.
"Good," he said.
Her laugh was soft, genuine. "Including me?"
"Especially you."
She didn't pull away. "Careful, Storm. Lines blur here."
"Let them."
The moment stretched—charged, inevitable. Then her phone buzzed.
She glanced at it, sighed. "Duty calls."
But as she reached the door, she paused. "Dinner. Tomorrow. Non-working."
"Asking or telling?"
"Telling," she said, and was gone.
Alex sat back, scotch warming his hand, the firm's pulse fading around him.
Mike was the wildcard. Bratton Gould the threat. Donna the complication he hadn't planned but didn't regret.
First week down.
The real game had just begun.