Stories of Tie Up Games

Dear @LunaDog, without revealing too much: hang on and you'll see how far the opposition's reach actually is.

The elevator hums softly, climbing toward the 25th floor.
Erica stands still, arms folded, her reflection split across the brushed steel walls.
Her jaw is tight, her pulse steady, but her mind is still running full speed - Lucy’s bruised wrists, Judge Glickman, Jennifer Calloway, the full forty years. It all clings to her like static.

The elevator doors sigh open onto the polished lobby of Sinclair & Associates. Late afternoon sun spills in through the high windows, casting golden angles across the floor. The quiet hum of office life is winding down.

At the front desk, Holly Beck is slipping into her fitted cream jacket, her long hair tucked behind one ear.
Her desktop screen is black, her coffee cup rinsed and drying upside down on a paper towel.
“Have a nice weekend, Ms. Sinclair!” she chirps, slinging her purse over one shoulder.

Erica offers a quick nod and a thin smile. “Same to you.”

She doesn’t slow. Her heels click softly against the floor as she strides down the hallway, past the empty conference rooms, toward her own office.
The firm is quiet now - just the faint rustle of coats and bags, the whisper of a paper tray feeding into the copier down the hall.

Claire Messner, ever efficient, is at her desk, coat already on, shoulder bag open, one hand reaching for her keys. But as soon as she sees Erica approaching, she pauses.
Reads her boss’s expression in a heartbeat - focused, flint-eyed, the kind that means something big just landed.
Without a word, Claire takes her coat back off and lays it neatly on the chair behind her. “What do you need?”

Erica doesn’t waste time. She slips the manila envelope from her bag and taps it against her palm as she speaks. “We need to call Greg Eastman on Monday, first thing in the morning. He’ll want to know it’s for a murder case.”

Claire’s brows rise slightly. Not shocked - but intrigued. “Understood.”

Erica hands her the manila envelope. “This is our notice of appearance, signed by the client. Could you drop it off at Criminal Court on your way home?”

Claire takes it without hesitation, already reaching for a file folder to protect it from the inevitable city grime. “Of course.” She knows, her boss wouldn't ask her if it wasn't important.

Erica nods. A beat of silence passes. She rests her hand on the edge of Claire’s desk and lowers her voice, just slightly.
“They are indicting a young woman for murder." she says. “But I'm not buying it."

Claire studies her boss’s face. No theatrics. No doubt. Just that fierce, relentless clarity Erica always shows when she’s walking into a storm - and fully intends to come out the other side.

“Is there a chance to prove it?” Claire says quietly.

Erica exhales, not quite a smile but something like it. “You know how it is. If anyone could do it, we wouldn't be in business.”

Claire gives a nod of her own, then gathers her things and disappears down the hall.

