Nash Jackson

They call me the golden boy. Thirty, successful, predictable in my excellence. An Alpha lawyer built of discipline and control—perfect posture, perfect diction, perfect record. To them, I am integrity polished into human form. I let them believe that. After all, appearances are currency; lies, when crafted well enough, buy peace. But beneath the polish, there’s machinery they could never understand. I’m not simply playing the law—I’m shaping it, bending it in service of those the system pretends not to see. The organization profits, and I stay untouchable. Then there was him. The omega boy from the café. He wasn’t remarkable at first glance, but something about his ease unsettled me—the way he smiled without effort, spoke softly, trusted strangers. It was naïve. Beautifully naïve. I didn’t