𝐍𝐄𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐄. || 𝘴𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘹 𝘰𝘤

𝟏𝟒 ➻ pit of vipers

♛ ┇ ▒ ⋅⋅⋅ STATE OF NEW YORK v. J. MERCER ⋅⋅⋅ ▒ ┇♛

𝐁𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀 𝐋𝐀𝐖𝐘𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀 𝐆𝐔𝐍. At least, that's how Quinn thought of it – a game of focus and determination. Perseverance.

Firearms were always a topic of political discussion – freedom of arms versus gun control, mass shootings versus self-protection in the home. The truth was that she couldn't care less about it all, because she didn't do it for the sake of the gun.

She did it because it made her feel safe. Excited. Enthusiastic. It made her stomach churn every time she walked out on the line and mounted her twelve-gauge, gazing down the barrel and switching her focus from the bead on the end to the dark green "house" fifty feet away.

This was how she protected herself. Her sister, Elena, was a fifth-degree black belt in tae kwon do. Quinn, as Luderman had described her, was a straight shooter.

He'd meant it both ways. Accurate and forthright.

It wasn't easy to be a woman in New York. It wasn't easy to be a woman period, especially in a cutthroat city full of rich men who thought the world was their oyster. Mike was figuring that out through his case against Devlin McGregor. Quinn figured it out the day she held a gun, because for the first time in a long time, she wasn't afraid.

Fearlessness wasn't easy. The sport beat her into the ground. She was all bones when she'd started, severely underweight and missed the chance to gain her father's height from the womb. Quinn would come home from practice with massive bruises on her jaw and shoulder, the skin ripping from her fingers, sunburns on her forearms and her hair matted to her head. The pain was almost as bad as the self-doubt, of being at the bottom of the leaderboard and being unsure how to clamber to the top.

But she came back swinging. Top of her team, talk of the town, personal bests, twenty-five straights round after round. See, Quinn Whitaker was good at that. She was good at persevering.

And to this day, she persevered, but she'd never liked being in the center of the spotlight. That's the reason she was letting Louis take the credit for her own findings. Technically Luderman's findings, but he was a private investigator for a reason.

Quinn liked being in the middle ground. Because if you fell behind, people would pounce on you like a goddamn lion. But if you were too far ahead, they plotted to cut you off at the knees like you were a tree to be felled.

By the end of the day, three things had happened that made her look like a California Redwood to the rest of her associates.

Number one: Harold Gunderson called in sick today. A terrible decision, because she'd convinced Louis to give him an opportunity and he wasn't even here to close his fist around it. She figured he was having an anxiety attack or something, and intended to call his personal cell as soon as she finished the Kendrick filing for Mike.

Number two was the fact that she was doing said filing for Mike. His deposition against McGregor had fallen to pieces, and he needed time to put things back together again without Harvey breathing down his neck. So he called in a favor.

Quinn wasn't even sure he had a favor to call in – she was already keeping his ridiculous secret about being a fraud, and she was aiding him in transporting drugs around in that briefcase of his. But that's just what friends do.

Number three was that she was still the talk of the town. Or rather, the talk of the bullpen. Word got out that she'd impressed Louis Litt, and since that guy was Stalin reincarnated into a pudgy man with large teeth, there was a lot of useless discussion over what exactly she had done to worm her way into his good graces.