"They wanted to detain him, but I could reason with the judge to release him from custody pending the trial," Mike says, as they walk toward the car, coffee cups in hand. "The court imposed house arrest, so he's staying at one of the group homes under the care of a social worker."

The sky is still gray, the kind of cold morning that seeps into your bones, as they slide into the backseat of the Lexus and let Ray take them to the Rise Youth Rehabilitation Center, a medium-sized group home in Queens.

As they approach their destination, the area becomes more desolate, with rows of older, squat buildings and vacant lots that stretch on, making the place feel disconnected from the rest of the city. The neighborhood seems designed to be overlooked—warehouses with faded signage, a few boarded-up storefronts, and large institutional buildings that loom over the narrow streets.

They finally pull up to the group home, tucked away in a quieter section of the area. The house sits wedged between an old auto body shop and a low-rise office complex, both of which look like they haven't seen much action in years.

As Harvey steps out of the vehicle, the first thing that catches his eye is the high fence. A black box mounted on the entrance hums softly, the lens of a camera swiveling to track their every movement. He spots at least two more cameras, one tucked beneath the eaves of the roof, another by the back corner of the house.

The small courtyard in front of the house is bare, save for a single tree stripped of most of its leaves. The cold wind rattles the branches, adding to the sense that the place is more fortress than home.

"Where are the spring guns?" Harvey scoffs.

"Harvey…"

"Look at this place, Mike!" Harvey throws his hand toward the house, his voice rising. "It's like a prison," he growls, the words vibrating with disdain. "I wouldn't want my kid to…" He trails off, staring at the building like it's something toxic, something repellent. "No wonder they act out when they have to grow up like a criminal."

Before they can knock, the thick and heavy front door buzzes loudly and slowly clicks open. Harvey flinches at the noise, his eyes narrowing as though the sound itself is mocking him. He can almost hear the lock mechanisms shifting inside, a final warning before they're sealed inside.

He shifts uncomfortably, his jaw tightening as he looks up at the house again, as if expecting it to close in on them the moment they step through the door. Mike steps forward, his hands in his pockets, but Harvey doesn't move. His gaze remains fixed on the door, cold and uninviting.

"This group home was established to support at-risk teens who face legal challenges or behavioral issues," Mike says quietly. "There are some really messed up kids in there, Harvey… It isn't exactly the Ritz, but they're doing what they can."

Harvey's head snaps toward him, his eyes wide with disbelief, his chest heaving with barely contained anger. "Are you seriously defending this shithole right now?" he furiously spits out the words. His glare hardens, a sharp look aimed straight at Mike. The raised eyebrow, the tense posture—it's a challenge.

Mike sighs, not in the mood to escalate this. "No, I'm not," he shoots back. "I'm just trying to explain why it looks so… different."

"Different?" Harvey barks a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "It looks like they're prepping these kids for the real thing—might as well hand out jumpsuits and prison bars. Call it 'prep school for future inmates.'"

He steps closer to Mike, his voice dropping to a growl. "You expect someone to come out of this place better? All this does is teach them one thing—how to live locked up."

Mike holds his gaze, unflinching. "Maybe you get it now."

"Get what?"

"Why this case is so important to me."

As they finally step through the front door, Harvey's contempt quickly gives way to surprise. Instead of cold, institutional hallways, he's met with the soft glow of warm lighting and the scent of freshly baked bread lingering in the air.

There's a small reception area with a desk, where staff can monitor who comes and goes. A bulletin board on the wall lists schedules, house rules, and announcements, alongside motivational quotes and flyers for upcoming group activities.

"Mr. Specter. Mr. Ross," the social worker greets them. "I'm Melinda Ortiz. It's lovely to meet you. I just wish it were under different circumstances." Shaking both their hands, she continues, "Elijah's still getting ready, so how about a brief tour first?"

"We'd love that," Mike answers, glancing sideways at Harvey. The anger has disappeared from his face. He looks calm now, almost peaceful.

