Super Lawyer

The salty, fishy smell of seawater crashing against the rocks hit his nostrils hard.

Daniel Lopez's eyes snapped open, and a sharp pain shot through the back of his head, as if he'd been whacked with a sledgehammer.

The evening glow spread across Santa Monica Beach, making him squint.

Before he could make out his surroundings, a cold, mechanical voice exploded in his mind without warning.

[Justice Lawyer System activated, binding to host...]

"What the hell?" Daniel clutched his head. Just as he tried to sit up, a sharp shout came from above.

"Freeze! LAPD! Put your hands where I can see them!"

Daniel looked up to find two dark gun barrels pointed straight at his forehead.

On the left was a tense-looking young Black officer named Matthew, his finger already on the trigger. On the right was a pot-bellied white veteran cop named Taylor. Though he wasn't leaning forward, his tactical stance was rock solid.

Daniel's mind raced. One second he was in New York, killed in a gang shootout, and the next he's on a Los Angeles beach? And somehow bound to some "Justice Lawyer System"?

Reborn?

"Hands behind your head! Now!" Matthew shouted again, seeing Daniel frozen, and pressed forward.

Daniel didn't resist. Having survived the streets of New York in his past life, he knew exactly how to deal with these trigger-happy American cops. He slowly raised his hands, his movements steady without a tremor.

A flashlight beam swept across Daniel's face.

Taylor squinted and took in Daniel's sharp-featured white face. Though covered in sand, his suit was clearly expensive. No gang tattoos, no junkie twitching.

Taylor's tense shoulders visibly relaxed. He used the back of his hand to push down Matthew's gun barrel, signaling him to ease up, then softened his tone considerably: "Name? Occupation? Why were you lying on the beach?"

Daniel brushed the sand off his cuffs and casually bullshitted: "Relax, officer. I'm just a lawyer who had a bit too much to drink last night."

"Lawyer?!"

Those two words were like kryptonite to American cops. Taylor's expression changed instantly. With a "click," he flipped the safety back on and shoved his gun back in its holster. In America, you could mess with a drunk, but never mess with a lawyer carrying business cards. These guys could sue the police department into bankruptcy for not saying "please" properly during an arrest.

"Ahem, terribly sorry, sir, just routine." Taylor instantly switched to a friendly customer-service smile and even tried to help Daniel up. "Where do you live? It's getting late. Need us to give you a ride?"

Daniel was about to decline when a line of translucent light blue text suddenly appeared before his eyes:

[1503-6, Normandy Avenue]

"Normandy Avenue, 1503-6," Daniel said smoothly, reading it off.

Matthew, standing nearby, couldn't help but snort and put away his gun with a sneer: "Normandy Avenue? That notorious Black ghetto where nobody gives a damn? What's a big-shot downtown lawyer doing living in that hellhole?"

Taylor shot Matthew a fierce glare, cursing the rookie's stupidity. He quickly ran through the map in his head—Normandy Avenue was in LAPD Central Division, completely outside Santa Monica PD's jurisdiction.

Eager to get rid of this untouchable, cross-jurisdiction trouble, Taylor fished a crumpled twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and stuffed it into Daniel's hand.

"Sir, taking you across jurisdictions would be against regulations. This twenty bucks is from me personally. There's a taxi stand just up the road—you'll have to get yourself a cab."

Looking at the free twenty bucks in his hand, Daniel raised an eyebrow and pocketed it without hesitation: "Thanks, officer. Very professional police work."

The evening sea breeze grew cooler.

Daniel didn't bother with a cab. He spent three dollars at a street food cart on the cheapest cheeseburger and an iced Coke, munching as he followed the bizarre system navigation on his retina.

After three transfers on slow, drafty, beat-up buses, Daniel finally stood in front of 1503-6 Normandy Ave just before nightfall.

As the Black officer Matthew had said, this was definitely a typical ghetto. Broken streets, flickering streetlights, and occasional wild cat screams from the corners.

Before Daniel stood a run-down, three-story apartment building.

Following some residual instinct in his mind, he crouched down and pulled a rusty brass key from under the dirty doormat. With a "click," he pushed the door open.

The place was dark. Daniel didn't even take off his shoes, just collapsed onto the squeaky spring bed.

Neon lights from outside filtered through the blinds, casting stripes on the ceiling. Daniel lay with his hands behind his head, emotions running wild.

What a damn mess. A low-level New York gang member, living on the edge for half his life, finally shot in the back by his own people. Now he wakes up not only in Los Angeles but transformed into a lawyer with some "Justice Lawyer System"?

"Screw the gangs, screw all that violence." Daniel took a big gulp of iced Coke and burped, his eyes gleaming in the darkness. "Second chance at life—I'm not being cannon fodder again. If I'm gonna live, I'm living it up!"

Before he knew it, drowsiness washed over him like a tide. With police sirens wailing outside, Daniel closed his eyes and slept the most peaceful, solid sleep he'd had in ten years.

...

The next morning.

Blinding Los Angeles sunlight hit Daniel square in the face. He woke naturally, stretched luxuriously, and immediately sprang from the bed. Like ransacking a place in his past life, he quickly and thoroughly searched every corner of the room to figure out his predecessor's background.

Soon, various documents and letters were laid out on the desk.

The driver's license showed the original owner's name was Daniel Lopez.

"Daniel? Well damn, that's one cocky name." Daniel grinned.

Next, he pulled a red property deed from the bottom of a drawer. When he saw the writing clearly, Daniel's eyes lit up—this run-down three-story building on Normandy Avenue was owned by one Nace Lopez!

Sure, the location sucked, but he owned the whole damn building!

The surprises kept coming. Daniel picked up a gold-trimmed frame and blew off the dust.

It bore bold letters: Harvard Law School, Juris Doctor (JD) Degree. Beside it lay a California Bar License.

"Elite school graduate, property owner, licensed..." Daniel leaned back in his chair and couldn't help whistling. This was like starting the game with a royal flush, infinitely better than his past life as a small-time thug living day to day.

Finally, Daniel's gaze fell on two opened offer letters on the desk.

One from the famous Pearson Hardman in New York, a top-tier firm in the country.

The other from Kirkland Ellis, a local Los Angeles firm.

Daniel opened the original owner's notebook. It showed disdain for Pearson and had circled Kirkland Ellis instead. The arrogance practically leaked off the page—the original owner apparently felt that going to a firm like Kirkland Ellis with his Harvard credentials was "slumming it," a pure compromise just to stay in Los Angeles.

"Pretty high opinion of himself." Daniel gathered both offer letters. "But Kirkland Ellis? That name does have a ring to it. The lawyer business beats collecting protection money on the streets any day."

Daniel stood up satisfied, about to head to the bathroom to wash his face and clean off yesterday's sand.

Just then, deep in his mind, that cold mechanical voice that had been dormant all night suddenly rang out crisp and clear.

[Ding—]