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Who I am? Doesn’t matter. Not in the way people think it does. I had parents. You did too. Mine were complicated. Yours probably are. That’s not the story. The story is what I do—and how I do it.
I fix things.
Not with duct tape and apologies. With leverage. With silence. With timing. I’ve repaired broken locks for clients who could buy the building. I’ve redirected the outcome of a political primary without touching a ballot. Once. And I made damn sure the person who asked never asked again. I don’t do chaos. I do control.
Anyone with a high IQ and a decent poker face could do what I do. But being good—really good—means knowing when to speak, when to vanish, and when to make someone realize you’ve already read their inbox and their prenup. I trade in favors. I hold markers. East Coast, West Coast, Chicago, D.C.—I’ve got quiet reach. The kind that doesn’t show up on LinkedIn but gets you invited to the second meeting.
If you’ve seen Inside Man, I’m not Clive Owen. I’m not Denzel. I’m the one Jodie Foster played. Not literally, but close enough. She walks into a room full of men who think they run the world and makes them sit up straighter. That’s the energy. WWJD? Forget Jesus. Jodie would turn the other cheek, sure—but she’d invoice you for the slap.
I learned from the best. Zoe Morgan. And yes, I say her full name every time. She earned it. She found me when I was fresh off a spectacular academic implosion—full ride gone, reputation torched, and a Dean who wanted me erased. Zoe didn’t erase me. She recalibrated me. She saw through Trevor’s mess, cleaned it up, and offered me a job. Assistant fixer. I didn’t know what that meant. I just knew I wasn’t going back to being nobody.
Six years later, I had my own clients. My own encrypted contact list. My own reputation. Not under my real name, obviously—I’m not stupid. But the name they pass around in quiet circles? That name gets things done. That name doesn’t ask twice. That name doesn’t need to raise its voice.
The file lay open on Harvey’s desk, pages fanned like a crime scene: transaction logs, internal memos, redacted emails, and a timeline that made his jaw tighten. Every leak had landed within hours of a key decision. A board vote here, a billion-dollar trade there. Each tip was surgical, precise, and just damaging enough to trigger regulatory scrutiny without outright collapse. Whoever was behind it wasn’t trying to destroy his client; they were trying to bleed him.
Harvey leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing at the ceiling. Thaddeus Whitmore Langford III. The name alone made him want to pour a drink. A hedge fund aristocrat with a pedigree longer than most resumes—Exeter, Yale, Rhodes, and a Rolodex that could make a senator sweat. Langford had refused to go public. No law enforcement. No press. Just Harvey. “Make it go away,” he’d said, like Harvey was a magician, not a lawyer. Like he was entitled to discretion simply because he’d inherited it.
Harvey flipped a page, then another. The pattern was there, but it was buried under layers of plausible deniability. Whoever was leaking this knew the system. Knew how to hide. Knew how to hurt without leaving fingerprints. And Harvey knew exactly why Langford was panicking—because for the first time in his life, someone was cutting through the insulation money couldn’t buy.
He stood abruptly, the chair rolling back with a soft groan. He crossed the office in three strides and opened the door. “Donna.”
She looked up from her desk, already sensing the shift in his mood.
“I’m getting lunch. Stretching my legs.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t stretch your legs. You pace when you’re frustrated.”
He didn’t answer. Just grabbed his coat and walked out.
The elevator ride was silent. The lobby was a blur. By the time he hit the sidewalk, the noise of New York wrapped around him—horns, footsteps, the low hum of power. He was halfway to the café when his phone rang.
He glanced at the screen. Unknown number.
“Harvey Specter. What can I do for you?”
Harvey blinked and pulled his cell phone away from his ear to look at the screen before bringing it back. “I’m sorry, but didn’t you call me?”
There was a short chuff of a laugh on the other end, and then the charmingly young sounding voice came on again. “I heard you’ve got a problem and you were looking for someone to help. I’m that someone.”