To the right of the entrance is a common living area. A six-piece sectional sofa, big enough to fit all the teens, dominates the space, with a couple of bean bags scattered near the TV.

Bookshelves line two walls, from the hardwood floor to the ceiling. They are filled, end to end and top to bottom, with both novels and board games, and look well-used, as though they've been rifled through countless times.

Framed photos of the kids—smiling, caught mid-laugh or playing games—decorate the walls, adding a personal touch.

"So, this room serves as the primary communal hangout spot," Melinda explains, speaking with a softness in her tone. "The kids can watch TV or movies together, relax, or play games under supervision."

"Not too bad, huh?" Mike says with a smirk, bumping Harvey's shoulder.

Harvey mutters something under his breath, something dismissive, but he can't help thinking that maybe this place isn't as bad as he assumed. He quickly hides the thought behind his gruff demeanor and follows Melinda into the next room.

The dining room is modest but comfortable, with large tables clearly designed for group meals. Harvey notices the chairs first—mismatched and worn, like they've been gathered over time rather than bought in bulk. It gives the room a lived-in feel, almost like a family home that has grown organically, piece by piece.

"Staff prepare meals here, but the teens help with simple tasks, like setting the table or washing up," Melinda says as she gestures toward the open kitchen. It's partially visible through a service window, modern but not overly polished. "This way, we can interact with them during mealtimes," she adds, the hint of a smile on her lips. It's clear she believes in this place, in what it offers.

Harvey notices the subtle shifts in Mike's expression, the way he's soaking in every word. Mike has always been the one with the big heart.

Harvey's emotional armor, however, has grown so thick that places like this—places that require openness—feel like alien territory. The unease rolling through him seems to increase with every minute spent in this house.

Melinda leads them down a hallway off to the side of the dining room. "We have more functional spaces down here, like staff offices, and this…" she says as she opens a door to their left.

Harvey peers inside, finding nothing remarkable about it, just four walls and a few chairs arranged in a circle.

"We use this room for one-on-one counseling sessions or group therapy," Melinda continues. "There's also a basketball hoop in the backyard, which can be therapy for them, too, sometimes," she chuckles.

Harvey doesn't respond, just nods curtly, though he can picture it. Teens shooting hoops, talking about nothing and everything at the same time. It makes sense—sometimes it's easier to talk when you're not really facing someone, when you're focused on something else.

As they make their way back to the front entrance, Harvey catches Mike glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, probably waiting for some comment, some sign that Harvey is softening toward the idea of this place. But Harvey stays quiet.

"Eli should be ready by now," Melinda muses. "Let me just go check on him real quick."

"You know, at some point, you're gonna have to say something," Mike says, teasingly, after Melinda left.

"What do you want me to say, Mike?" Harvey mumbles.

"I want you to admit that this place isn't as bad as you thought it was."

Harvey exhales sharply, jaw tight. "It's not," he finally concedes. "But living like this at such a young age, with a bunch of other people and barely any privacy… I bet for some of them, it still feels like a prison. Maybe with a little more comfort, but it's not…" He hesitates, glancing around at the photos on the walls, the attempt at making the space feel warm. "It's not a real home, Mike."

He stops himself, swallowing the anger that's been building in his chest since he first stepped out of the car. Then he takes a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. "I guess we can't save them all, can we?" Harvey's voice softens, and for a moment, the unguarded version of him shows through, the one Mike rarely gets to see.

"No, but what if we can save this one? What if we can change this kid's life, Harvey? Make a real difference this time?"

Harvey closes his eyes briefly, rubbing a hand over his face as if he can wipe away the burden of what Mike's asking him to do. "I'll help you with this case," he mutters, relenting. "But let's get this over with soon, so we can get out of here."

"You wouldn't survive a week in this place," a deep voice startles both of them. "But I'm just a kid without parents, who fucked up big time in his life, so I guess that makes it okay."

