Suits: A Lawyer Surviving TV Chaos

At 6 AM, Martin's internal clock jolted him awake. 

*Why is someone spooning me? And whose hairy leg is draped over my waist?* 

He turned his head. **"Leonard!"** 

Leonard shot up, squinting through sleep-crusted eyes. He yanked the blanket, checking himself. 

"If you talk about this ever, I'll neuter you," Martin growled. 

After reasserting boundaries (again), Martin pulled on Nike joggers, clipped an iPod Nano to his arm, and headed out. Their Queens apartment—affordable for Columbia academics but not Manhattan lawyers—bordered the East River. Joggers here ignored each other, unlike L.A.'s chatty dawn crews debating Kobe's latest 40-point game. 

Post-shower, Martin faced his walk-in closet: twelve bespoke suits, three tuxedos. 

Leonard, now awake watched him get dress. "How'd you know I was staring at you?" 

Martin tapped the mirror. "Light travels both ways, genius." 

"You wasted your potential in law ,should've studied physics. Might've built a moon-dust telescope by now." 

"Please , physics is stuck on four forces. But law?" Martin adjusted his tie. "It's like Play-Doh. Mold it, bend it—all within the rules. Like your favourite tax loopholes." 

"Manipulator!" Leonard flopped back. 

"*Legal* manipulator. Now earn your keep, trapped-in-physics boy. Uncle Martin's off to print money." 

"**Get out!**" 

--- 

Hailing a cab, Martin snapped photos of his schedule with a Nokia E71—2007's pinnacle of "smart" tech—and emailed them to Rachel. 

She answered "Boss, aren't you a bit early?" 

"Thirty-nine hours early. Vegas rules: no takebacks." He shifted tone. "Check your inbox. Memorize my scheduling codes—I need them legible even when you're banging your boyfriend." 

"Is this sexual harassment?" 

"Call it wizardry. Now, go sync it with Donna on Harvey's Harvard recruiting schedule." 

"You've been here four days. Ease up on 'rookie' digs." 

"JSD wasn't for show." Martin hung up, eyeing Brooklyn's graffiti-tagged storefronts. 

His cab stopped at a diner—*Williamsburg Burger*, Déjà vu hit him. 

*Caroline Channing… Madoff..... dad jailed…* 

"Hello?" Martin called into the empty space. A hammer clanged behind the counter. 

A head popped up—**Han Lee**, barely taller than the register. 

"Mr. lee han ?...Martin Scott, Pearson Hardman." 

Han lunged for a handshake. "Finally! A white guy who pronounces 'Han' right!" 

Martin extricated himself. "Cultural respect. Now, about your lease…" 

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