Medical Center.
Green Clinic.
Jill's video essay for her law school application was still rolling.
Ross couldn't peel his eyes off his now-grown, bombshell sister-in-law. Rachel, meanwhile, had mixed feelings watching her little sister—who used to trail her every move and never quite measure up—now radiating confidence like a supernova.
"She's had work done, right? Yep, definitely surgery—just like my nose!" Rachel muttered to herself, glancing down. "No way it's this dramatic otherwise!"
As a mom to a one-year-old, post-second-development Rachel refused to entertain any non-surgical explanation. Otherwise, it'd mean either Jill had totally outshone her—or Ross had been outdone by Jill's boyfriend. Neither sat right with her.
Surgery, though? That was a Green family tradition. Rachel only fixed her big nose, while middle sister Amy went overboard with who-knows-how-many procedures. But Jill, the youngest? She took the cake—one cut worth ten of Amy's lip tweaks!
Adam, on the other hand, was just vibing—purely appreciating the confidence and big "female lead" energy oozing from the tape.
Yep, that's the stuff!
Unconventional, unexpected, yet somehow always winning—classic leading-lady flair.
The tape kept playing.
Jill climbed out of the pool, ditched the bikini, and slipped into a dazzling gold gown. She stood at a long table lined with scantily clad beauties.
"Our maintenance staff swapped the usual toilet paper brand for some generic junk. Opposed? Raise your hands!"
Jill, LA University's Delta Sorority President, held up a roll of TP, running the meeting like a pro.
Every cool-clad babe at the table shot their hands up on cue.
Sorority prez energy hit like a tidal wave.
Jill's voiceover: "As sorority president, I'm ace at grabbing attention, tackling issues, and fixing them!"
Adam snorted, half-laughing, half-nodding. It reminded him of Sheldon dragging jobless, nearly-deported Rajesh—the "Three Kingdoms Batman"—to a whiteboard, staring each other down for days to a da-da-da beat. Same energy.
Jill had asked for his pro take, and now he had one: this lacked the must-have BGM for a leading-lady flick. No intro music? Not a legit female-lead movie—BGM buffs the heroine's glow like nothing else.
Dun-dun-dun…
Adam's brain auto-queued Wonder Woman's beast-mode track. Even slapped onto Jill's goofy, over-the-top law school vid, it fit like a glove—still pumping the blood.
As Adam mentally brainstormed for her, the tape cut to a new scene.
Familiar pool, familiar bikini—here we go again.
Jill lounged on a floatie, narrating: "I can recall hundreds of key details on the spot—killer talent for a lawyer, right?"
Her bestie Selena, also in a bikini on a floatie, drifted over with a timely prompt: "Jill, remember what happened in yesterday's episode of Our Days?"
"Of course! Neurosurgeon Derek Lamorey went brain-dead again…" Jill launched into a spiel, proving her detail-retention chops.
And damn, she nailed it—every detail, dissected from fresh angles with sharp, hilarious takes.
Adam was genuinely floored.
Even if law didn't pan out, she could hit up some Eastern video site, start a critique channel, and rack up millions of fans like those "Bug," "Evil," or "Deer" accounts. With her eye-candy looks and figure? She'd crush it harder.
As Adam's mind wandered, the tape switched scenes again.
Now on a street, Jill strutted up in a low-cut red dress, red shades, bag slung over her shoulder, oozing charm. "In daily life, I've mastered legal lingo," she said to the camera.
A frat bro whistled past, copping a feel.
"I object!" Jill spun, nailing the call-out, then flashed a dazzling smile at the lens—See? Smooth and legit, right?
Ross, head down, couldn't resist sneaking another peek.
Adam smirked knowingly.
Back in his past life, murder-mystery games were trending. Why? Cosplay and roleplay—pro scripts with spot-on lines that sucked you right in. Jill's "I object!" was straight out of a courtroom playbook.
Ross's drooling vibe said it all—Adam could picture the Harvard Law profs reviewing this tape. They'd live for it—pros who'd spent years yelling "I object!" in court, now watching a stunning Jill toss it out. It'd hit like a classic Japanese AV trope—same vibes, same lines.
Across all three scenes—pool, meeting, street—Jill flaunted her looks and figure, playing a sly game: dodge the weak spots, lean on the strengths. From a human-nature angle, Adam saw it—she'd turned a zero-shot application into a maybe. Without this, her undergrad major and zero work experience wouldn't stand a chance against PhDs, master's grads, and seasoned pros in the applicant pool.
The tape wrapped with Jill rising from the pool in her bikini, dripping wet, striking a pageant-queen hip-cock pose.
"To sum up, you should vote for me. I'm Jill Green, future 2003 law grad, pumped to join you at Harvard Law's diverse, inclusive vibe."
In TV land, law and med schools both need a bachelor's to apply. But unlike med school's four-year MD grind, law's a three-year JD sprint. Like Howard once said: most engineers top out at a master's—no PhD needed. Same deal for lawyers here—a JD's the ticket to law firms and courtrooms.
From there, it's assistant attorney, attorney, senior attorney, partner, senior partner—a long climb fueled by time and hustle. Most don't bother with a law PhD after the JD—why waste years in school when you can work, earn, and level up in the real world? Sure, some chase the doctorate—mostly foreign lawyers breaking into the U.S. scene. They're not starting from scratch like newbies; they grab that PhD-equivalent JD instead.
(Chapter End)