The voice drips with sarcasm, every word laced with the kind of cynicism only someone who's been through too much too young can muster.

Harvey immediately tenses, his gaze snapping to the source. That tone… He's heard it before—in himself, in clients, in kids who think the world's already written them off.

"Elijah!" Melinda reprimands him, but there's a softness underneath it, a familiar note that tells Harvey this kid has tested her patience more than once.

Harvey looks up, taking in the boy as he slowly walks down the stairs, his stride one of confidence, like he's daring anyone to challenge him.

He wears a long-sleeved white cotton shirt, open at the collar and rolled up to his elbows, and roughly cut, faded and torn Levis. The denim boat shoes on his feet are worn to the consistency of battered moccasins.

Eli is tall, taller than most of the kids Harvey expected to see here, with broad shoulders that carry more than just his frame—there's a weight on him, the one you can't see but feel in the way he holds himself.

The sneer on his face isn't the kind that comes from arrogance. It's the kind that's born from survival. From not expecting anything from anyone, and being right more often than not.

"I'll leave you guys to talk," Melinda says, smiling in hopes to ease the tension. "If you need me, I'm in my office," she adds before she disappears.

Eli's gaze flicks to Harvey and Mike, sizing them up like he's already decided they're just like everyone else who's passed through this place.

"You two here to play savior? Make yourselves feel better by pretending to care?"

The bitterness in his voice is palpable, and it hits Harvey like a punch to the gut. He knows that bitterness all too well. The need to lash out before anyone can hurt you first.

"You're right. We wouldn't survive in here," Mike says. "But it's not about us. It's about you, Eli." He takes a step closer. "And whether you think this place is a prison or not, it's giving you a shot."

Eli's sneer falters just slightly, but he quickly recovers, crossing his arms over his chest like a shield. "Yeah, sure. A shot at what? Living in a nicer cage?"

Mike sighs deeply.

He knows he's not going to convince this kid in a single conversation. He's been around too many people like Elijah to know that trust isn't built with words. It's built with time, with actions. And right now, this kid doesn't owe anyone his trust.

But Mike also knows sometimes the only thing keeping someone like Eli from drowning is one person showing up. Even if it's just for a moment. Even if it's just to let them know they're not invisible.

"You don't have to like it," Mike says evenly. "But if you're smart, you'll use it. You get a choice here, even if it doesn't feel like it."

He glances sideways at Harvey, waiting for him to say something, but Harvey's barely paying attention, his eyes fixed on the boy like a magnet.

Eli's tousled, fiery red hair contrasts vividly against the neutral tones of the hallway, making him stand out even more.

Instead of the softer roundness of youth, he sports the rugged, muscular planes of a man. His eyebrows are thick slashes of chestnut above long-lashed brown eyes, the few day's-worth of stubble showcasing his full lips and square jaw.

The freckles give his masculine face a gentle appeal; they're more pronounced in a band across his nose and cheeks, only to taper off on the rest of his face. A glorious mix of cinnamon, mocha, and caramel on pale, luminescent skin—a striking resemblance to a certain redhead Harvey knows.

He pushes away the recurring thought of Donna. He has thought of her so many times over the last few weeks that her presence is a well-worn trail through his mind. He continually has to shake the images off, like leeches sucking on his brain.

And now here's this troubled sixteen-year-old—a stranger to him, but his features a mirror image of the woman he cares so deeply about—and his instincts are telling him there's something special about this boy. A connection Harvey can't explain rationally.

It's unsettling. Distracting. He can't focus on what Mike is saying, can't even think about the case. All he can think about is how this kid could be related to Donna.

Eli's voice snaps Harvey out of his thoughts, breaking the spell with a low chuckle. "Dude, quit staring at me like that. It's creepy," he says with a smirk. "You look like you've never seen a boy with ginger hair before."

