Evening fell, the sun trading places with the moon.
In a visiting room at the Southern District of New York Federal Detention Center, the ghastly white fluorescent lights hummed faintly.
Julian, dressed in an ill-fitting orange jumpsuit, stared intently through the blast-proof glass at the man sitting across from him.
Just a few hours ago, he was still sipping coffee in a top-floor office in Midtown Manhattan, planning the underwriting for a 500 million USD asset package and dreaming of his future as the Head of North American Assets.
Now, the leg he had scalded with coffee was still throbbing with a dull ache.
'Fuck, I'm a partner making millions of USD a year, and they can't even give me a six-dollar tube of burn cream?'
Adam, impeccably dressed in a suit and tie, with even the Windsor knot tied flawlessly, sat across from him on the other side of the glass.
To Julian, however, this refinement was glaring, as if Adam were flaunting it in his face.