Harvey stopped walking. This just became one of those meetings as several explanations came to mind for why he was getting this particular call in the middle of his lunch hour, on a busy Tuesday afternoon. “Did Louis put you up to this?”
There was another scoff. “As if I would lower myself to work with Mr. Litt. Please Harvey, don’t insult me before we’ve even started.”
That response both made Harvey want to grin and frown at the same time. Whoever this person was, they were obviously informed enough to recognize his coworkers, and know them well enough to understand the subtle antagonistic relationship he had with his fellow Junior Partner. That only left two people. And, if this call was legitimate, only one who would do something like this without asking, or even running the idea by him before simply making the call. “Jessica.”
“She did me a favor a few months ago. Now I am repaying that favor.”
“By helping me with a problem that you don’t know the details of?”
“That’s what I do, Harvey. I’m a fixer.”
And that. That rang a bell. “Jesus. You’re Mike Ward.”
There was a delighted laugh on the other end of the line, as if Harvey had performed an interesting trick. “See? I knew this wasn’t going to be a wasted trip.”
The emphasis the man had put on that last word made Harvey look around. He was on the sidewalk in front of Pearson Hardman. He had been on his way to the café just down the street that served excellent coffee and adequate sandwiches as a filler before he had back to back meetings until nearly seven this evening. But he could tell that those plans would have to be rapidly adjusted, if not completely cancelled. This just felt like one of those meetings.
“Where are you?”
“Harvey, I must say, you and your brother Marcus were so cute in, what is that? Little League?”
Harvey felt his skin tighten and a cold feeling wash down his spine. “Pee Wee, actually.”
“How soon can you get here?”
“Twenty minutes, barring traffic.”
“I’ll put some Nina Simone on, huh? That should keep me entertained enough not to go snooping.”
Harvey immediately hung up before hitting his speed dial 3. “Ray, need a pick-up.” After a second hang up he hit his speed dial 1.
“Harvey, I thought you were just going to pick up lunch and stretch your legs.”
He felt a little of his tension slip away at the sound of her confident voice. “Donna, I’m gonna need you to reschedule the rest of my day.”
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone before she answered. “I’m assuming Jessica went ahead with finding you some help.”
“I don’t need help, Donna.”
“Sure you don’t, Harvey.”
He sighed. “Can you reschedule everything?”
“Vincent DiMaggio is going to need some petting or he’ll walk like he’s been threatening to do for the past three weeks.”
“So let him.”
“I’ll send him those tickets you’ve been holding in reserve as a thanks for his patience, then.”
His sigh this time was nearly painful. “Fiiiine. Anything else?” he watched as a sleek black car maneuvered through the New York traffic to come to a stop next to the curb in front of him.
“Jessica wants you to call her as soon you can.”
“I’m sure she does.”
“Harvey.”
“She started this,” Harvey huffed. “She can wait until it’s done.” Then he hung up and climbed in before Ray could get out to open the door for him.
“Where to?” Ray asked as he pulled into traffic
Harvey sucked in a deep breath and then let it out. “Home.”
Letting himself into his high-rise apartment, knowing someone was already inside, was a bit hair raising, even for Harvey. But he shrugged off the nerves, straightened his shoulders and walked in like he owed the place.
Because he did.
The first thing he noticed was the satchel—vintage Mulberry, distressed but expensive—leaning against the entry console beside a matte black bike helmet and a bottle opener he didn’t recognize. A single beer cap sat beside it like punctuation. He heard a noise and turned toward the patio. The sliding door was open.
Outside, standing in front of Harvey’s top-of-the-line barbeque, was Mike Ward.
Harvey watched him from the threshold, arms crossed, jaw set.
