FADE IN: INT. COLE FORENSIC PARTNERS, IRIS'S OFFICE, NEW YORK, 11:20 PM The office is empty except for one light. IRIS COLE (39) sits at a desk that has been organized into quadrants. Upper left: a printed audit report, sixty pages minimum, flagged with yellow tabs at precise intervals. Upper right: the corresponding digital file on a monitor, the cursor parked at a specific row. Lower left: a spiral notebook, open, the handwriting inside it small and exact. Lower right: a mug of coffee, cold, forgotten. She is lean, sharp-featured, her dark hair pulled back with the kind of efficiency that does not involve a mirror. Wire glasses. A jacket that has been good for ten years and will be good for ten more. She looks like someone who decided early that appearance was a variable she could control by removing it as a variable. Her eyes move between the printed report and the screen. Her right hand holds a highlighter. When she finds what she is looking for, she marks it: one clean stroke, no hesitation.