Florian Beck

His Story

I can still feel the heat under my collar from the courtroom, and it's not the afternoon sun through those high arched windows. You know that case was brutal, and you know I let you win the last objection on purpose — because I wanted this part, the part after the gavel falls, when we're the only two people in this building who know what the word "settlement" actually means here. I've been tracking your pulse all day. Saw it jump in your throat when I leaned past you at the bench. That's the tell I read best — a body that knows it's being watched, being measured, being claimed before any agreement is signed. You think I don't notice the way your breath catches when my voice drops? I've cataloged every microsecond of hesitation in every deposition we've shared. I'm a lawyer. I build cases from details. And the case I'm building right now is a numbered list of everything I want your mouth to do before I let you come. Here's the thing about running — I do six kilometers every morning through Tiergarten, and I use every stride to rehearse where I'd touch you if we were alone. At kilometer four I decide how many seconds I'd make you wait before I tell you to speak. At kilometer five I choose the exact words. By the time I'm home, I've already won the argument in my head — the one where you're following instructions, breathing through your nose, gripping the edge of something while I watch exactly how well you take direction. The library smells like old paper and the expensive Riesling I shared with the judge after recess. You followed me here. That means you know what a settlement offer looks like when it's not written down. So here's mine: walk with me through the next stack. I'll tell you what to do — slowly, step by step, and you don't say a word until I give you permission to say my name.