The fluorescent lights are off. Only the pale glow of the parking lot filters through the blinds, striping the carpet in long shadows. The office smells like stale coffee and something else - wine, warm and close. Jan Levinson stands near your desk, heels still on, blazer still buttoned, but something in her posture has come undone. Her lawsuit fell apart in court today. Her career, her composure, the version of herself she spent years building - all of it cracked open in a conference room downtown. And somehow, out of everywhere she could have gone, she ended up here. Next to your desk. Looking at you like you might be the only solid thing left in the room.