They were about the same height, though Mike had a leaner build and the kind of body that came from endurance training instead of weightlifting. He wore a faded red hoodie – cashmere, sure, but still a hoodie – under a vintage dark grey pinstripe Saint Laurent blazer with a subtle pinstripe that caught the patio light. Harvey recognized the cut instantly; razor-sharp, tailored to skim his shoulders and taper at the waist. He’d owned the same one in navy, back when Jessica first let him sit second chair. Rolled sleeves just high enough to expose forearms that looked like they’d been carved. His jeans were deep indigo, tailored to the ankle, and cuffed over white Chuck Taylors that looked like they’d been curated by someone who read too much GQ and pretended not to care.
It was hipster chic. And Harvey hated it.
Not because it wasn’t stylish—hell, the kid looked good. But because it was performative. A costume designed to say I don’t play by your rules while still playing the game better than most. Harvey respected style that declared intent. A Tom Ford suit said I’m here to win. A Brioni said I already did. But this? This was camouflage. Misdirection. A fixer’s uniform stitched from contradiction. And that bothered him because it worked. The hoodie said I’m harmless. The blazer said I’m not. The Chucks said I don’t care. The tailored jeans said I care about everything. It was a psychological feint, and Harvey knew it. He’d used the same trick in court—understated tie, loud cufflinks. Let them underestimate you, then gut them with precision.
Mike Ward was doing the same thing. Only he wasn’t in court. He was in Harvey’s home. Grilling steaks. Drinking Harvey’s beer. Wearing a knight-shaped tie clip on the suit breast pocket like a dare.
Harvey didn’t trust him. Not yet. But he respected the game.
And that was almost worse.
As Harvey watched, Mike lifted a half-empty bottle of Pale Ale to his lips, the label peeled halfway off, and took a slow pull. Then he turned, just slightly, toward the door—like he’d known Harvey was watching the whole time.
“You like yours medium rare, right?”
Harvey blinked. “What?”
“Frankie said you always order his steaks medium rare,” Mike said, still facing the grill, his voice casual but precise. “I figured it was the least I could do.”
The only ‘Frankie’ Harvey could think of who knew his steak preference was Martin Franchetti, the Head Chef at one of his favorite restaurants. And of course Mike knew him. Of course Mike had called in a favor. “What, bring me food after breaking and entering?”
“B and E? Really, Counselor?” Mike’s grin was slow, shark-like. “I was practically invited.”
“If by invited you mean not at all.”
Mike flipped the steak with surgical grace. “Frankie’s cheesy potatoes are in the oven.”
Harvey hesitated. The bribe was obvious, but effective. “Fine. I won’t press charges.”
“Good,” Mike took another swig of the beer. “Bring plates? And help yourself to a beer. I know they’re your favorite.”
Harvey grimaced, then turned into the kitchen. He was halfway through one of the Pale Ales before he pulled two plates from the cupboard. Opening the oven, he did indeed find a pair of fist-sized red potatoes, baked to perfection and covered in Frankie’s private blend of cheeses, herbs and spices being kept warm. He plated them, grabbed cutlery, and returned to the patio. Then he walked back in, shed his jacket, grabbed his beer and another for Mike before he returned. Mike was just plating the steaks, setting them down with the kind of precision Harvey usually reserved for closing arguments.
They ate in companionable silence. The click of cutlery, the chime of glass bottles, the low hum of the city below. Harvey was halfway through his steak, mostly done with the potato, when Mike leaned back and finished his second beer.
“I’d thought by your reputation you’d be older,” Harvey said, watching him closely now. “You look barely old enough to drink that beer.”
Mike gave a lopsided grin, not at all put off. “I get that a lot.”
“You can’t have been in the business as long as rumor says you have.”
Mike wiped his mouth with a napkin, then leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Tell me about the leak.”
Harvey didn’t answer right away. He studied the man across from him—the hoodie, the blazer, the Chucks, the eyes that didn’t blink. Mike Ross didn’t look like a threat. He looked like a grad student who’d wandered into a boardroom. But Harvey had seen the dossier. Had read the whispers. Had heard Jessica say, He’s not evil, but he’s not safe.
