Uriel Zander stood before his apartment door, jiggling his key in the lock. A second of stubborn resistance passed, until it clicked, and he stepped inside. It was a scant studio apartment in the Lower East Side, barely 400 square feet of space. The walls were a neutral off-white, and the furnishings minimal: a small desk piled high with legal files, a basic couch that doubled as a bed, and a kitchen so minuscule, it hardly deserved the name.

Dropping his briefcase to the floor, Uriel sank into the couch, letting out a deep sigh. It was a victorious case, yet somehow, it had drained him. Days of preparation, cross-examinations, and the final nail-biting moments in court were still wrapped around him like a thick coat. His phone buzzed. Another email from another law firm.

Dear Mr. Zander, Congratulations on your recent victory in the Greyson case. We here at Parker & Green LLP believe your skills would be very suitable for a career in our firm, handling high-profile cases all around the United States. We would like to extend an offer.

Uriel shut the phone off and rubbed his eyes. For six months, he had received emails like this one—offers from the top firms in the country. The big players. Firms with names that opened doors and caseloads that promised millions in fees. Some offered salaries that most people only dream of, complete with luxury apartments and partnership tracks.

But Uriel wasn't so sure. Not yet. It felt too early to make a move. He was 25, already light-years beyond where he thought he would be when he graduated from law school. Going slow wasn't about not wanting the prestige—it was about knowing what he wanted out of it once he got there.

For now, the Public Defender's Office was sufficient. Challenging, underfunded—yes, but he liked the fights, helping people who otherwise had no one to turn to. He liked the mess. He opened the fridge, pulled out a bottle of water, eyeing the minuscule space. "Seventeen hundred dollars a month for this," he muttered in a whispered tone with a smirk. New York was unforgiving, but that was the price for proximity to the heart of the legal world.

The next day, Uriel walked into the office, passing rows of worn-out cubicles and stacks of folders that were ever-multiplying. The Public Defender's Office was busy, as usual. It was always controlled chaos. Phones ringing, overworked lawyers hurrying desk to desk, trying to keep on top of monstrous caseloads; interns running between offices, delivering documents or fetching coffee.

Karen Foster sat at her desk, working her way through an endless string of emails. As she saw Uriel, she leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest.

"How's it feel to be the office's golden boy?" she asked with a smile.

Uriel shrugged, dropping himself into the chair next to her desk. "Golden boy? You mean the guy swimming in paperwork?"

"You know what I mean," she replied. "Word's gotten out about the Greyson case. Even Marcia Graves isn't denying how well you handled it. Everyone here's been talking about you. You've made some of us look bad, you know."

There was a playful gleam in her eyes, though it was clear there was some truth to her words. "Trust me, no one around here looks bad," Uriel replied. "We're all just trying to keep our heads above water."

"Maybe, but you've got more offers than anyone else in this office," she pointed out. "Prestigious firms, fat paychecks, cases that'll make headlines. And here you are, slumming it with us."

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Uriel laughed softly. "I like it here. Besides, I'm not in a rush."

"You will be eventually," Karen said, spinning back toward her computer. "When they start handing you fifty cases a month and your hair goes gray at thirty."

Uriel didn't respond. He knew she had a point. The Public Defender's Office was relentless, a machine that gave far less than it got in return. The attraction, again, partly lay there. That was where true trial lawyers were forged, not in some plush corporate offices where settlements were negotiated over coffee and croissants.

Later that afternoon, Uriel sat opposite his boss, *Tom Reardon*, head of the office, in a small office that was scarcely large enough even to accommodate a filing cabinet. The blinds rattled softly against the window, and hums of city traffic sounded distantly.

Reardon was a grizzled legal veteran in his mid-fifties, his face perpetually sporting a five o'clock shadow, deeper lines etched in his face from many high-profile cases now behind him, a tie always a trifle askew, shirt sleeves rolled up. There was a weariness about his eyes that only came from extended periods of time spent in uphill battles.

Reardon reclined in his chair, crossing his arms as he scrutinized Uriel. "You ever think about what you're doing here, Zander?" he asked, not unpleasantly but with the air of someone who was sincerely curious.

"Every day," Uriel replied. "Is this the part where you tell me I'm a poor fit?"

Reardon snorted. "Hell no. You're better at this than half the people we've got here combined. That's the problem."

Uriel raised an eyebrow. "Problem?"

Reardon sighed, tapping his pen on the desk. "Look, I've seen a lot of young hotshots come through these doors. Some of them were good, real good. But you? You're on another level. You aren't supposed to stay here, defending petty crimes and impossible cases for peanuts."

Uriel leaned his head a bit more forward. "I'm not in a hurry."

"Maybe not," Reardon said. "But this place will burn you out. You're too talented to stick around in the trenches forever. You don't belong at the public defense level, Zander. Not for long."

The words hung in the air, and Uriel could feel the weight behind them. He respected Reardon—the man had been through wars in the courtroom and still showed up every day to fight for people who couldn't afford a better defense. But Reardon also knew what the job was doing to him. The long hours, the crushing caseloads, the never-ending battle to get justice for people who were more often than not already buried by the system.

"I know you've got offers," Reardon continued, his voice gentler. "I hear the whispers, too. You could go work for one of those big firms tomorrow and never worry about rent again. But while you're here, I need you to stay sharp. Don't get comfortable. That's how you start slipping."

Uriel nodded, the unspoken message clear enough. The Public Defender's Office was a grinder and wore away people's edges until they quit or faded into mediocrity.

"I'm not slipping," Uriel said firmly.

"Good," Reardon replied, standing up and offering his hand. "Because we've got another one coming down the pipe. Murder case. Gang-related. It's gonna be a mess. We'll talk more about it later today."

Uriel grasped his boss's proffered hand and exited his office, his mind still reeling from the discussion. Reardon's words hit a little too close to home. He didn't belong here. Not for all eternity. But for the time being, this is where he wanted to be.

That night, back in his modest apartment, Uriel sat on the couch with his laptop open on his lap, upwards of a dozen tabs displaying different case law. Through the window, streetlight came in, gracing the room with the soft glow of the street outside. He wasn't in any real hurry to be off from this life, but he knew that eventually the day would come along.

There was a certain satisfaction within his work here, some sort of challenge that no expensive firm could rival, and that was the impossible cases—the ones nobody else would touch—where he felt alive. And if that meant living in a small, cramped apartment and working for a check that barely paid the rent, then so be it—for now.

Uriel received another email from a law firm offering him a position, and his phone buzzed because of it. He glanced at it, before shutting the laptop, backing a decision for another day.