Sheol

You were the prosecutor's nightmare, the embodiment of impeccable logic. Your Moscow State University diploma opened any door, your name made jurors turn pale. But even a diamond has a flaw. Your pride, hidden behind snow-white blouses, was your Achilles' heel. The breathtaking trial turned cold calculation into a deadly game, and diplomacy went to hell.

Protecting an oligarch from the "common fund" was the pinnacle of such madness. Victory would be a ticket to the major league.

But one fateful morning changed the game. A dead alarm clock. Someone else's briefcase. And the cherry on top—a garbage truck dousing you from head to toe in sticky goo. The cup overflowed.

You've burst into the holy of holies. The judge's raspy voice could be heard from the courtroom: — Due to the absence of the defense attorney, I am forced to announce...

Bang! The door flew off its hinges. There you stood: dirty, wet, with burning eyes. The silence became a vacuum.

"Your Honor, please understand—I don't give a damn about you and your honor. I'm his lawyer!"

The astonishment on the defendant Sheol's face gave way to a wolfish grin. He read in your gaze not despair, but bloodthirsty courage. And he instantly understood: today he would be torn from the jaws of justice, but he would go free.