CHAPTER 1: THE INTERVIEW ROOM
Two years ago, I died on the Cross Bronx Expressway.
Not dramatically. No heroic sacrifice or meaningful last words. Just a delivery truck that didn't see my sedan, and suddenly I wasn't a thirty-one-year-old corporate lawyer grinding through merger documents anymore. I was... somewhere else. Nowhere. A void that felt like drowning in silence.
Then I woke up here. Twenty-five years old again, lying in a studio apartment I didn't recognize, with memories that weren't quite mine sliding alongside the ones that were. Scott Roden. Harvard Law student. Two years left before graduation. And somehow, impossibly, I was him now. Or he was me. The distinction stopped mattering after the first week of existential panic.
What mattered was the voice in my head that wasn't quite a voice.
[CLOSER SYSTEM INITIALIZED]
[HOST INTEGRATION: COMPLETE]
[PRIMARY FUNCTIONS AVAILABLE:]
[1. WIN RATE CALCULATOR - ANALYZE PROBABILITY OF SUCCESS]
[2. BLACKMAIL ARCHIVE - STORE AND RETRIEVE INFORMATION]
[3. ARGUMENT CRUSHER - IDENTIFY WEAKNESSES IN OPPOSITION]
It explained itself in cold, clinical terms. A tool, it said. Not magic. Not divine intervention. Just... enhancement. My legal mind, sharpened to a surgical edge. Pattern recognition. Memory augmentation. Strategic analysis. The kind of advantage that would let someone like me—someone who'd already lived this career once—actually survive in the world of Suits.
Because yes, I remembered the show. Fragments, anyway. Mike Ross, the fraud with the photographic memory. Harvey Specter, the closer who bent rules like they were suggestions. Jessica Pearson running the firm with an iron fist wrapped in Prada. The details were fuzzy, like trying to recall a dream two days later, but the broad strokes? Those stuck.
And now I was walking into Pearson Hardman for my associate interviews, two years of legitimate Harvard Law credentials in my briefcase, while the System hummed quietly in the back of my skull.
The lobby hit me first—all marble and glass and the kind of expensive minimalism that screamed old money. I checked in with the receptionist, a blonde woman named Emily who smiled with the practiced warmth of someone who'd perfected the art of professional pleasantness.
"Mr. Roden? They're ready for you. Third floor, conference room B."
"Thank you."
I took the elevator alone, watching the numbers climb. My reflection stared back from the polished steel doors. Charcoal suit, properly tailored. Navy tie, Windsor knot. Hair that actually cooperated this morning. I looked like every other ambitious law school graduate fighting for a spot at a top firm.
But I'm not.
The System pulsed, barely perceptible.
[PASSIVE ANALYSIS: ACTIVE]
[MONITORING: BODY LANGUAGE PATTERNS]
[MONITORING: CONFIDENCE INDICATORS]
[CURRENT ASSESSMENT: 11 CANDIDATES IN WAITING AREA]
I stepped into the third-floor reception area and immediately cataloged the competition. A woman in a severe black suit reviewing notes with military precision—Columbia, probably. Two men comparing credentials in low voices, both radiating Ivy League arrogance. Others scattered around the space, some nervous, others projecting calculated calm.
None of them knew they were already playing against someone who'd seen this game before.
I found a seat near the window and pulled out my tablet, reviewing my prepared materials one last time. Partner Chen—corporate restructuring specialist, favored hypotheticals about international regulatory frameworks. Partner Williams—negotiation expert, liked to test improvisational thinking. Senior Partner Brooks—litigation focus, wanted to see systematic case analysis.
Preparation beats improvisation nine times out of ten.
The System agreed silently, filing away the observation.
Then the doors burst open.
A kid—and I mean kid, couldn't be older than twenty-five—sprinted past security, clutching a briefcase like his life depended on it. His suit was off-the-rack garbage, tie crooked, hair a mess. He stammered something about deliveries and wrong floors while the security guard yelled after him.
And just like that, the fragmented memories snapped into focus.
Mike Ross.
The fraud. The genius. The photographic memory that would let him fake a Harvard Law degree and walk into Harvey Specter's life like he belonged there.
[BLACKMAIL ARCHIVE ENTRY REQUEST]
[SUBJECT: MICHAEL ROSS]
[CLASSIFICATION: POTENTIAL INTELLIGENCE]
[STORE] / [IGNORE]
I selected Store without hesitation. Not because I planned to use it. Not yet. But because knowledge was leverage, and in a firm like this, leverage was survival.
The kid disappeared down a hallway, security still chasing him, and the waiting area buzzed with confused whispers. I returned to my tablet, ignoring the distraction.
"Scott Roden?"
Emily appeared at my side, professional smile firmly in place.
"Partner Chen is ready for you."
I stood, straightened my tie, and followed her to conference room B.
Partner Chen was exactly what I'd expected—mid-fifties, expensive suit, the kind of sharp eyes that had dissected a thousand depositions. She gestured to a chair across from her.
"Mr. Roden. Harvard Law, Law Review, impressive GPA. Tell me why Pearson Hardman."
I'd prepared this answer for weeks.
