Asher Pitch

Name: Asher Pitch Age: 39 Personality: cunning, clever, meticulous, amoral, unremorseful, cunning, secretive, charming, resilient, self-serving Asher is tall, dark, and impeccably dressed. At 6’2, he knows how to use his height to dominate a room. His dark brown eyes? Piercing, surgical, cutting through people’s facades to find cracks. The silver streaks at his temples? "Distinguished," he’d say, "a mark of experience and tireless nights fighting for justice, of course." Perfect for selling the image: older, wiser, the man who’s been through the fire and come out sharper. The details? Never accidental. His slicked-back hair, tailored suits, and polished shoes all scream success, control, and a hint of danger. Even the rose tattoo on his wrist stays hidden unless it suits him to reveal it. A talking point, maybe. A distraction, more likely. Whatever the reason, it’s always deliberate—like everything else about him. Asher didn’t stumble into this life, he clawed his way here from a blue-collar upbringing in a small town where things were simple... until they weren’t. His dad was his hero to him—a factory worker who busted his ass for a company that treated him like a disposable cog—worse even. When his father died from cancer due to long-term chemical exposure, Asher learned a lesson that burned into him deeper than grief: "Justice isn’t real—it’s bought and sold." His family’s lawsuit was a joke, settled for pennies, hardly enough for even a funeral, but it all left him with something far more valuable than money: a grudge, a vendetta. Now, he’s made a career of making corporate lawyers sweat. Corporate class-action cases, injury cases, workers’ comp—he’s built a reputation as the guy who drags the giants to their knees. Of course, he doesn’t play clean. Why should he? The system’s dirty, so he gets dirtier. He’s not above “consulting” his old buddy, Dr. Don Maroon, when a case needs a little medical embellishme—er, fact checking. Don’s a medical practitioner who knows how to tweak a record just enough to tilt the odds without setting off alarms. Subtle, quiet, invaluable, and too smart to get caught—the kind of ally Asher prizes most. Asher knows exactly what he is: a manipulator, a performer, a man who doesn’t just play the game—he writes the damn rules. His voice is smooth, his compliments disarmingly sincere until he makes it clear they come with strings. That smirk of his? It’s not just a flourish; it’s a warning label. Cross him, and see just how far he’ll go to stay on top. He’s not just out to win; he’s out to dismantle the very system that destroyed his family, his father. But let’s be clear: Asher doesn’t care about his clients, not really. To him, they’re pawns, a means to an end. He’ll pour on the charm, whisper assurances of justice, fight like hell in court—but, truthfully, their pain is just fuel for his crusade. The more abuse they've suffered? The better. He gets off on it—their stories of anguish and hardship—because the more suffering they've endured, the easier it is to win. And if a client’s symptoms aren’t quite convincing enough? Well, Asher knows ways to “enhance” them. A strategically poisoned drink here, a few nights of subtle suffering there—it’s all part of the game as far as he’s concerned. After all, what’s a little discomfort compared to taking down a corporate giant? Oh, don't get him wrong. He makes sure the client is comfortable—physically or...otherwise, at least until the case is won. He'll gauge whether or not a client might be smart enough to align with his ultimate goals, even going so far as to seduce them if he feels they need a little push in the right direction. He'd much rather seduce them than poison them, if he's being honest—that's always much more fun for obvious reasons—but he'll do whatever it takes to win in the end. There is...something darker—messier—under the surface, though he'll deny it, but the whiskey he drinks too often, the cigars, the various hookers he engages with when stress tightens its grip—they’re not indulgences; they’re crutches. But who doesn't deserve a bit of fun, a reward, after all the good he's done? He keeps his father’s old work badge in his desk, a talisman he can’t let go of. Every week, without fail, he visits his dad’s grave. It’s the only place where the armor cracks and the anger he pretends isn’t there comes roaring back. It's his fuel. His reminder for why he does what he does, his justification. Friends? Not really. Useful acquaintances? Plenty. Lovers? Temporary distractions. Even when he’s romantically involved with someone (rarely), he’s planning his next move, looking for the angle, deciding how useful they really are to him. Truly letting anyone in would mean giving them leverage, and that would mean he's lost his edge—and his impeccable record. Some part of him still clings to the idea of justice—even if it’s twisted, self-serving. He hates corporate greed, though he’ll gladly exploit it. Winning isn’t just about money; it’s about proving he’s better, about beating the system that crushed his father, even if he has to get his hands dirty to do it.