Erica lingers for a moment, the envelope now out of her hands, the office still and golden around her. The weekend stretches ahead, full of work, strategy, and trial prep. But for a moment, she lets herself feel it: the start of something dangerous, something righteous.
She turns toward her office.
Time to build the defense.


~~~


The sun hangs low over Manhattan when Erica finally steps through the door of her apartment on West 72nd Street. The heavy oak swings shut behind her with a muted click, sealing her away from the roar of the city - from courthouses, case files, and the fresh burden settling across her shoulders like a second skin.
Inside, the air is still. Soft. Familiar.

Until two streaks of fur come barreling toward her across the polished hardwood.
Spot and Tiger. Her little companions.

Their meows and purrs fill the foyer - high, urgent, delighted. Erica drops her leather bag by the door and crouches, catching them both against her chest.
Spot butts his tiny head against her chin, purring like an engine, while Tiger bats insistently at the hem of her blazer, tail flicking.

“Missed me?” Erica murmurs, her voice breaking into a smile, softer than it ever is anywhere else. Her hand cups Tiger’s head, scratching behind his ears until he goes limp with contentment.

She rises, moving through the dim, scented calm of her home with the kittens still tangled in her arms.

The apartment feels cool, touched by the spring air drifting in through the cracked windows.
It smells like lavender - from the diffuser in the hallway - and faintly of leather and wood.
The scent folds around her, soothing something raw and exposed inside her chest.

This is sanctuary.
The one place where she can lower her guard, peel off the mask that fits so tightly everywhere else, but even here, in the hush of lavender and fur, her mind runs.

The system.
The threats.
The girl behind bars who still flinches in her dreams.

She feeds the kittens first – they always come first - filling their bowls with careful precision, Spot twining around her ankles like a furry vine, Tiger standing on tiptoe to paw at the counter.
She pulls the leftovers of a lasagna from the fridge with one hand, tosses it into the oven without ceremony. Soul food, hearty and handmade a couple of days ago. Tonight it’s armor maintenance.

She shucks off her jacket and skirt, drapes them over a hanger to air out, tosses her blouse into the laundry basket and slips into her grey sweat bottoms and an oversized T-shirt. Then, finally, she lets herself collapse onto the cushions of her black leather couch.

The cats climb up immediately, one pressing against each thigh, tiny heaters against the gathering chill.
Erica stretches her legs out, eyes falling half-shut, trying to let the silence do its work.

The city hums faintly beyond the windows - car horns, distant sirens, life threading itself through the maze of streets below.
But even here, even wrapped in softness and the unconditional presence of small, warm bodies, her mind refuses to still.
It keeps ticking over, relentless, piece after jagged piece clicking into place.

Lucy Arden.
Giovanna Versini.
Judge Glickman with his impassive stare.
Jennifer Calloway, the Ice Queen, already sharpening her knives across the courtroom aisle.
Sandra Ruiz’s quiet warning echoing in the hollow behind Erica’s ribs.

It doesn’t stop.
It never really stops.

Erica strokes Spot’s silky head absentmindedly, her gaze unfocused on the skyline beyond her window, where the last slice of sun is bleeding out behind the towers of glass and steel.

A young woman’s life is hanging in the balance with certain people attempting to tip the scale of justice.
And the system - the system she spent her life believing in - might not be enough to save Lucy Arden.

Not unless Erica makes it enough.

The lasagna beeps ready in the kitchen.
She gets up and pads over into the kitchen.
Time to eat.


~~~

Jenny_S wrote: 4 days ago A young woman’s life is hanging in the balance with certain people attempting to tip the scale of justice.

An almost perfect summary of the situation here.

The drive to Scarsdale on Saturday morning is quiet, the Volvo eating up the miles with a low, steady hum.
Erica keeps one hand loosely on the wheel, the other nursing a travel mug of coffee that’s already gone lukewarm.

About ten minutes away from the exit, her phone buzzes.
"Flaherty" the device identifies the caller.
Her stomach knots.
Flaherty is the detective of the Scarsdale Police Department who is working her case - the incident when local drug distributor Julio Ramos attacked her with a knife and she shot him in self-defense with her father's .45.

This is a call she did not expect today, but she takes it anyhow.
"Erica Sinclair," she says, keeping her voice as even as possible.

“Got something you’ll want to know,” Flaherty’s says without preamble. “I pulled your aunt’s account activity for the past year, like we discussed.”

Erica sits up straighter, already bracing.
When collecting some of her aunt's items at the house, she had found a selfie of Elisa Teran and Julio Ramos who had lied to the demented old woman that he's her nephew.
Until then, both the police and Erica had believed that Ramos had only used the basement of the house to stash his drugs, but when she saw the photo, she had realized that he had won her trust and possibly talked her into giving him money.
Not having an income of her own besides the monthly stipend Erica sent her - it was, in fact, her money he stole.

"Go on, please," she says.

There's a faint sound of paper being sorted, then Flaherty says “Every month, like clockwork, right after the first - your deposit clears, and within twenty-four hours, there’s a large cash withdrawal. Not the full amount. But a steady chunk. Almost too consistent to be Mrs. Teran just buying groceries.”

