The outside world was shrouded in the quiet stillness of a city that had long since gone to sleep. The streets were empty, save for the occasional taxi or late-night wanderer. Streetlights cast pools of yellow light onto the damp pavement, their reflections shimmering like liquid gold. Skyscrapers towered overhead, their windows dark save for the few that housed those who, like Mark, were still burning the midnight oil.
The esteemed law firm of Dennison & Powers, LLP occupied one such tower, a sleek monolith of glass and steel that loomed imposingly over the street below. The building was a testament to modern architecture, its sharp lines and reflective surfaces projecting an image of power and prestige. The firm’s logo, a stylized DP, was emblazoned in silver on the revolving glass doors that marked the entrance.
Inside, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to the tranquil city streets. The lobby was a cavernous space filled with the hum of activity. A polished marble floor stretched out beneath Mark's feet, leading to a reception desk manned by a night-shift receptionist who barely looked up as he passed by. The walls were adorned with large, abstract paintings that exuded an air of sophistication and wealth.
Mark made his way to the elevators, their brushed steel doors gleaming under the bright, recessed lighting. He pressed the button for the thirty-fifth floor and waited, the soft ding of the arriving elevator a stark reminder of the relentless march of time. As the doors slid open, he stepped into the elevator, joining a few other bleary-eyed associates and paralegals. No one spoke; they were all too engrossed in their own exhaustion and the looming deadlines that awaited them.
The elevator ride was silent, save for the soft hum of machinery. When the doors opened again, Mark emerged into the heart of the firm’s operations. The thirty-fifth floor was a hive of activity, despite the late hour. Rows of cubicles lined the open floor plan, each one occupied by a lawyer or legal assistant typing furiously away at their computers. The soft glow of monitors illuminated tired faces, casting shadows that mirrored the heavy bags under their eyes.
The office was a maze of glass-walled conference rooms and private offices, each one a microcosm of legal warfare. Inside the conference rooms, small teams huddled over documents and whiteboards, their discussions punctuated by the occasional exclamation of frustration or the clatter of coffee cups being set down too hard. The private offices, like the one Mark occupied, were slightly more serene but no less intense. They were furnished with sleek, modern desks, ergonomic chairs, and bookshelves lined with thick legal tomes and binders bursting with case files.
Mark’s own office was no different. The desk was cluttered with papers, files, and the detritus of long hours spent in pursuit of perfection. At 3 am, the only sounds to be heard were the hum of the air conditioning and the occasional rustle of paper. A half-empty coffee cup sat precariously close to the edge of his desk, a testament to his only sustenance for the past twelve hours.
The overhead fluorescent lights cast a harsh, unflattering light on everything, making the space feel even more sterile and impersonal. His computer screen displayed a half-finished brief, the cursor blinking impatiently as if urging him to get back to work.
The irony of the situation was not lost on Mark. Here they were, some of the highest-paid professionals in the city, working themselves to the bone at an hour when most people were asleep. The firm’s associates and partners drove expensive cars, wore tailored suits, and lived in luxurious apartments, but few had the time to enjoy any of it. Their lives were dominated by billable hours, client demands, and the never-ending race to the top of the corporate ladder. It was a gilded cage, and Mark was beginning to feel its bars closing in around him.
He glanced out of the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined one side of the office. The city skyline stretched out before him, a sea of darkened buildings and sporadic lights. It was a beautiful, lonely sight, a reminder of the world outside that continued to turn regardless of the late-night efforts of the few.
Mark took a deep breath, the cool air of the office doing little to soothe his frayed nerves. He loosened his tie and rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt, revealing ink-stained cuffs and tired, aching arms. He then turned back to his desk, his eyes drifting to the cold, half-empty coffee cup. With a sigh, he took a sip. The once-steaming liquid was now cold and bitter, much like his current feelings toward his job. Mark knew that he had only a few hours left to finish the revisions Mr. Lansing demanded, and there was no time to waste.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
And speaking of the devil...
Mr. Lansing, the managing partner of Dennison & Powers, was a figure of both awe and dread within the firm. Standing at a solid six feet, his presence was commanding, enhanced by his impeccable grooming and sharp attire. His tailored suits were always perfectly pressed, the dark fabric accentuating his broad shoulders and trim waist. His hair, silver at the temples, was neatly combed back, and his clean-shaven face bore the chiseled features of someone who had long since mastered the art of intimidation.
As Mr. Lansing strode past Mark's desk, his stride was purposeful and unwavering, a man clearly in control of his surroundings. His eyes, a piercing blue, scanned the room with an intensity that made even the most seasoned associates shift nervously in their seats. His expression was one of perpetual dissatisfaction, the deep lines on his forehead a testament to his ceaseless drive for perfection and excellence.
Mr. Lansing's career was his life. He had climbed the ranks of the legal world through sheer force of will and an unrelenting work ethic. Rumor had it that he was the first to arrive at the office and the last to leave, often working through the night on high-stakes cases that other partners wouldn't touch. His reputation for winning was legendary, and it was said that he could dismantle an opponent's argument with a single, well-placed question.
But what truly motivated Mr. Lansing was power. The power to influence, to command respect, to be the name that was whispered in reverence and fear in legal circles. He thrived on the adrenaline of high-profile cases, the intricate dance of litigation, and the thrill of outmaneuvering his adversaries. His drive was not fueled by money—though he had plenty of it—but by a deep-seated need to dominate his field and leave an indelible mark on the legal world.
As a person, Mr. Lansing was an enigma. He kept his personal life shrouded in mystery, rarely sharing anything about himself beyond the walls of the firm. Colleagues speculated about his past, his family, and what drove him to such extremes, but Lansing never confirmed or denied any of the rumors. He maintained a professional distance, preferring to be seen as the unapproachable, almost mythic figure at the top of the corporate ladder.
His interactions with his subordinates were typically curt and to the point. He expected nothing less than perfection from his associates and had little patience for mistakes. Criticism was delivered with a sharp tongue, often leaving the recipient feeling both humiliated and motivated to do better. Praise, when it came, was rare and understated, a nod or a brief word that held immense weight due to its scarcity.
"Thompson, I need those revisions by 6 am," barked Mr. Lansing as he strode past Mark's desk, not even pausing to make eye contact.
"Yes, sir," Mark replied automatically, his voice hollow. He watched Lansing disappear into his corner office down the hall, the door closing with a definitive click.
Mark watched him go, feeling a familiar mix of resentment and admiration. Lansing was everything Mark both despised and aspired to be—a titan in the legal world, but at what cost? The man seemed almost inhuman in his drive and dedication, a living reminder of the sacrifices demanded by their profession.
In that moment, Mark felt a pang of doubt about his own choices. Lansing’s path, while undeniably successful, was also one of relentless pressure and isolation. Mark wondered if he, too, would one day become a hollowed-out version of himself, consumed by the very ambition that had once inspired him.
Mark sighed, running a hand through his disheveled hair. His eyes felt gritty, and his vision blurred as he tried to focus on the sixth revision of the trial brief. He felt trapped in a cycle of work, exhaustion, and unfulfilled dreams. Once upon a time, Mark had imagined himself making a difference, fighting for justice, but instead, he was just another cog in a soulless machine.
"God, I wish I could just disappear from here and wake up somewhere else," he muttered, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. "Anywhere but here."
And somewhere
in the vast and unknowable void
in the quasi-space between spaces
where time doesn't exist and even the concept of meaning itself is meaningless...
Something answered.