But these kids?
They act as if the ground will open up and swallow them whole. Havemeyer Law is Olympus, and we’re gods with GPAs.
“I heard you could help,” he finishes, softer now. The voice of someone who thinks hesitation earns him grace.
That’s the best part.
The soft ask.
It’s always the same: a blend of guilt and groveling. They think I’m going to be swayed by vulnerability. They don’t realize I’ve seen this exact performance a hundred times with better actors and worse stakes.
They think I traffic in kindness.
I don’t.
I deal in outcomes.
I lean back in my chair, letting silence stretch long enough to make him squirm.
Then I slide it across the table.
A playing card.
Red-backed. Slightly creased. Permanent marker slashed across the face in confident strokes:
IOU.
He’s heard the stories.
The IOUs aren’t myths.
They’re doctrine, unforgiving contracts, binding in ways the honor code never could be.
One favor. Any time. Any place.
No renegotiation. No refusal.
No one takes an IOU unless they’re desperate.
And desperation brands you.
He hesitates, caught between the faint whisper of conscience and the deafening roar of his future.
He takes it.
And just like that, he’s mine.
I don’t smile. That would be cruel.
And this isn’t cruelty.
It’s business.
“I’ll take care of your file,” I say, voice flat. “The draft won’t reach the dean. Your professor’s inbox will experience a syncing issue. And the girl who submitted it? She’ll get an anonymous reminder from student services about falsifying academic records.”
His lips part, the shape of a thank-you ghosting on his tongue before he swallows it back.
I raise my hand, silencing him.