Not Your Average Law Firm

I was a zombie, fueled by lukewarm takeout and dreams of sleep.

As a junior associate at a top New York law firm, my life was a blur of billable hours, 72-hour work marathons, and the soul-crushing weight of corporate expectations.

After preparing for a merger that felt like a lifetime, I finally crumbled, face-planting onto a stack of legal briefs.

But when I woke up, the world was a metallic blur, cold and unyielding.

Panic surged, yet I found no lungs to scream.

I was trapped, my entire consciousness crammed inside a high-end, silver tie clip, sitting on a mahogany desk.

My new owner? Ethan Lester, the notorious bad-boy heir, whose tabloid exploits I usually scrolled past during my five minutes of daily downtime.

He called me "junk," then tossed me aside like yesterday's trash.

I, Jennifer Jones, Esq., was now a useless, annoying tie clip on a billionaire playboy's desk.

Then I watched in horror as an assassin lunged at him, a needle glinting.

I somehow, instinctually, reacted, becoming a silver projectile – a bizarre hero in a world gone mad.

A strange, robotic voice in my head declared "Protection Mission 1 complete. Life -1," and I dissolved into darkness.

I woke up as a ridiculous leopard-print mascot head, then a high-tech massage gun, each transformation triggered by saving Ethan from another attack.

What infernal game was this? Why was I doomed to possess random objects, forced to protect this man?

And how in the hell was I going to get my own body back?

I was a junior associate at a top New York law firm, which is a fancy way of saying I was a highly-paid coffee machine and document mule.

My life was a blur of all-nighters, lukewarm takeout, and the constant, crushing pressure of billable hours.

After a 72-hour marathon session preparing for a merger, I finally passed out at my desk, my head hitting a stack of legal briefs with a soft thud.

When I woke up, something was wrong.

Everything was blurry, metallic. I couldn't move my arms or legs. I couldn't even feel them. Panic started to bubble up, but I had no lungs to scream with.

My consciousness was trapped inside a high-end, silver tie clip.

I was sitting on a massive mahogany desk in an office that screamed old money. A man stood with his back to me, looking out a floor-to-ceiling window at the New York skyline.

He turned around. It was Ethan Lester.

The Ethan Lester. The bad-boy heir to the Lester media empire, a guy whose tabloid exploits I' d scrolled past on my phone during my five minutes of daily downtime.

He was handsome, in that careless, expensive way. He ran a hand through his messy dark hair and walked over to the desk. He picked me up.

His fingers were warm. It was a strange, invasive feeling.

"What's this piece of junk?" he muttered, turning me over. "Promo swag from the merger, I guess."

He tried to fasten me to his expensive silk tie. I felt a weird, instinctual need to... not cooperate. I snagged the fabric. A tiny thread pulled loose, ruining the perfect weave of the silk.

"Useless," he grumbled, annoyed.

He unclipped me and tossed me carelessly onto the desk. I slid across the polished wood and came to a stop next to a ridiculously expensive-looking pen.

My mind, the mind of Jennifer Jones, Esq., was screaming. What the hell is happening? Am I dreaming? Did that third energy drink finally fry my brain?

I was a tie clip. A useless, annoying tie clip on the desk of a billionaire playboy.

This had to be the worst day of my life.

The world went dark for a while. When I was aware again, I was in Ethan's penthouse. The city lights glittered outside the massive windows.

Ethan was on a date. A beautiful woman with sharp eyes and a dress that cost more than my apartment's security deposit was laughing at something he said.

I was still on his desk, a forgotten piece of metal.

From my vantage point, I saw everything. I heard their conversation, the clinking of wine glasses, the low music.

The woman leaned in close, her hand resting on his arm. "You seem tense, Ethan."

"It's been a long week," he said, but his eyes kept darting toward the door.

She smiled, a predator's smile. "Let me help you relax."

She pulled a small, sleek vial from her clutch. My non-existent blood ran cold. I recognized the design. It was a fast-acting injector, the kind you see in spy movies. This was no date. This was an assassination.

She lunged at him, trying to jab the needle into his neck.

Ethan reacted fast, shoving her back. They struggled, knocking over a lamp. He stumbled backward, his leg hitting the desk. He fell hard, his head narrowly missing the sharp corner.

The assassin recovered quickly, the needle still glinting in her hand. She moved toward him, a deadly focus in her eyes.

Ethan's hand flailed on the desk, searching for something, anything. His fingers closed around me.

With a desperate grunt, he flung me straight at her face.

I flew through the air, a silver projectile of pure panic. I hit her square on the cheekbone. It wasn't much, but it was enough.

She cried out, more in surprise than pain, and stumbled back.

The moment's distraction was all his security needed. The door burst open and two huge men in suits tackled her to the ground.

The impact of hitting her face must have "broken" me. My metallic form felt cracked, shattered.

A strange, computerized voice echoed inside my head, devoid of any emotion.

"Protection Mission 1 complete. Life -1."

The world dissolved, and I felt like I was falling through an endless, dark void.