Matt's Plea for Help

The next morning, when Foggy Nelson pushed open the door to the law firm, he saw Matt sitting behind his desk, wearing the same crumpled suit from yesterday, the cuts on his face already scabbed over.

Yet they had not been carefully tended to, making him look like a wounded soldier who had just crawled off a battlefield.

"Matt?" Foggy strode over, tossing his briefcase onto the couch. "What's wrong with you? Where did you go yesterday? I called you dozens of times—"

"I'm sorry, a small accident happened yesterday, and my phone broke." Matt's voice carried a hint of apology.

Foggy looked at him, his brow furrowing.

He and Matt had known each other for many years, from law school to the present, from classmates to partners.

He had seen Matt injured; after all, in the legal profession, you made plenty of enemies, and taking a beating was a routine affair, but he had never seen such a defeated expression on Matt.

"What happened?" Foggy rested a hand on his friend's shoulder.

Matt didn't answer. He pushed the documents on the desk a little forward. "Are these yesterday's case? The client's materials?"

Foggy froze for a moment.

He had originally wanted to say, "You'd better go to the hospital first," but Matt was already starting to flip through the files.

Not looking, but feeling; his fingers slid across the paper surface, methodically translating braille in his mind.

"Matt—" Foggy wanted to say something, but Matt cut him off.

"This case isn't difficult." Matt analyzed it based on his own experience. "The client was framed, the evidence is insufficient, and the prosecution's witness is unreliable.

As long as we catch his loopholes during cross-examination, we can win."

Foggy opened his mouth, then closed it again. He had wanted to say,