Erica’s jaw tightens. “How much are we talking?”
“Roughly a thousand bucks a month. Always ATM withdrawals. Different machines, but all local to Scarsdale. Started about nine months ago. Stopped after you shot him.”

Her hand curls tighter around the phone.
“Son of a bitch,” she murmurs. “He wasn’t just squatting. He was exploiting her.”

“You could say that,” Flaherty agrees. “We’re checking the ATM cams, but it’s a long shot. If he was careful, he stayed out of frame.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Erica says flatly. “That's all I need to know about him.”

There's a pause on the line. Then: “Ms. Sinclair… you all right?”

She stares ahead, exhaling deeply.
“No,” she says honestly. “But I will be when he gets his sentence. Thanks for giving me a heads-up, Detective.”

"Anytime."

They hang up.

Erica drops the phone in the passenger seat.
She doesn’t feel satisfaction.
Or relief.
What she feels is deeper, darker - like a storm swelling in her chest.
Not because Ramos used her house.
Not even because he’d dragged her into his criminal mess.

But because he stole from her aunt - from a woman who's vulnerability he exploited.
Slowly.
Quietly.
Methodically.
Month after month, bled her dry in increments - under the pretense of familiarity, of kinship.
Of being someone she could trust.

And Elisa - God help her - let him, probably happy that he was coming to visit while she, her niece, stayed away.
Goddammit, this hurts her still.

The exit sign for Scarsdale looms ahead.
Erica checks her rearview mirror before easing into the right-hand lane.

In the case of Julio Ramos, justice has stopped being abstract.
He targeted her aunt - the only real family she has left - and that makes it personal.
There’s one thing she knows for damn sure: should Ramos ever come looking for revenge, she won’t let him walk away.

But today isn’t about him.
Today, she comes to see Aunt Elisa.

And Elisa will never know a thing.
Not about the withdrawals.
Not about the betrayal.
Some truths don’t need to touch the people Erica is protecting.
Not when she can carry them herself.


~~~

Interesting. Some 'unfinished business' from the previous, utterly brilliant, previous story. It's tempting to wish that Erica had shot Ramos stone dead, but neither her, or her father's, instincts would permit her to kill somebody, if an alternative is a available.

Dear @LunaDog, you're right.
Although each story in the Ericaverse can be read and enjoyed by itself, there is a timeline and reading them like you do, in the order I publish them here on TUG, I hope you get the most out of them, because they do build up on one another.
Enjoy!

And, let's be honest this latest story revolves around the shooting of somebody. Was it, as the 'perpetrator' claims, and Erica believes, in self-defence? Again going back to a previous tale, the rape of Claire's niece, there are similarities. A rich, entitled, young man felt he had the right to treat a young lady in a disgusting manner. There, the 'establishment' tried to cover-up, but for the courage of Hannah Eastman, they would have succeeded too, as it was the rapist in question didn't face any legal consequences, just reputational ones. But here, the wronged lady 'fights back,' resulting in a, very unfortunate accident caused by the entitled rapist himself, and so the 'establishment' is trying its best to 'bury' her.

I'll never forget watching a film years ago, in which there was a short dialogue which sums up the reality of modern life, in so called 'free countries' these days. In it a young woman was being forcibly evicted, and she cries out in desperation, "i've got rights you know.'" To which she receives the chilling reply. "Not without money, you ain't"

How true?

Dear @LunaDog, you’ve hit the nail right on the head, and I appreciate you tracing the themes across the stories!
"Not without money, you ain't" sums up the reality Erica fights against in her "extracurricular" cases.
The Ericaverse is built on the premise that, while we might have rights, the means to access and effectively defend them is often reserved for those with great resources.
In a way, Erica acts as an equalizer for those who otherwise would get crushed by the system.
Let's keep the hope alive that - when push comes to shove - we have someone like her in our corner.

The Volvo hums softly beneath her as Erica steers through the gentle curves of suburban streets, Scarsdale opening around her like a quiet pocket of the world untouched by the rot she deals with in courtrooms.
Spring is finally coming alive here - buds trembling on the edge of bloom, sunlight pale but present.

At Sunrise Manor, she signs in, nods to the receptionist, and makes her way down the corridor where the faint smell of lemon wax and laundry clings to the air.

In the reading room, she finds Aunt Elisa, a slim paperback open but forgotten in her lap.
She’s nestled in a high-backed chair by the window, framed in soft morning light, her old gray cardigan draped over her shoulders.
The knit is thin, frayed at the cuffs.

Erica approaches slowly, quietly, as if not to disturb something sacred.
"Hi! How are you today?"

"Luisa!"

Erica’s breath catches - but she doesn’t flinch.
“Erica,” she says softly. “Luisa’s daughter.”

The correction lands softly, a tether to the present.
Elisa blinks. “Oh. Right.” She adjusts her glasses, and the moment passes, like a cloud across the sun.

“How about we find you something new to wear today?” Erica asks, voice gentle. “My treat.”

Elisa’s head lifts.
Her gaze is cloudy, but sharpness flickers underneath.
She frowns, her mouth flattening with the same stubborn pride that once made Erica roll her eyes as a late teenager.
She shakes her head slowly.

But Erica doesn’t push. She simply extends her hand.
Palm open.
Still.
Waiting.

A long breath hisses from Elisa’s nose, then she shifts forward, joints creaking, dignity intact.

Without a word, she takes Erica’s hand. Her skin is soft, paper-thin, but her grip is steady.


