Mike disappointed them all. He turned down every Forbes-worthy opportunity, packed his meager belongings, and returned to Detroit. Not to his parents' leafy suburb with its manicured lawns, but to the forgotten heart of the city—a place that groaned beneath the weight of its own decay like a wounded colossus of rusted steel.

He rented a tiny office straddling the invisible border between gang territory and what remained of working-class normalcy. His neighbors formed a patchwork of American dreams: a Mexican grocery with produce spilling onto sidewalk displays, a Vietnamese nail salon with neon signs flickering in the window, and a Polish diner run by an elderly couple who'd survived both Soviet occupation and Detroit's economic collapse.


And so, with little fanfare, the Thornfield Law Firm was established.

On the dusty glass door, he applied those familiar Latin words in elegant Gothic script: "Justicia Per Honorem."

His knight's castle stood alone amid urban desolation. But this fortress welcomed no distressed maidens, no villagers seeking protection—not even a lost traveler. Six months crawled by with barely a legitimate client crossing his threshold.


Those who desperately needed legal help either distrusted this baby-faced attorney who looked younger than their own children or simply couldn't afford his services—modest as they were. Mike scraped by on occasional work drafting contracts for small businesses and reviewing rental agreements for local shops.

Meanwhile, his neighbors slowly warmed to the "Harvard lawyer" in their midst.


They observed his daily ritual—arriving punctually in pressed suits, sitting alone in his empty office until midnight, lights burning while he pored over thick legal tomes. They considered him naïve but kind-hearted. He helped the grocery owner recover money from deadbeat customers and explained predatory lease clauses to the nail salon workers. His directness and sharp mind, combined with an almost otherworldly integrity, made him an anomaly in the neighborhood—yet somehow, people were drawn to him.

Mike became a regular at the Polish diner. Stanislav, the owner, would serve him heaping plates of bigos and pierogi before settling into the opposite chair. In his thick accent, the old man would recount tales of his youth in the Solidarity movement against Soviet oppression, then transition to his current battle—monthly "protection" payments to the local gangs who controlled the neighborhood.

Mike would listen with the patient attention of a confessor, never interrupting, absorbing every word.

One Saturday night, the neighborhood cobbled together a block party on a vacant lot. Mike found himself pulled into the celebration against his better judgment. Three glasses of bottom-shelf whiskey dissolved the carefully constructed armor of Harvard credentials and legal precision. With bass-heavy music pulsing through the night air, he suddenly leapt onto a wobbly table, face flushed crimson, and bellowed: "Don Quixote was a goddamn hero! And I'm a fucking Don Quixote too!"

The crowd froze in collective shock. Oblivious to their stares, Mike assumed a perfect fencing stance—the first position Graystone had drilled into him a lifetime ago. His execution was flawless until his foot slipped on condensation, sending him crashing to the ground in an unconscious heap. By noon the next day, the story had spread throughout the neighborhood. Between chuckles and head-shakes, a consensus formed: the Harvard lawyer was good people—just keep him away from the whiskey.