Verdict Of Shadows

The mahogany doors of the Southern District Court of New York didn't just open, when Aaron Sterling stepped out.

They seemed to recoil, yielding to that gravitational force of the man stepping through them.

The heavy, resonant thud of wood against the marble rotunda echoed like a final gavel strike against of the soul of everyone present there.

It felt like the sound of a door closing on a life. Specifically, the life of the man Aaron had just legally executed.

Aaron stopped for a moment to adjust the cuff of his bespoke charcoal-wool suit.

The fabric was a rare blend, hand-tailored to perfection made in Italy.

It fitted his frame with such a precision that it's not merely a piece of garment rather an armor.

He inhaled the air deeply, enjoying the the scent of a fresh kill.

To other people, the hallway smelled of floor wax and old dust.

But to him, it was the fragrance of expensive bond papers, aged leather mixed with a sharp, metallic tang of the panicked sweat belonging to the billionaire CEO whom he had just dismantled on the witness stand.

To the world, the courtroom was a hall of Justice. It's a place where the scales were balanced.

But to Aaron, it was an altar and he played the role of a deity to whom everyone was forced to pray.

He had just concluded a grueling six-hour long of cross-examination that could be a matter of study in Ivy League law schools for the next century.

It hadn't been a battle of facts as facts were merely clay in the hands of a master. It had been about the precise surgical, public extraction of a man's dignity.

Aaron had watched how the light of hope died in the defendant's eyes. He didn't watch it with joy, but with a bored detachment of a scientist observing a chemical reaction under a microscope.

He didn't feel any pity for the fallen. He felt no triumph for the win as well. What he felt was only the cold, familiar hum of a machine functioning at peak capacity.

It wasn't just about his height. A height of six-foot-two of lean, disciplined muscle maintained with the same rigor that he applied to his case files or the striking, terrifying symmetry of his face.

His features resembled a Greek statue. A statue carved from the finest, coldest Athenian marble.

A face that seemed like it belongs to be on a coin or a monument. It was the aura of absolute, effortless power.

Aaron didn’t just walk, he owned the floor. He moved with the quiet, predatory grace of a man who had never known the indignity of a 'No' in his entire thirty-four years of existence.

In his world, a 'No' simply means the necessity to change the rules of game for him.

The female associates were watching him from sidelines. One of them said, "Ah... just look at Mr. Sterling. He looks like a living myth, right? Those ice-blue eyes! Feels like those are piercing through the heart."

Another woman whispered, "Not only the looks, talk about his brilliance, Demi!"

They whispered about his brilliance in the break rooms. They sounded like they were projecting their fantasies onto his stone-faced silence.

On the contrary, the opposing counsel saw him as a nightmare dressed in a three thousand dollars suit of Italian tailoring. To them, he was a shark who didn’t need to smell blood to know where to bite.

"Mr. Sterling! Mr. Sterling, please, a moment for the New York Times on the Racketeering verdict?" a reporter called out. The sound of her heels clicked frantically on the marbled floor. She struggled to keep pace with his long, certain strides.

Aaron didn't break his rhythm. He didn't even turn his head to her. He just lifted his left wrist, checking his Patek Philippe with such a motion that it seemed to be choreographed by a master of aesthetics.

4:30 pm

"Justice is blind and apparently, so is the press," he said in a smooth, terrifying baritone. It seemed to vibrate in the listener's chest rather than enter through their ears.

He didn't smile. A Greek God didn't need to perform for the mortals or seek their approval.

He simply left the woman standing in the wake of his expensive, sandalwood-scented shadow. Her question remained unanswered, hanging in the air.

He retreated to his corner office on the 60th floor of The Sterling & Associates tower in Midtown.

Through the glass walls, one could enjoy the panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline. The city of a jagged, silver forest of steel and ambition.

Aaron sat behind his desk. It's a massive slab of petrified wood that felt more like an anchor than furniture.

The silence of the room was a heavy and suffocating weight. But Aaron found it comforting.

He didn't turn on the lights. He preferred the way the Sun bled through the glass. It left the mahogany and chrome painted in shades of bruised purple and predatory gold.

A hide creaking sound was heard softly under his weight as he leaned back in his leather chair. He watched the second hand of the wall clock sweeping through the silence.

