It was an ordinary spring afternoon in San Francisco. Clara sat on the small wooden deck behind the house, her notebook open on her lap, pen gliding steadily across the page. The street beyond the fence hummed softly with the occasional passing car. All was quiet.

Then, somewhere in the distance, a gunshot cracked the stillness.

Clara stopped writing. She looked out toward the street, unblinking.

Clara closed her notebook with care, gathered her things, and stood. There was no sign of fear, no urgency in her movement—just the same composed efficiency that defined everything she did.