Harvey blinks, quickly recovering from his initial shock. "Don't flatter yourself," he replies smoothly, slipping back into his usual composed tone. "But I admit, this is the first time I'm seeing one who seems to have a personal stylist."

The teen's smirk widens, clearly amused.

"You look like a walking advertisement for a ginger hair product," Harvey adds, the quip rolling off his tongue with ease.

"Maybe I can make a career out of it in prison," Eli shoots back, his voice dipped in that same biting sarcasm from earlier. The only difference is, this time, it's almost playful.

"Hey, you are not going to prison," Mike interjects. "We're here to make sure of that," he assures him. "To help you."

"Yeah, sure," Eli mutters. "Everyone's here to help."

Mike sighs, giving Eli a soft smile. "Trust me, we're not just saying that. We've got your back, kid."

Eli shrugs, but Harvey can see the way the boy's shoulders tighten, the way he's holding himself together like he's used to being let down. Harvey leans against the doorway, arms crossed. "So, tell me, how did you end up in this mess in the first place?"

Eli's eyes narrow as he meets Harvey's stare, like he's trying to figure out if this is a trick or just another empty question. "Maybe you should talk to my birth parents… Pretty sure the mess all started when they decided I wasn't worth keeping."

Before Harvey can respond, Eli brushes past them, heading into the living room with barely a glance. Harvey huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he follows. "Oh, come on, buddy! Aren't you a little too old to play the victim card?"

Mike immediately tenses beside him. "Harvey," he warns. "Stop."

Harvey rolls his eyes, giving Mike a side-eye as if to say, Relax. I know what I'm doing.

He watches as Eli slumps down into one of the beanbags, looking every bit like he's ready for a fight. The kid clearly doesn't appreciate being pushed, but Harvey's not here to coddle him. He steps further into the room, taking a seat on the edge of the sectional, his eyes still trained on Eli.

"Hey," he says, softening his tone ever so slightly, attempting a more subtle approach, "I just want to know what happened so I can defend you in court. It's not like you swiped a couple of packs of cigarettes from a convenience store. Identity theft, stock manipulation… you're in some serious shit, kid."

The room goes still for a beat. Eli's jaw tightens, his eyes flashing with a mix of frustration and shame.

Without warning, he grabs one of the throw pillows and hurls it across the room, aiming right at Harvey's head. Harvey catches the pillow just before it smacks him in the face. He can't help the smirk that pulls at his lips as he drops it beside him.

This one's a bit of a hothead, he thinks, but he likes that. There's fire there, underneath all the anger and bitterness. He'd rather deal with a kid who's got some fight in him than one who's already given up.

"I didn't mean to hurt anyone," Eli growls, his hands clenching into fists on his knees. "I just… I just needed some money."

"Yeah, well, here's a piece of advice," Harvey says, his smirk fading. "When you go after people's money, you hit them where it really hurts. They're going to get angry. Unfortunately for you, this time they called in the SEC."

He pauses briefly, letting his words sink in. "And the SEC doesn't give a damn that you're just a child. Neither will the prosecution. They're going to come down on you like a ton of bricks, accusing you of breaking the rules and getting an unfair advantage."

"Isn't it your job to fix this?" Eli retorts. He sounds angry suddenly, face set, jaw jumping, eyes locked on Harvey. "Aren't you supposed to be the one getting me out of this mess?"

Mike steps forward, trying to defuse the tension. "Eli, if you want our help in staying out of prison, you need to cooperate," he says gently.

Eli's eyes dart to Mike, then back to Harvey, his expression hardening again. "I'm so sick of hearing you people say that," he scoffs, practically shouting. "You know what happened the last time someone said they were here to help? They threw me into the fucking system."

"Well, we're not them," Mike says. "And we're going to prove it."

