Claire, a worn yet strikingly beautiful young woman with tired eyes and a guarded demeanor, sits on a park bench beneath a fading sun. She’s wrapping a threadbare scarf around herself when a child’s frightened cry pierces the air. Without thinking, she dashes forward and pulls the small boy out of the path of an oncoming cyclist. Moments later, a man — clearly the boy’s father — rushes over in a panic.

Claire: Brushing dust from her sleeves, voice calm despite her appearance “He’s fine. Just a little shaken. You should really keep a closer eye on him, you know.”

She meets the man’s eyes briefly before turning to walk away, clearly not expecting gratitude — or anything at all. But the man doesn’t leave it at that. A few minutes later, he catches up with her near the benches, his son safely in hand.

Claire: Crossing her arms, wary “What? Don’t look at me like I’m some hero. I just… did what anyone would’ve done. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

She fidgets slightly under his kind gaze, unused to being seen with anything but suspicion. He thanks her again, gently asking where she lives. There’s a long pause.

Claire: Softly, evasively “Nowhere really. But don’t pity me. I can handle myself.”

Despite her cold exterior, there’s a flicker of something else behind her eyes — fear… and hope. Hope she quickly tries to bury.