Page 12 of The Associate
Before he could second-guess the commitment, he locked the phone and set it facedown beside his monitor.
The computer had finished its boot sequence.
He took a slow sip of his coffee, the intense bitterness settling warmly into his chest, and opened his email.
The inbox had already accumulated a small, daunting mountain of messages: client updates, internal memos, flagged correspondences from two other partners, three separate requests for review from the litigation department, and a handful of messages marked “URGENT” that were very likely not urgent at all.
Samuel skimmed down the list with a practiced eye, mentally prioritizing and categorizing as he always did, a silent triage performed before the day's battles began.
Halfway through the scroll, his eyes paused.
From: Wise
Sent: 2:08 a.m.
Subject: RE: Case Materials—Immediate Prep Required
He frowned.
Two in the morning?
He double-clicked the email.
It opened into dense, structured paragraphs; significantly longer than previous assignments. The body of the message summarized a bitter corporate dispute, detailing discrepancies in decades-old contracts, allegations of deliberate asset misallocation, and a web of possible regulatory conflicts.
Samuel’s brow tightened as he read.
He clicked open the attachments.
His eyes widened a fraction. Dozens of separate files populated his screen. Filings, internal memos, poorly scanned contracts, expert analyses, complex financial models. Hundreds of pages of dense, cross-referenced information.
“Of course,” he muttered under his breath, the words dry and humorless.
He pushed his chair back slightly, and crossed one leg over the other as he took another, longer sip of coffee. He began to scroll through the first few pages, skimming headers, browsing footnotes, mentally cataloguing the sheer mass of what he was now expected to digest and master.
At the end of the email, a short, clipped note waited.
I expect a full analysis report on my desk by the end of the week.
— G.W.
Samuel stared at the line.
End of the week.
Which, as of this morning, meant effectively two days.
He let out a slow exhale, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. The soft, persistent hum of the overhead lights felt suddenly louder, more intrusive.
“Perfect,” he said, the word utterly dry.
He set the mug down and rolled his shoulders back, feeling the tension already coiling there.
This was going to be a long day.
∞∞∞
By the time the rest of the floor began to stir, Samuel had lost all conscious track of the hour.
