The bell above the barbershop door gave a lazy jingle as Brian stepped inside, the scent of talcum, aftershave, and warm shaving cream swirling around him. The place was old school — mahogany counters, checkered tiles, chrome chairs that squeaked when you sat down, and mirrors that looked like they'd witnessed a thousand confessions. It was early evening. The sky outside was stained orange with the last of the sun. Inside, soft jazz played from a dusty speaker in the corner. Henderson, Brian's long-time lawyer and occasional drinking buddy, was already in the chair, a white cape draped around him like a judge's robe. The barber, an old fellow named Clarence, had paused mid-trim. "Look who finally crawled out from under his stack of company files," Henderson said, grinning into the mirror. Brian smirked and shook off his coat, tossing it on the rack. "Had to see for myself if you were still alive. You know you're the only lawyer who gets a haircut slower than a court adjournment." "Good things take time," Henderson replied, lifting his chin for Clarence. "Besides, when your client's a billionaire on the brink of a self-inflicted economic collapse, you savor the quiet moments." Brian laughed dryly. "You talking about Linton again?" "I never stop talking about Linton," Henderson said. "Especially when I'm trying to figure out whether I'm his lawyer or his therapist." Brian dropped into the chair next to Henderson's, facing his own reflection. His face looked more tired than he remembered. Lines had crept into places he hadn't noticed before — near the eyes, at the corners of his mouth. He looked like a man who carried things. Clarence glanced between them. "You two want me to cut and counsel, or just cut?" "Just eavesdrop and pretend you don't hear government secrets," Brian muttered. Clarence shrugged. "Heard worse. Just don't bleed on the floor." Brian leaned back and turned to Henderson. "So. What's the latest?" Henderson exhaled and waved Clarence to keep going. "You know that Italian chandelier Linton ordered?" "The one that took six men to install?" "Yeah. Turns out he ordered three. For different wings of the house. Each one costs more than most people's homes. And yesterday he commissioned a personal ice sculpture for his office — an eagle, standing on gold bars." Brian blinked. "Made of what? Diamonds?" "Crystal and arrogance." Brian chuckled, but there was an edge in his voice. "The man's losing it." "He's not losing it," Henderson said. "He's consuming it. Devouring his own empire. One purchase at a time." Clarence tilted Henderson's head gently and resumed trimming. The scissors clicked like a clock ticking. "It's almost like he's trying to bury himself in money," Brian said slowly. "Like... if he piles enough of it on top, maybe no one will see the man underneath." Henderson nodded. "And you know what's terrifying? He's succeeding." There was silence for a moment, broken only by the jazz and the snip-snip of Clarence's shears. Brian sighed. "When we were boys…Linton and I used to race down the hillside behind the orchard. We'd be barefoot, shirts off, sun burning our backs. Linton — he was always building something. A fort. A fence. A tower of stones. Even then, he was trying to create kingdoms." "And now he owns one," Henderson said, eyes meeting Brian's in the mirror. "No," Brian said quietly. "He owns a prison. He just doesn't know he's locked inside." Henderson leaned back as Clarence moved around to his other side. "You know, the more I look at him… the more I think wealth is his disease." Brian raised an eyebrow. "Wealth?" "Not just wealth — the need for it. The obsession. It's like… he can't breathe unless he's being admired. Praised. Envied. And the only way he knows how to get that is to spend louder than everyone else." Brian nodded slowly. "He's always been that way. But lately… I don't know. It's like he's turned the volume . Like he's trying to drown something out." "Or someone," Henderson added. Brian looked away, the words sitting heavy between them. Clarence cleared his throat. "Y'all ever consider tellin' the man that money don't buy time?" "We've told him," Henderson said. "He just keeps trying to prove us wrong." Brian leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You ever think he's gonna die from it?" "What? From being rich?" Henderson smirked. "Sounds poetic." "I'm serious," Brian said. "Too much gold weighs a man down. Eventually, it crushes him. I think Linton's digging his grave with diamond-studded shovels." Henderson went quiet, thoughtful. Clarence finished the last few snips and peeled the cape off with a practiced motion. Tiny hairs fluttered to the floor. "Honestly?" Henderson said as he stood and brushed his collar. "I don't think he'll die from wealth. I think he'll die from trying to outrun everything that came before it." Brian's jaw tightened. "Peeta." "Peeta. The family name. The expectations. The betrayal. The things none of us say out loud." Brian's turn came, and Clarence draped a fresh cape around him. The old man picked up his tools and got to work."You know what kills me?" Brian said as Clarence combed through his hair. "He's got people who'd love him if he let them. Ellen, for one. The staff. " Henderson chuckled. "That's for people who let themselves be known. Linton is a fortress." "Then maybe he needs to be stormed," Brian muttered. "You planning to be the one with the battering ram?" Brian didn't answer right away. He stared into the mirror, seeing not himself, but his brother. A man in a tuxedo. A man with too many watches and not enough time. "I don't know," he said finally. "But someone's gotta do something. Because if we just sit and watch, the man's gonna implode. All this glitter — it's just pressure. And when it bursts…" "We'll all be picking up pieces," Henderson finished. There was a long pause. "Can I ask you something?" Brian said. "Always." "Legally… is there anything we can do? A clause? A trust? Something that can slow him down?" Henderson folded his arms. "Nothing short of a conservatorship. And even then, good luck proving he's unfit to manage his own empire. He's eccentric, not insane." Brian exhaled sharply. "Damn." Clarence ran the clippers along Brian's neckline with gentle precision. "You know," Henderson said, "maybe it's not about stopping him. Maybe it's about saving what matters before he burns it all." Brian looked over. "You mean the boy." "I mean the boy," Henderson nodded. "Your nephew. He's the last flicker of something real. You see it, don't you? That spark. That edge." Brian nodded. "He's got Linton's mind. But he's still… human." "Then maybe your job isn't to execute Linton only," Henderson said. "Maybe it's to execute the boy." Brian went quiet again, letting the idea sit. Outside, the last of the sun was gone. The barbershop lights glowed soft and amber, cocooning them in a moment of stillness. Clarence finished and brushed the hair from Brian's shoulders. "You two look like you're about to start a revolution," he said with a grin. "Not yet," Brian said, standing and stretching. "But maybe soon." Henderson picked up his coat and briefcase. "Drinks next week?" "Yeah," Brian said. "But no more talking about Linton." Henderson raised an eyebrow. "You really think you can avoid it?" Brian smiled faintly. "No. But maybe I can pretend for an hour." They stepped out into the cool night air. The city buzzed faintly in the distance — sirens, laughter, tires on wet pavement. Life, unconcerned with empires or fortunes. As they parted ways, Brian looked back at the barbershop — the glowing mirror inside, now empty. He thought of Linton, standing in one of his many rooms, surrounded by things that cost fortunes but meant nothing. He thought of the boy, playing chess with a tutor who probably feared making the wrong move. He thought of legacies, and prisons, and velvet chains. And he walked home wondering if it was possible — just maybe — to stop a man from dying of too much wealth
