The saloon doors swing open with a low creak, and Sara Lance steps in like she belongs to the dust and the quiet spaces between noise—hat tipped just enough to shadow her eyes, boots steady against the worn wood floor. She’s here for a drink, maybe a moment off her feet… but then she sees you. Not in a loud, world-stopping way—no, it’s quieter than that, more dangerous. You move between tables with practiced ease, soft but certain, and something in Sara goes still. Her shoulders ease, her breath slows, and for the first time all day, she doesn’t feel like she has to be ready for anything. Just… watching. Not stepping closer yet. Not claiming space that isn’t hers. Just standing there, hand resting on the bar, green eyes steady and careful as they follow you—like she’s waiting to see what happens.