Harvey pushes himself off the sofa, a hint of frustration brewing beneath his calm exterior. "I get that life dealt you a shitty hand, kid. And I can't blame you for being angry at the world." He gives the beanbag Eli's sitting on a little kick, the fabric rustling softly. "But we're not your enemies, and, eventually, you're gonna have to trust us."

Eli pulls his lips into a thin line as he rolls his eyes. He hisses quietly through gritted teeth before muttering, "So, what happens next?" His gaze drifts from Harvey to the floor, like he's trying to avoid locking eyes with either of them, before he finally looks up.

"We're gonna investigate the circumstances of what you did, interview witnesses, go through financial records, and analyze the trades in question," Harvey says casually.

"Then we build a defense strategy," Mike adds.

"And what does that look like?" Eli asks, skepticism in his tone.

"Well, I guess lack of intent isn't an option, because clearly you're a smart guy and knew you were acting illegally, right?" Harvey raises an eyebrow at the boy, challenging him.

Eli shifts uncomfortably on the beanbag, but says nothing.

"So, we could argue that while you had access to the information, you didn't realize it was insider knowledge, but—"

"They won't believe it," Harvey finishes Mike's sentence. He shoots Eli a quick glance, waiting to see if the kid will protest, but he just sinks deeper into the beanbag, as if hoping it will swallow him up.

"Which leaves us with coercion," Mike says, his voice dropping slightly, almost as if he's testing the waters.

"Coercion?" Eli tenses visibly, his body stiffening like a coiled spring. He sits up straighter, his eyes flicking between Harvey and Mike. It's subtle, but they catch it—the flash of fear that darts across his face.

"We argue that someone older or with authority pressured you into making the trades," Mike explains.

"But that's not… I wasn't…" Eli's words stumble out, disjointed. "That's not what this was."

Harvey narrows his eyes, suspicion lacing his features. "Why are you getting so defensive about this?"

Eli launches himself off the beanbag in one swift motion, standing toe to toe with Harvey now. "Because I'm not anyone's pawn," he says, his voice poised and in control. "I make my own damn decisions."

The kid's words are defiant, but there's something off, Harvey thinks. It doesn't line up. Not completely. He could push harder, try to break through that wall, but something tells him to let it go for now.

"Fine," Harvey sneers. His eyes darken, and he stuffs his hands into his pockets, the rigid set of his shoulders revealing his frustration. "Then I guess coercion's off the table, and we negotiate a plea deal."

"It might be our best option. We can limit the damage," Mike tries to ease Eli into the idea. His gaze sharpens slightly as he tilts his head, studying him intently as he tries to piece together why the kid's reaction is so visceral. "Unless, of course, there's something you're not telling us," he adds.

Eli looks past Mike and Harvey, jaw clenched, before abruptly turning on his heel. "Are we done here?" he asks, his voice hollow, as he strides over to the window. The light from the sun casts a faint glow across his face as he stares out at the streets, hands bracing against the windowsill. "I'm tired," he mutters, almost to himself, "and I need a break."

Harvey rolls his eyes. "Sure," he snorts. "It's not like this is a big deal or anything." His tone drips with sarcasm, and he throws a glance at Mike as if to say, Can you believe this kid?

"Harvey," Mike says, his voice quieter, laced with caution. He watches the teen at the window for a moment, then continues, "I think Eli has a point. We've hit him with a lot. We need to give him some time to let all of this sink in."

Harvey sighs, his posture softening just slightly, though his jaw remains tight. "Yeah, yeah, I get it," he mutters, waving a hand dismissively as he walks past Mike into the hallway. "We're going."

"But we'll talk to you soon," Mike adds, his gaze boring into Eli's back. Eli doesn't turn around, but he nods, a small, nearly imperceptible motion.

Mike and Harvey exchange a quick glance and then leave, saying goodbye to Melinda on their way out.

"I hope he didn't cause more trouble," she sighs, her hands nervously twisting the hem of her sweater. "Elijah's a really great kid, but his past… It broke him."