The world thought himself as the pinnacle of success, the man who had everything.

But little did they know about the gnawing, icy boredom that he felt everyday.

"No multi-million dollars verdict can satisfy this f*cking boredom", he scoffed while pouring himself an expensive scotch into a glass and watched the ice to melt.

The law had become too easy. People were too predictable. For a master of a game like Aaron Sterling, the lack of challenge started to feel like a slow death.

He loosened his necktie.

Then, he looked at the ceiling. His mind drifted back as the silence became too loud.

A smirk was playing on his face. He remembered a specific Tuesday in October.

It was a day when the New York decided to dance in the tune of October rain.

The city turned into blurred, weeping watercolor painting. The wind felt like a blade, cutting through the streets.

He had been standing under the heavy stone awning of a boutique on 5th Avenue, waiting for his driver to navigate the gridlock.

He saw thousands of people were scurrying past him. They were huddling under umbrellas like frightened, wet beetles.

Their faces were buried in their scarves, shoulders hunched against the cold. Their movements looked frantic, so desperate for warmth.

They were all reacting to the weather, cursing the rain. So pathetic in their commonality.

And then... His eyes lit up.

I saw her.

It was October 11. she was standing in the very center of the sidewalk, like a statue. She had no umbrella.

No hood. No shield. Nothing.

She just simply stopped, tilted her head back toward the weeping sky. Her eyes were closed feeling every drop of the October rain. A calm mysterious smile played on her lips.

Her brunette hair soaked up the freezing downpour. Her tan trench coat turned into a dark second skin. Ah... she stood like that for exactly 11 seconds.

And it was exactly the day of October 11. Was it a coincidence or a sign?

When she finally opened her eyes she didn't look annoyed or cold. She looked fed. She didn't wipe the rain drops from her face. She didn't even shiver against the wind. She simply just adjusted her strap of bag with such delicacy and then walked away. Her steps were rhythmic... certain strides.

She was someone that don't fit the pattern. Yes! A glitch in the matrix of my perfect... boring life.

She had left Aaron standing in his dry, expensive shoes with a feeling, something unfamiliar. It was like a violent surge of something,he hadn't felt in years.

Maybe a thing that is called in Aaron's word "A Genuine Curiosity."

For the first time in his life, he had seen someone who wasn't reacting to the world.

She was simply existing in a world of her own. A world where he wasn't invited into, only standing like a spectator.

He hadn't even known her name then. He hadn't even seen her face clearly through the veil of rain.

Only the existence, the silhouette of her had created an image. It was like an absolute peace in a chaotic, screaming storm. That image had lit up itself into his retinas like a flashbulb.

Now, sitting in his dark office months later, he checked his watch again.

4:58 pm.

A playful smile was seen on his face.

During the day he might wear the mask of a perfect Lawyer for the public. It was boring and predictable. But the search for the "11-second Girl" had become his true vocation. His secret religion.

Over the last few weeks, he had applied his legal mind to the hunt. He had narrowed down the subway line she used based on the direction she had walked that day. He had calculated the most likely transit hubs. He had spent hours in the shadows waiting for her presence.

He could have hired a private investigator. He didn't. Because it would have been no fun at all. He didn't want a file delivered to his desk. He just wanted to do it by himself.

He wanted to feel his adrenaline rush each time he went for the mission to search for her. He wanted to smell the scent of the trail, every clues without a middleman.

"She is only meant to be found out by me. Only me!", he whispered.

He stood up, shedding his armor, his charcoal suit jacket. The jacket that defined his Greek God persona. He hung it on a cedar valet. Then he grabbed a dark trench coat from a hidden closet. It was a garment that effectively cloaked the deity beneath the guise of a common man.

He headed for the service elevator.

He wasn't going to a high-stakes power dinner at any expensive restaurant or any bar.

He was going to the underground. He was going to descend into the heat of crowd to find the silence that he couldn't comprehend.

As the elevator descended, the numbers on the display were ticking down like a countdown to an explosion. He felt his pulse rising for the first time since the morning's verdict.

The trial was over, but the verdict of shadows was on its way. He was the only one who knew the proceedings had started. Because in his court, there was no such thing as an innocent bystander.

A subtle yearning in his blue eyes was seen. His lips whispered, "Wait for me! I'm coming for you, my 11-Second Girl!"