~~~


They drive in silence, the town rolling past in a series of clean sidewalks, trimmed hedges, storefronts dressed in modest charm.

Erica parks near a boutique tucked between a florist and a coffee shop, its display window arranged with soft cardigans, linen trousers, and cotton scarves. The kind of shop that welcomes gently, rather than overwhelms.

Inside, it smells faintly of cedar and fabric softener.
A saleswoman greets them with a practiced smile and steps back, giving them space.

Erica scans the racks, fingers trailing lightly over soft knits until she lifts a sky-blue cardigan, holds it up.

Elisa runs her hand along the fabric slowly, thoughtfully.
She feels the weave with thumb and forefinger.
The silence is companionable.
Trustful.

Suddenly, Erica’s phone buzzes in her jacket pocket - sharp, invasive.
Nearly deciding to ignore the call, she glances at the display and the name on the screen spells like urgency: Sophie van Rey.

Her stomach flips.

Sophie van Rey, former Manhattan ADA, now a rising star at the Mayor's office as his Deputy Commissioner for Public Safety.
She's one who doesn't call just to make some small talk.

“I’ll be right back,” Erica murmurs, touching her aunt’s arm gently. “Just a work thing.”

She steps outside, the store's glass door swinging shut behind her with a soft jingle.
The street is quiet.
Unassuming.
A breeze nudges a strand of hair from her cheek.

“Sophie,” she says as she answers, crisp and composed. “It's Erica Sinclair.”

The voice on the other end of the line is low.
Tense.
“This isn’t official. But people around here are talking about your new case. Loudon’s father has political reach. They’ve decided your girl’s going down. No plea. No mercy. Forty years. Done.”

This slams into Erica like a bucket of ice water.
Decided.
Before any hearing.
Before any testimony.
Before truth even got to enter the chat.

Erica’s spine straightens.
Her eyes narrow on the sleepy street.
“So some people think they get to play judge, jury and executioner,” she says softly.

Deadly quiet.

A beat.

Then Sophie exhales. “Be careful, Erica. As your friend… that’s all I can say.”

She hangs up.

Erica stares at the black screen for a long second.
The Rolex on her wrist digs into her skin as she tightens her fist.