She glances toward the window, where Eli remains unmoving. "I think there hasn't been a day in his life where he ever felt really loved, or even wanted." Her voice cracks, and she quickly looks away, trying to compose herself. "He knows it isn't his fault, but, you know, he's still a kid, so…"

Mike's expression softens, and he gives Melinda a reassuring smile. "We understand," he says gently. "And I promise you, Ms. Ortiz, Harvey and I will do everything in our power to win this case." Harvey, standing beside him, nods stiffly, though his mind is elsewhere, his thoughts swirling as they walk out the door.

The drive back to the firm is quiet, both men lost in their own thoughts. As they reach Harvey's office, Harvey throws his jacket onto the couch and sits down at his desk, opening a file on his computer, while Mike takes a seat across from him.

"So, are we gonna talk about the obvious?" he teases, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, as if he's been waiting for this moment all day.

Harvey barely glances at him, tilting his head with just enough effort to show his mild irritation. His eyes narrow slightly as he gives Mike a side-eye, the kind that screams not now.

"Come on, Harvey, you can't deny the resemblance is striking. If Donna had a kid... a teenager... that's exactly how—"

"Shut up, Mike," Harvey growls, his voice rough. He leans further into his chair, and rubs his face with both hands, as if trying to erase the weariness that's been building for hours. "We have more important things to discuss right now," he mutters through his fingers, then lets out a long sigh.

"We should go for the plea deal," he says, his voice now more measured, like he's thinking aloud rather than explaining. "Eli's a minor, so even with the amount of profit he made, they might let him off with a reduced sentence. There's a good chance we can play the 'young and misguided' card here."

He picks up a pen and twiddles it rapidly between his index and middle fingers. He watches the flip of the pen, absorbed in thought, silent.

"I want you to figure out what the prosecution has on him and how they're going to spin it," he then says. "Knowing Malik, he'll paint Eli as a willing participant in a larger scheme, not some naïve kid who made a mistake."

"What if we can prove it was a larger scheme, but Eli's innocent?"

Harvey's brow furrows. "You really think there's more to this than just a lapse of judgment?"

Mike shrugs, exhaling sharply. "There's always more beneath the surface with these kids, Harvey," he reckons. "They're vulnerable."

"And you won't let this go, huh? Even if I tell you to..."

"It's just a feeling, but you saw how he reacted when we mentioned it. There's no way he pulled that off himself, even with the information he got. Even if we assume he's the smartest sixteen-year-old on the planet, it's too clean. Too calculated."

Harvey clenches his jaw. He doesn't like chasing feelings, but he knows better than to ignore Mike's instincts. "If you can't find any solid evidence in two days—two days, Mike—I'm shutting it down."

"Two days," Mike repeats, nodding.

"We need to find out who else was a part of this," Harvey mumbles. "If there's anyone who could tell us more about this merger or about Eli's involvement."

"There's the CEO of TechNova, but he won't give us anything new. Just the same story—Eli created a brokerage account under his name, made a quick profit. Then there's Eli's boss and one of his colleagues. Supposedly, the colleague Eli was with when he found that document."

"Let's bring the kid in for questioning," Harvey suggests. "I'm still not sure he understands how serious this is, so we will lay it out to him. Maybe he'll crack. Give us a name."

"I'll make sure he comes to the firm."

"And we need to prepare his testimony… Can't have him act like an arrogant prick in court," he growls. "The jury needs to see him as a kid who got in over his head, not some cocky teenager trying to game the system."

Mike huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. "And how exactly do you plan on doing that? Eli's not exactly what you'd call... charming. If anything, he's kinda like you," he smirks, unable to resist. "Sharp mind, but completely lacking in the emotional department."

Harvey shoots him a look, but the corner of his mouth twitches into a reluctant grin. "Oh, ha-ha, very funny, Mike. Maybe I'll let you be the one to teach him some charm."

"God help us all," Mike quips, chuckling.