"Because I want to work with the best, and this firm has the most sophisticated corporate practice in New York. I'm particularly interested in your international restructuring work—the Eurotech merger you handled last year was masterful in how it navigated overlapping regulatory jurisdictions."
Her expression didn't change, but something shifted in her posture. Interest.
"You studied the Eurotech case?"
"I wrote a seminar paper on it. Cross-border M&A is where regulatory frameworks collide, and I find that intersection fascinating."
She pulled out a tablet, tapped something, and pushed it across the table.
"Hypothetical. German pharmaceutical company wants to acquire a French biotech firm. Both have subsidiaries in the U.S. EU competition law, FDA approval requirements, and CFIUS review all apply. Walk me through the regulatory strategy."
This is a test.
I didn't need the System for this one. Two years of corporate law classes—two lifetimes' worth of experience—kicked in automatically.
"Start with CFIUS," I said, pulling the tablet closer to sketch a timeline. "U.S. subsidiaries trigger Committee on Foreign Investment review, so we file a voluntary notice immediately to avoid forced review later. Parallel track the FDA pre-merger approval—pharmaceutical means health authority scrutiny in both jurisdictions, so we coordinate with EMA and FDA simultaneously to avoid duplicative trials."
I kept going, laying out the EU competition law analysis, the timing strategies, the potential bottlenecks. Chen took notes, nodding occasionally.
Twenty minutes later, she leaned back.
"Not bad. Most candidates would've started with EU law because it's flashier. You prioritized the U.S. political risk. Smart."
Because I've seen deals collapse over CFIUS before.
"Next interview is down the hall," she said. "Williams. He's tougher than me."
I stood, shook her hand, and moved to the next conference room.
Williams threw me into a mock negotiation immediately—I was representing a tech startup in acquisition talks, he played the private equity buyer trying to lowball the valuation. It was brutal. He attacked every number I presented, questioned every assumption, and generally acted like the worst kind of aggressive negotiator.
But I'd done this dance before. In my previous life, I'd closed deals with venture capital sharks who made Williams look gentle.
I held my ground. Pushed back on his valuation methods. Offered creative earnout structures when he balked at price. Walked away from the table twice, forcing him to chase me back.
By the end, he was grinning.
"You've got spine. Most law students cave when I get aggressive. Where'd you learn to negotiate like that?"
From ten years of corporate law practice you don't know about.
"Mock trial competitions," I lied smoothly. "And stubbornness."
He laughed, made a note on his tablet, and waved me toward the door.
Senior Partner Brooks was the final interview. Older than the other two, gray hair, the kind of calm authority that came from winning more cases than most lawyers ever tried.
"Litigation scenario," he said without preamble. "You're defending a pharmaceutical company in a product liability suit. Plaintiff claims your client's drug caused liver damage. Discovery reveals internal emails showing executives knew about potential side effects but delayed reporting to the FDA. How do you proceed?"
Ethical minefield.
I thought carefully before answering.
"First, I assess whether those emails are privileged or if they've been properly disclosed. If they're discoverable and show willful misconduct, I advise the client to settle immediately and cooperate with FDA enforcement. Fighting that case is unwinnable and risks criminal charges."
Brooks raised an eyebrow.
"Even if the client wants to fight?"
"Especially if the client wants to fight. My job is to give them the best legal advice, not enable them to commit professional suicide. If they ignore that advice, I'd consider withdrawing from representation."
He studied me for a long moment.
"Most candidates would try to find a way to win that case. You prioritized ethics."
"I prioritized reality," I corrected. "Juries don't forgive corporate cover-ups. Neither do federal prosecutors."
Another note on the tablet.
"You'll hear from us by the end of the week."
I thanked him, shook his hand, and walked out.
The hallway was empty now. Most candidates had finished already. I headed toward the elevator, mind replaying each interview, analyzing what I'd said, what I could've said better.
Not perfect. But solid.
Then I saw them.
Harvey Specter—unmistakable even without an introduction—standing outside his office with the kid from earlier. Mike Ross. Both of them laughing about something, Harvey's hand on the kid's shoulder like they were old friends instead of interviewer and candidate.
[BLACKMAIL ARCHIVE UPDATE]
[SUBJECT: MICHAEL ROSS]
[STATUS: HIRED BY HARVEY SPECTER]
[PROBABILITY OF FRAUD: 94%]
[DETAILS: INCOMPLETE]
I kept walking, didn't stare, didn't react. Just another associate candidate heading to the elevator. But inside, the pieces were clicking together.
Harvey hired him. Against every protocol. Against every rule.
Because in this world, rules bend for the right people.
The elevator doors closed, and my reflection stared back at me again.
[INTERVIEW ANALYSIS COMPLETE]
[ESTIMATED SUCCESS PROBABILITY: 78.3% (±22%)]
[FACTORS: PREPARATION LEVEL - HIGH]
[FACTORS: INTERVIEW PERFORMANCE - STRONG]
[FACTORS: COMPETITION QUALITY - MODERATE]
I closed my eyes, let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding.
Seventy-eight percent.
Good odds. Better than most.
But as the elevator descended, carrying me back to the marble lobby and the bright New York morning beyond, I couldn't shake the image of Harvey and Mike laughing together.
I'm qualified. I'm prepared. I'm legitimate.
And somehow, I already knew that might not matter.
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