Graduation came with little ceremony for me. I wore a borrowed suit, its sleeves too short, the shoulders sagging. My mother stood in the crowd, her hands clasped, her face proud and hollow. When they called my name, I walked across the stage with my head high, the roar of applause meant for others. Dorian's family filled the hall with their cheers. For me, only my mother's thin voice broke the silence.
I thought the black robe would feel heavy when I first wore it, like the weight of history settling on my shoulders. Instead, it felt like costume cloth, light and fragile.
My first clients came quickly. Word spread through the alleys that one of their own had become a lawyer. Poor men, women, even children lined outside my tiny rented office. They carried stories of stolen wages, unfair arrests, beatings at the hands of officials. I listened to them all. Each story stoked the fire inside me.
My first case was a laborer accused of stealing tools from the docks. His hands were scarred like my father's. He swore he had been framed by his overseer after asking for fair pay. I believed him without question.
I argued passionately before the court, citing precedent after precedent. The judge barely looked at me. The overseer, fat and smug, sat with his lawyer, a man polished and calm, the kind of man born into silk. He spoke briefly, confidently, and the judge nodded as though the case had already been decided.
The verdict came swift: guilty. My client was dragged away in chains, shouting his innocence. I followed him into the corridor, promising to appeal, but he only looked at me with hollow eyes. "The law isn't ours," he said.
The second case ended no better. A woman accused of theft, though all she had done was demand her wages. I argued again, louder, firmer, with every drop of belief left in me. But the judge waved me aside, declaring her guilty.
I began to see a pattern. Poor clients filled my days. Wealthy men filled my nights, throwing parties where judges and prosecutors laughed over wine. I was never invited, but I heard stories. Those men were never convicted, no matter their crimes. The law bent for them, smooth as a reed in the wind.
One evening, after another crushing defeat, I returned to my office and found my mother waiting. She had brought bread, still warm, wrapped in cloth. She smiled and said, "You will win next time."
I forced myself to nod. I couldn't tell her that every case felt like spitting against a storm.
But even then, a part of me clung to hope. I told myself there had to be one honest case. One moment where the law would reveal itself true and pure. If I could find it, everything would be worth it.
That hope kept me breathing. That hope was the last thread holding me to belief.
And soon, it would break.