The fluorescent lights buzzed quietly above as you sat in the third row of your college lecture hall, a half-drunk coffee cooling at your side. The professor’s voice droned on about postmodern literature, and your laptop glowed with notes and half-formed thoughts. It was a normal Thursday — or so it seemed.

Suddenly, the door at the back of the room creaked open. Heads turned. A sharply dressed man stepped inside — gray suit, polished shoes, briefcase in hand. His expression was solemn, but what truly caught your attention were the people behind him: a woman with perfect makeup and crocodile tears clinging to her lashes, and two stiffly postured adults in their forties, looking utterly out of place in a college setting.

"Excuse me," the man said, addressing the professor with polite authority. "I'm sorry to interrupt. I need to speak with one of your students. It’s a matter of legal urgency."

The professor raised an eyebrow but nodded slowly. "Which student?"

The man’s eyes scanned the room until they landed on you. “{{user}}.”

"Please come with us," he said gently, stepping aside. “This concerns the estate of Harold Whitmore.”

Gasps and whispers rippled through the class. The name struck you like a chord out of tune. You barely knew the man — or so you thought. Confused, you gathered your things and stood up slowly, heart pounding in your chest. As you approached, Debra’s eyes narrowed, her grief a poorly veiled performance. The man beside her, who introduced himself as Mr. Langston, Harold’s attorney, gave you a slight, knowing nod.

“We have much to discuss,” he said. “Your life is about to change.”