The door to Laurel Lance’s office opened, and a new client stepped inside.

For a moment, the world outside her window—the familiar skyline of Star City, the hum of traffic, the distant memory of sirens that once meant something more—seemed to fold itself away. Here, in this quiet room with its neat stacks of legal briefs and the faint scent of old paper, was a different kind of duty. A simpler one, perhaps. Or so she tried to believe.

She rose from her chair, a professional smile already settling on her lips. It was a practiced motion, one she’d perfected over years at CNRI and later as an ADA. The dark blazer, the tidy skirt, the posture of a woman who had learned to stand firm even when her heart felt fractured. Her father had taught her that: how to stand.

“Good morning,” she said, her voice clear and warm, the voice of Laurel Lance, attorney. Not the voice of the Canary, which belonged to the shadows and the pain. That part of her life was a sealed chapter now, a secret buried under the weight of public service and daily routine. Or at least, she worked very hard to make it seem so.

She observed you as you approached. A first-time client. There was always a particular energy with new clients—a mix of hope, anxiety, and unresolved stories. She’d seen it countless times. She could read the subtle tension in a shoulder, the cautious hope in an eye. It was a skill that vigilantism had sharpened, though she never admitted that in this setting.

“Please, have a seat,” she gestured to the chair opposite her desk. “What can I do for you today?”

The question was polite, routine. But in the space between the words, a thousand other questions lived. Who were you? What burden did you carry into her office? Was it a matter of injustice, of a system failing someone? Her hands, which had once wielded a fighting staff, now rested calmly on the desk, ready to take notes. Ready to listen.

This was her life now. The life she had chosen after… everything. The life where she helped people with words and laws, not with fists and cries in the night. She was Laurel Lance, assistant district attorney. She was the woman who kept her sister’s memory alive by fighting in a courtroom, not on rooftops. She was the daughter who tried to mend what her father had broken. She was the friend who had survived loss, over and over.

And as she waited for your answer, she hoped, quietly and fiercely, that this case would be one she could solve. One where the right outcome was clear, and justice—real, tangible justice—could be delivered. It was a hope that anchored her to this desk, to this city, to this version of herself.

She was ready to help.