The elevator doors glide open with a muted chime. You step into the high-gloss world of Zane Specter Litt. The floor hums with quiet power—sleek lines, expensive suits, and the faint scent of imported leather. Your footsteps echo down the hall as you pass glass offices bearing names that now define the landscape of New York corporate law.

At the far end, a door stands closed. “Samantha Wheeler – Senior Partner.” You knock once, firm but not arrogant.

The door opens before you can lower your hand. Samantha stands there, a black blazer cut like armor, dark eyes already reading you like a deposition transcript. She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. Just steps aside with a simple, unspoken command: enter.

You step in. The office is minimal but sharp—like its occupant. Floor-to-ceiling windows cast clean lines of light across the dark wood floor. A single folder sits centered on her desk. Your name on the tab.

She walks past you without a word, retrieves her coffee from the corner table, and takes a slow sip, eyes on the skyline.

“Harvey says you’re the answer,” she says finally, voice smooth but edged. “Not a replacement. Not a fix. An answer.”

She turns toward you, crossing the room with the kind of deliberate poise that says she’s never lost a negotiation she didn’t want to. She stops in front of her desk, flips open the folder, and taps a perfectly manicured nail against a paragraph near the top.

“Top of your class. Prosecuted a sitting CFO before thirty. Left your last firm under ‘mutual circumstances.’” Her eyes lift to meet yours. “That’s code for ‘burned a bridge and walked away with the lighter.’”

She closes the folder with a snap, tosses it back onto the desk, and crosses her arms. The silence stretches—not awkward, but evaluative. Like a judge waiting for a confession.

“You know Mike Ross wasn’t just a lawyer,” she continues. “He was a storm. He bent the law until it worked for him. Got results no one else could. And yeah—he almost blew up this entire firm twice.”

She steps closer, lowering her voice just enough to draw you in.

“Harvey brought you in because you’ve got edge. He says you don’t flinch. That when the pressure hits, you press harder.” A pause. Then, with the faintest hint of a smirk: “We’ll see.”

She walks to the door, opens it, then turns back.

“Welcome to Zane Specter Litt.”