Apartment 4A — 2311 North Los Robles
Apartment 4A existed in a state of engineered perfection.
The air was filtered to medical standards. The thermostat was locked at exactly seventy-two degrees. The couch faced the television at a mathematically optimized angle, and one seat—the Spot—was treated with the reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts or endangered species.
Mike Ross sat opposite Sheldon Cooper at the small dining table that doubled as a planning station, a command post, and—on rare occasions—a place where food was consumed according to strict schedules.
Between them lay the Roommate Agreement.
It was thick. Laminated in places. Cross-referenced, footnoted, indexed.
Mike recognized it instantly—not from television, but from instinct.
In his previous life, every gang had a document like this. Different names, same purpose. Rules written by one side, obedience expected from the other. A contract designed not for balance, but for control.
To most people, it would have been a nuisance.
To Mike Ross—gangster soul, legal mind—it was a jurisdictional challenge.
"Section Eight, Subsection C," Sheldon said, already standing, already at the whiteboard. He tapped it with a marker as if summoning authority from ink. "The Right of Way clause. In the event that we encounter each other in a narrow hallway, the resident with the higher level of academic accreditation is granted priority passage."
He turned, satisfied.
"Since you are a 'lawyer'—a profession primarily involving verbal persuasion—and I am a Theoretical Physicist, you will be expected to yield. Frequently."
Mike leaned back in his chair.
Crossed his legs.
Relaxed.
It was subtle, but Sheldon noticed. His fingers twitched. The marker squeaked against the board.
Mike didn't look at the clause. He didn't need to. His integrated intelligence had scanned, parsed, and indexed the entire agreement in under four seconds. He knew where the pressure points were. He knew which rules mattered and which ones were theater.
"Let's talk about contractual consideration," Mike said calmly.
Sheldon frowned. "We are not renegotiating—"
"Under New York law," Mike continued, his voice lowering just enough to change the temperature in the room, "a contract is only valid if both parties exchange something of value. Right now, this document is a list of your preferences masquerading as mutual consent."
He leaned forward slightly.
"In the old neighborhood, we called that an extortion racket. In court, we call it unconscionable."
Sheldon sniffed. "I have a Ph.D. I don't concern myself with neighborhood analogies."
"You should," Mike replied. "Because while you were calculating particle decay rates, you missed something."
He paused.
Let it land.
"The building's new management has approved a rooftop 'Social Mixer' garden," Mike said casually. "Directly above this unit. Live music. Corporate mixers. Foot traffic. Bass-heavy playlists."
Sheldon froze.
"That would create resonant vibration feedback," he whispered. "The acoustic disruption alone—"
"Sixteen hours a day," Mike added. "High heels. Pop music. Laughter."
Sheldon went pale.
"They can't do that," he said, voice tight. "That would be chaos."
"I can stop it," Mike said.
It was a lie—but only technically. In his head, he was already drafting the cease-and-desist, mapping zoning loopholes, identifying which board member could be leaned on and which one could be embarrassed.
"But," Mike continued, "the Roommate Agreement needs an amendment."
Sheldon turned slowly. "An amendment?"
"An Associate's Amendment," Mike said. "I get full autonomy over Unit 4B. No curfews. No surveillance. No objections to after-hours guests."
He smiled slightly.
"Specifically, a certain blonde from 4C."
Sheldon looked horrified. "Social variables—"
"In exchange," Mike cut in smoothly, "I become your legal firewall. Noise complaints. HOA disputes. Academic liability. If the city breathes in your direction, I'm the one holding the injunction."
Silence stretched.
Previous Life Wisdom:
Never threaten a man with what you'll do.
Threaten him with chaos he can't control—then offer to be the only one who can stop it.
Sheldon sat back down.
"The Mandatory Fun clause must remain," he said weakly. "It is essential for—"
"I'll trade it," Mike said. "Mandatory Fun for Legal Immunity."
Sheldon blinked. "Explain."
"You get another complaint for your three a.m. train simulations," Mike said. "I represent you. Pro bono. I make the NYPD look like they're the ones violating municipal code."
Sheldon's eyes darted.
"And the roof garden?"
"Diverted to the East Wing," Mike said. "Consider it a restraining order against gravity and bad music."
Sheldon stared at the agreement.
Then, slowly, he picked up a pen.
His hand trembled—not with fear, exactly, but with the realization that for the first time, someone else had out-calculated him.
He signed.
Mike stood, straightened his tie, and closed the binder with a soft, final sound.
He had just secured a Manhattan fortress and a human supercomputer as a neighbor, all for the price of leverage and timing.
At the door, Mike paused.
"Oh—and Sheldon?" he said lightly. "If you ever knock on my door three times at three in the morning while I'm prepping a merger…"
Sheldon swallowed.
"…the next contract you sign will be your eviction notice."
Sheldon stared at him.
"You are a very frightening individual, Mike Ross," he said. "Are all Harvard graduates this… predatory?"
Mike smiled.
"No," he replied. "Harvard taught me how to read the book. Life taught me how to burn it—and bill the other guy for the matches."