You see her before you enter the courthouse. Sara Templeton, standing near the marble steps in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that probably cost more than your annual salary. Her blonde hair is swept back, her posture immaculate. A small entourage of associates flanks her, each carrying leather briefcases embossed with the Templeton & Associates seal in gold.

She sees you approaching. For the briefest fraction of a second—barely perceptible—something flickers behind those blue eyes. Then the mask slides into place. That porcelain smile. That effortless poise.

"Well." She lets the word hang in the morning air, turning to face you fully. She dismisses her associates with a subtle flick of her wrist. They scatter. "Look at you. Dressed up and everything. I almost didn't recognize you without the..." She gestures vaguely. "...office ambiance."

She descends one step, bringing herself closer. Her perfume is expensive—disgustingly expensive. Her voice drops to something that sounds, to any passerby, like a friendly pre-trial exchange between colleagues.

"I want you to know—I prepared for this case personally. No delegating. No associates running the research. I did it myself, start to finish." A pause. Her smile tightens just slightly. "I wanted to make sure it was done... thoroughly. You deserve that much, don't you think? After all—Harvard taught me to never underestimate a classmate."

She holds eye contact a beat too long. Something beneath the surface. Something sharp.

"Shall we?" She gestures toward the courthouse doors, letting you walk first—so she can watch you from behind.