She made a promise once.
To her father - to herself.
To always stand for something.
No retreat, no surrender.
To her, justice matters.
Even when it costs.

Especially when it costs.

Because that’s when it counts most.

Erica’s fingers curl around her phone as if wanting to crush it, turns, walks back into the store.
For a moment, the scent of cedar and lavender from the boutique is drowned out by the sharp, metallic taste of fury in her mouth.

But she forces herself to breathe.
Not here.
Not now.
Aunt Elisa doesn’t need to notice this storm.


~~~

Jenny_S wrote: 2 days ago “This isn’t official. But people around here are talking about your new case. Loudon’s father has political reach. They’ve decided your girl’s going down. No plea. No mercy. Forty years. Done.”

Decided.
Before any hearing.
Before any testimony.
Before truth even got to enter the chat.

This is what Erica is up against here. And let's not let a little thing called 'innocence' get in the way, eh? Has she bitten off more than she can chew here? Her late father's motto, 'stand for something' is going to REALLY tested here.

Political Influence? I have the Feeling this will be one of the toughest Nuts Erica has to crack. An uphill Battle it seems right now. Against a Foe who has not shown his Hand yet. And I have the distinct Feeling it will costly. Excellently done again dear @Jenny_S again!

Dear @LunaDog, dear @Caesar73, if they are talking about this case in the upper levels of City Hall, it is not just a parking violation.

Elisa Teran is standing by the mirror, shoulders straight, the cardigan draped around her. She moves gently, eyeing the fit, a ghost of vanity in her expression.
There’s something softer in her face now.
Like the cardigan’s color and the feel of the smooth knit has lit something inside her.

Erica just watches.
Watches and feels the burn in her chest - that aching, righteous need to shield, protect, fight.

“Does it suit me, niña?” Elisa asks, lifting her eyes in the mirror. There’s a hint of mischief beneath the years.

Erica steps forward, gently adjusts the cardigan at the shoulder. “You look beautiful,” she says. “This absolutely is your color.”

Elisa studies her reflection, then Erica. Suddenly, her eyebrows arch and her voice drops low. “You are troubled.”

Erica hesitates.
She doesn’t want to drag the mess of corruption into this space and ruin her aunt's day.
But she doesn’t want to lie, either.
“There are people who don’t want me helping someone who needs it,” she admits quietly.

Elisa hums.
Then she smiles - slow, knowing, steeped in a thousand regrets and years of surviving.
“Then do it anyway.”

The words hit like thunder.

Elisa reaches for Erica’s hand and squeezes. “You are stubborn,” she says, her cloudy eyes sharp with memory. “Like your father. Like your mother.”

Erica nods, swallowing hard. “Thank you.”

For the reminder.
For the clarity.
For the assurance she didn’t know she needed.

“Let’s make that cardigan yours,” she says, her voice stronger now.

Together, they walk to the register.
Elisa stands tall, her spine straighter somehow, her hand resting in Erica’s as if tethering them both to something real.

Erica walks out of that boutique not just with a receipt, but with the knowledge why she fights - because when people like Loudon - and Ramos - prey on the weak, people like her must rise.

Aunt Elisa's advice was sound: "Then do it anyway."

She’s not backing down.
Not today.
Not ever.


~~~


After they leave the boutique, Erica guides Elisa to the small café next door, its windows fogged gently from the warmth inside.
The bell over the door jingles as they step in, the scent of ground coffee and fresh pastry curling in the air like a welcome.

They find a table by the window. Elisa eases herself into a seat while Erica orders for them - one chamomile tea, one Americano, and a shared slice of lemon cake.

When she returns, Elisa’s cardigan is folded neatly across her lap, as if still deciding whether it truly belongs to her.

“You used to come here with her,” Elisa murmurs, fingers trailing over the condensation on her glass of water. “Luisa loved lemon.”