Harvey took a slow sip of his beer, eyes locked on Mike. “You already know everything I do.”
Mike leaned back, bottle dangling from his fingers. “Not everything. Just enough to know you’re stuck.”
“I don’t get stuck,” Harvey smirked. “I get strategic.”
“Strategic’s cute. But someone is making Langford look like he’s trading dirty.”
Harvey’s jaw tightened. “He didn’t.”
“No,” Mike said, setting the bottle down with surgical precision. “But someone made it look like he did. Forty million dumped at 10:12. Pentagon leak hits at 10:30. SEC inquiry by lunch. That’s not strategy. That’s choreography.”
Harvey raised an eyebrow. “You think he’s being framed?”
“I think someone baited him. Fed him intel just clean enough to pass his filters, then timed the leak to make him look compromised.”
Harvey stood, pacing. “Internal audits came up clean. Compliance too.”
“Of course they did.” Mike shrugged, “You’re looking for fingerprints. This guy wears gloves.”
Harvey turned, sharp now. “You’re saying it’s someone inside?”
“I’m saying it’s someone who knows how to simulate ‘inside.’ Someone who understands Langford’s digital hygiene better than his CTO.”
Harvey crossed his arms. “You read the memos.”
“Three incidents,” Mike nodded. “External references to confidential strategy docs. CFO’s calling it ‘ghost in the system.’ I recognize the signature.”
“You know who it is?”
Mike shook his head, “Just the playbook.”
Harvey grabbed another beer. “You think it’s about the trades?”
Mike’s grin was slow. “It’s about the vote.”
Harvey paused. “Defense lobbying initiative.”
“Langford was about to block it. Someone didn’t like that.”
Harvey narrowed his eyes. “So, they discredit him.”
Mike leaned forward. “Before he could swing the vote. Classic reputational sabotage. No ransom. No demands. Just silence and precision.”
Harvey stepped closer, voice low. “You already pulled the redacted emails.”
Mike grinned before sliding a folded printout across the table. “Tell him to reconsider the vote. They’re not just targeting Langford. They’re targeting what he inherited. His father’s Cold War finance ties, the advisory seat. Someone wants that seat empty—or filled by someone else.”
Harvey read the line, then looked up. “You’re not cheap.”
Mike stood, slinging his satchel over one shoulder. “Neither is discretion. But that isn’t my fee.”
“What is it then?”
“Operating costs,” Mike said, casual as ever. “You think what I do is cheap?”
Harvey smirked. “I think you like the sound of your own invoice.”
Mike grinned at the pun. “I like results. Invoices just keep the lights on.”
Harvey stepped closer. “And what is your fee?”
Mike’s voice dropped half a register. “To be discussed when we’ve completed our transaction.”
Harvey didn’t move. “You’re going to need access.”
“Full access,” Mike said, ticking off fingers like a surgeon prepping for a procedure. “Emails. Burners. Board minutes. And Langford’s schedule for the last six months as well as the next six weeks. Every meeting. Every dinner. Every call.”
Harvey raised an eyebrow. “You always ask this nicely?”
Mike’s grin sharpened. “You’re lucky I brought steak.”
Harvey smirked. “You’re lucky I didn’t call security.”
Mike turned toward the door. “You didn’t because you already knew I was the only one who could help you fix this.”
Harvey stepped forward, voice like a scalpel. “And you knew I’d test you the second you walked in.”
Mike didn’t flinch. “I read patterns. You’re not so difficult.”
Harvey’s eyes narrowed. “You sure about that?”
Mike gave a small shrug, the knight-shaped tie clip catching the light. “I’ve got ghosts too, Harvey. Yours just wear better suits.”
Harvey didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. He watched Mike walk out, the door clicking shut behind him. He didn’t trust Mike Ward. Not even close. But trust wasn’t the point. Winning was.
And Mike? Mike was the type who played to win.