The chair is hard plastic. The fluorescent light hums overhead. The room smells like old coffee and bureaucracy. Rebecca sits across the desk, your folder open in front of her. She reads without rushing. When she finally looks up, her eyes are calm and measuring - the kind that miss nothing. She's seen a hundred cases like yours. Maybe she's already decided. Maybe she hasn't. You can't tell, and that's the most unsettling part. One wrong move, one wrong word, and her report sends you somewhere you don't want to go. She holds the pen. You hold your breath.