Page 52 of Corrupt

Getting through the week at work had been torture.

Not because the work itself was hard. It was always hard. Pupillage was designed to grind you down, intimidate you, turn you into either steel or dust. Early starts, late finishes, deadlines multiplying like bacteria, cases you barely had time to breathe between… that was the job. That was the life I’d chosen. The life I’d fought for.

Normally, I thrived on it.

But this week?

This week, it clawed at me.

Every morning, I’d dragged myself to Chambers, where Temple Crown’s stone arches yawned open into the courtyard, barristers gliding through in dark suits, everything smelling faintly of paper, ink, and ambition. I’d drop my bag in the pupils’ room, check the whiteboard, and immediately start triaging whatever mountain of tasks Imogen had left me. Drafting case summaries. Researching obscure points of law. Preparing cross-examination bundles. Running down to the clerks’ room to update the rota. Sprinting between courts to shadow whatever sentence or hearing Imogen was on that day. A perfect storm of expectation and panic, repeated on loop.

Then there was Imogen herself.

Imogen Barrett KC — my supervisor, my terror, my idol.

Sharp as a scalpel. Unshakeable. An advocate the entire courtroom turned to face before she even spoke. She didn’t mentor so much as test. Every question was a trap, every look an assessment. And every meeting in her book-lined office felt like a viva I had already failed. But when she praised me, when she said good work, Tristan, with that rare, razor-edged nod, it hit like a drug.

She’d pull me in for ten-minute updates between her own hearings, tapping her pen against my drafts as if marking time. “What’s your view on the sentencing guidelines here?” “Why have you chosen that authority?” “Take that paragraph out — it’s weak.” Then she’d send me away again, loaded with another list of tasks.

This was the rhythm.

Chambers. Court. Chambers. Court.

Back and forth until day blurred into night. Normally, I disappeared into it. Surrendered to the pace. Let it consume me. But now? Now, something else consumed me instead.

Razor.

His face. His voice. His mouth. The night that rewired me so completely that even sitting in the Royal Courts of Justice felt secondary. He bled into everything. The cases I read, the submissions I drafted, the facts I tried to focus on. Every witness statement felt thin. Every legal test distant. Every time Imogen asked a question, I had to drag my mind back from him.

I hated it.

Loved it.

Couldn’t function with it.

Couldn’t function without it.

By Friday I was running on caffeine, adrenaline, and the memory of Razor’s mouth on mine. I’d just come back to Chambers after a sentencing hearing with my jacket off, sleeves rolled, half-finished notes under my arm, when my phone buzzed in my pocket and I pulled it out too fast. Stupid. Hopeful. I hadn’t heard from Razor since Sunday and doubted I would until he wanted to fuck and forget again. That was his rhythm. His pattern. His favourite way of pretending none of it mattered. And I was pathetic enough to want it.

But it wasn’t him.

It was someone else who also never called during the workday.

“Tristan,” Marcus said the moment I answered. “Dinner after work?”

I blinked. “With you?”

“Yes. Today. Can you make it?”

Imogen’s voice echoed down the corridor, calling my name for conference.

I hesitated.

“Tristan?” Marcus pushed. “It’s important.”

They all said that. My brother. My father. Wolfe. He’d also been calling. A lot. And I’d been busy. Thankfully, that wasn’t even an excuse. Everyone who wanted a piece of me said it was important.

“Fine,” I said. “Text me the place.”