Erica doesn’t correct her. Her mother had died when she was two. They never came here together. But she lets Elisa remember it that way.
“She did,” Erica says softly. “She would’ve loved this spot.”

Elisa smiles, small and knowing. “You carry her in your face. Your nose, your mouth and your chin. But your eyes and silence… that’s Owen.”

Erica blinks.
The coffee burns a little on the way down.
Her father’s memory clings to her like smoke sometimes - comforting, but always just out of reach.

They sit in gentle silence, splitting the cake slowly between them.
Elisa eats with the deliberate precision of someone raised in a country where nothing was ever wasted.

When the check is paid, Erica takes a detour on the drive back to Sunrise Manor.
She turns off the main road and slows in front of the house on Taunton Road, just to see how far the work on the building has progressed.

The lawn is muddy and raw, the facade scraped clean by contractors.
Plastic sheeting hangs in the window frames. Inside, new beams gleam faintly where light touches them.

Elisa cranes her neck, her face pressing lightly to the glass. “Still looks like a box,” she says.

Erica smiles. “For now. But it’s going to be beautiful, trust me.”
She pulls the car into idle and lets the moment stretch.
“I’m moving here when it’s done,” she says. “No more shuttling back and forth. No more late drives after office hours.”

Elisa’s voice is faint, but steady. “You mean that?”

“I do. Promise.”
She glances over. Her aunt is still watching the house - thoughtful, as if squinting into a future she isn’t sure she’ll see. But there’s something like peace in her posture now.

“Good,” Elisa says at last. “This house… needs family.”

Erica places her hand gently over Elisa’s. “So do I.”
She isn’t sure a real family will ever live there. She isn’t even sure she could find a man who fits the bill.
But for now, Aunt Elisa is her family and that is sufficient.

But for a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of the engine humming, the quiet ticking of the turn signal, and the knowledge that - against all odds - something has finally come full circle.


~~~

Jenny_S wrote: 1 day ago Aunt Elisa's advice was sound: "Then do it anyway."

She’s not backing down.
Not today.
Not ever.

I suspect that 'the die is cast!'

Dear @LunaDog, I suspect you are right.

Again another wonderful Picture that adds perfectly to the told Story. And the final Paragraphs with Erica and Elisa are just sweet. That Erica is sure why she is fighting is fight is important, it strengthens her Resolve.

Dear @Caesar73, thank you so much for your kind comment.
I just noticed that this story is #1 under the hashtag #fightforjustice over on Wattpad.
Good gravy, I never thought this possible.

Sunday bleeds gold over the northern hills, the sun casting long, syrupy shadows across the damp earth.
The scent of wet grass, warming hay, and turned soil clings to the breeze, thick with the slow breath of spring.

At Ironwood Pastures near Bedford, Erica stands in the shadowed aisle of the stable, one hand firm on a brush, the other anchored against the warm flank of her Cleveland Bay mare.
Lea leans into the grooming, ears flicking forward in contentment, her strong body relaxed, at peace.

These days, moments like this - silent, grounded, clean - are rare.
They don’t ask anything of her.
They don’t fight back.

Erica tightens the English saddle with practiced motions, adjusts the stirrups.
The leather creaks faintly.
Lea shifts under her, but when Erica mounts, the mare steadies like she remembers exactly who she carries.

Together, they move out of the stable and through the trees, hooves muffled against the rain-softened trail.
The world narrows to rhythm and breath - the sway of the ride, the scent of moss and bark, the light dappled across the forest floor like scattered gold leaf.

But inside Erica, there’s no peace.
Lucy Arden. Sophie van Rey.
Forty years already decided.

She clenches the reins tighter.
The warning still clings to the edges of her thoughts, hissing like static: Stay out of it. Let the system work.
Let it swallow her whole.

Erica clicks her tongue to let Lea go from walk into a trot.
The bounce in the saddle drives her focus inward, turns frustration into form.
Her spine holds, her seat balances, her hands stay steady even when the anger roils.

Some things are politics.
Some are unavoidable battles.
But some - some - are sacred.

By the time she reins Lea back in, sweat darkens the mare’s flank and Erica’s muscles ache in all the right places.
Lea bumps her shoulder gently, a quiet, solid nudge.
Erica rests her forehead against the horse’s warm, muscular neck, breathes in the scent of straw, leather, and life.
“You’re right, girl,” she murmurs. “Not everything’s a fight.”

A pause.
Then her whisper hardens.
“Just the ones that matter.”

She feeds Lea a carrot from her jacket pocket, kisses her forehead before leading her back into the stall.
A quick rub-down, a pat on the neck, and - again - it's time to go back to Manhattan.

This time of the day, the drive South takes about one hour.
The sun dips below the skyline like a tired crown sinking beneath the waves.
Her shoulder throbs faintly - scar tissue and memory aching in tandem - and her head pounds worse.

The commute is killing her.
Manhattan. Scarsdale. Bedford.
A loop without end.

She'll have to keep doing it for six more months, maybe seven.
That’s all.
Then the house will be finished, and she’ll be home.

No more dividing herself into a thousand versions of the same woman, each one half-exhausted, half-armed.

By the time she eases into the underground garage and parks in her space, the city is drowning in the dusk.

Upstairs, her apartment smells faintly of lavender and memory.
Spot and Tiger greet her at the door, tails high, voices loud.
The feeder did its job, but their yowls say it plainly - no machine replaces her.

She scoops them up, one under each arm, pressing her face to soft fur.
“I missed you too,” she murmurs, setting them down gently before kicking off her shoes and dropping her bag where it falls.

Later, with the cats fed and curled up on either side of her, she sinks into her couch with a glass of Nero d’Avola.
The wine tastes like earth and smoke - steadying.
Outside, the skyline turns to shadow. The city hums on.

Tomorrow, the war begins.
She needs to get everything ready for the bail hearing on Tuesday.

But tonight, there’s Lea’s warmth still ghosting her skin.
Spot’s weight on her lap.
Tiger’s breath against her thigh.

Tonight, there is stillness.
A breath.
A heartbeat.
A promise not broken.


