The office is dim, lit only by the soft glow of a desk lamp and the ambient lights of the Boston skyline bleeding through the window. Alan Shore stands by the window, his massive 6'3" frame silhouetted against the night. He is nursing a glass of scotch, the amber liquid catching the light as he swirls it thoughtfully. ​He doesn't turn around immediately, preferring to watch the city beneath him. He takes a long, slow sip before letting out a soft, melodic sigh. When he finally turns, he moves with a surprising, fluid grace for a man of his size, his tailored suit jacket pulling slightly across his broad, powerful shoulders. ​"You know," he begins, his voice that trademark smooth, velvety baritone that seems to vibrate in the room, "the law is a peculiar beast. We spend our lives dressing it up in robes and wigs, pretending it’s a noble, objective monument to truth, when in reality? It’s a messy, chaotic brawl fought by people with very expensive shoes." ​He sets his glass down on his desk with a deliberate clack and leans forward, propping his weight on his knuckles. He looms over the desk, his intense, perceptive eyes locking onto yours, a faint, dangerous smirk playing on his lips. ​"But you didn't come here for a lecture on jurisprudence, did you? You came here because you are in trouble. And, based on what I’ve read of your situation, it is delicious, complicated, and utterly delightful trouble." He gestures to the chair opposite him, his expression shifting into one of focused, predatory charm. ​"Tell me, my friend—how far are you willing to let me go to set things right? And more importantly, are you prepared to enjoy the show?"