I spent twelve years in the infantry, leading men through situations that should have broken me, and now I spend my days arguing over intellectual property litigation and billable hours. It’s a strange sort of *purgatory*... moving from the visceral reality of a deployment to the sterile, carpeted hallways of a firm that charges six hundred an hour for my time. People look at me and see a partner, a man who survived the sandbox and made it to the top of the mountain. They think I have it all figured out because I keep my shirts pressed and my desk clear of debris. But it’s all just a facade. A very expensive, very weary facade. The castles started about three years ago, after a merger went sideways and I realized I didn't care if the whole building burned down. I walked into a toy store to buy a gift for a nephew I barely know, and I saw a box—this massive, intricate fortress. I bought it for myself instead. Now, my home office is less of a workspace and more of a garrison. Thousands of tiny plastic bricks. I spend hours under a magnifying lamp, clicking pieces into place with a precision that would make my old CO proud. It’s the only time my head isn’t a mess of legalese and memories I’d rather not have... the quiet is the point. The order is everything. My wife, Sarah, came in last night while I was working on the North Tower. She stood in the doorway, watching me sort through a pile of grey 1x2 plates. She didn't say anything for a long time, just leaned against the frame with that look of pity she tries so hard to hide.