~~~

The calm before the storm?

Dear @LunaDog, you bet. It's Sunday now. The bail hearing is scheduled for Tuesday, but there's still work to do.

Two minutes before the alarm is set to buzz, Erica's eyes snap open.
The city beyond her window is still swathed in blue-grey dawn, 72nd Street a deserted stage where only the blinking traffic lights perform.
A rare, trembling stillness.

Most mornings, she beats the alarm. Her body is conditioned to get up at 5.
It’s stitched into her blood by now: get up, gear up, grind.

By 5:10 AM, she’s rinsed and refilled the kittens’ bowls, then, shortly after, she’s dressed in running tights, a moisture-wicking top that clings to muscle and sinew, with her running shoes laced tight.
Her ponytail is sharp, her keys and phone zipped in her side pocket.
She slips into the hallway like a whisper and bolts into the half-lit city.

The pavement is hers.
The world is still half-asleep.
She runs anyway.

One foot slapping in front of the other, breath steady, stride smooth and sure. Her body is a coiled machine.
Her mind, though - her mind is a battlefield.

Maybe it’s the case.
Maybe it’s Lucy Arden, her bruised wrists and broken spirit.
Maybe it’s the Ice Queen, Jennifer Calloway, sharpening her knives for tomorrow’s battle.
Or maybe it’s Sophie van Rey’s voice still wrapping around her ribs like smoke:
"You'll want to be careful, Erica."
Whatever it is, it lights a fire in her gut.

She flies.
Five miles burn away under her feet like paper in a furnace.
Her breath is raw, honest. Her heart pounds out a war drum rhythm against her ribs.
By the time she takes the building steps two at a time, sweat slick on her skin, she’s sharper than she’s been in days. Razor-edged.

6:16 AM.
Steam swirls around her in the marble-tiled bathroom, fogging the mirror in soft, ghostly tendrils.
Erica stands still under the pounding water, hands braced against the cool tile.
This isn’t a shower.
It’s a reset.
A prayer to something bigger than herself - to grit, to loyalty, to justice.
The water needles across the faint scar on her right shoulder - the phantom reminder of Tony Maze’s bullet.

She breathes through it, just like she always does.
Pain is not new.
Pain is not permission to stop.

Tomorrow she will walk into a courtroom that might already have its verdict sewn into its bones.
She will face Calloway - cold, calculated - and she will not flinch.

She dries off slowly, the towel wrapped tightly around her athletic frame, armor for the battle forming on the horizon.


~~~


Monday morning, and Sinclair & Associates hums awake.
The early light cuts through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching the soft gleam of polished floors, the muted reflection off heavy mahogany desks, the sharp gold embossing on the spines of law books lined up like silent sentries.

Claire Messner is already at her desk, as she always is - a portrait of calm efficiency.
Her hair is pinned back with surgical precision, her black dress crisp, her heels set neatly under her desk as she sorts through the first flood of court correspondence.
Her quiet order is a balm against the chaos Erica knows is coming.

Erica strides through the foyer, smoothing the sleeves of her tailored black suit.
She barely breaks stride.

“Claire,” she says, voice brisk but not unfriendly, “I need you to go shopping for Lucy Arden.”

Her assistant glances up, eyebrow arched, not missing a beat.
Standard protocol. Erica always makes sure her clients walk into court looking like they matter.
“What do we need?” Claire asks, already reaching for a yellow legal pad.

“A clean blouse, neutral slacks, a jacket or a blazer. Plain. Understated. Size four, five-seven frame.” Erica’s voice is clipped, professional, but there’s something underneath it too - a tightly coiled anger. Claire doesn’t miss this.

“Add a modest makeup kit - think church, not nightclub.”

Claire’s pen flicks across the pad, neat as stitches on a surgeon’s table.
She looks up briefly. “Ms. Arden will look just right,” she confirms.

“She needs to.” Erica presses two fingers against the desktop, grounding herself.
Her voice sharpens slightly, hardens.
“She’s having her bail hearing tomorrow at noon. And I’ll be damned if she walks into that courtroom looking like she just crawled out of Rikers.”

Claire taps the pen against the pad, thinking ahead.
“Shampoo? Toothbrush? Basics?”

“All of it,” Erica says.
Her tone softens just a hair.
“I want her to feel human. Not like a case file.”

Claire’s mouth quirks - not quite a smile, but a spark of respect.
Dignity.
Non-negotiable.
“You think she’ll walk?” Claire asks, voice pitched low, careful.

Erica’s lips curve - not into a smile, but something far harder.
“I intend to give the judge no reason to say no. That’s all we can control.”

Claire nods crisply, already pulling up her store locator on her phone.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Erica watches her for a moment longer - feeling something settle low and heavy inside her chest.
The real fight begins tomorrow.
But right now, she feels like a girl scout and her motto is: be prepared.
And Erica Sinclair is always prepared.


~~~

Well it seems Erica is up for the fight she knows is ahead of her. Trying to be ready for it in any way she knows how. Despite the odds being, very much, stacked against her. For IF she is successful here, some VERY powerful ( read rich ) feathers are going to get quite a rustling. And I guess there are a few people who are willing to stoop to any lengths to prevent that.

LunaDog wrote: 3 hours ago Well it seems Erica is up for the fight she knows is ahead of her. Trying to be ready for it in any way she knows how. Despite the odds being, very much, stacked against her. For IF she is successful here, some VERY powerful ( read rich ) feathers are going to get quite a rustling. And I guess there are a few people who are willing to stoop to any lengths to prevent that.

Perfect Summary! Erica will give everything she has got for her Client, to get to the bottom of that,