Constantine Drakon stepped off the elevator like a man who chewed bullets for breakfast and asked for seconds. The steel-blue lighting of the high-rise glinted off his jaw like a whetstone, the cut of his suit crisp and lethal. He walked like a coiled spring with a grudge, and his eyes—those cold, wolfish eyes—swept the corridor with razor precision.
"Positions," he growled, voice like gravel dragged over asphalt.
The five armed men behind him snapped into motion. Each one wore sleek, matte-black tactical gear—custom-fitted, expensive, military-grade. Not rent-a-cop trash. These were killers on retainer.
Drakon turned toward the glass office where Adam Hunt stood, half-empty tumbler of Glenfiddich in hand, pacing like a man whose sense of invincibility had suddenly caught a cold.
"Elevator cam's live," Hunt said tightly. He tapped the tablet on his desk, showing a feed from the lobby's main lift. "We'll see them coming."
Drakon didn't smile. He never did.
"If they're stupid enough to come through the front door, they won't make it five feet."
And right then—the entire skyline went dark.
The floor. The tower. Hell, even the streets below flickered into blackness like a dying heartbeat.
The emergency lights stuttered on. Red. Dim. Flashing like a warning. Like blood.
Hunt spun, panic cracking through his voice. "What the hell is this?!"
"It's them," Drakon muttered. His hand dipped into his jacket and came out with a matte-black sidearm, sleek and deadly. "They're already here."
Crash.
A body flew through the frosted glass window near reception.
Thud.
Then another.
Gunfire erupted down the hall. Screams. Someone was yelling, someone else was gurgling, and then—
A figure dropped from the ceiling like the angel of medieval vengeance.
Green leather. Hooded. Bow drawn.
One arrow. One knee.
The guard dropped screaming.
Oliver Queen didn't say a word as he moved—he didn't need to. His bow was poetry in motion, limbs flexing, arrows singing. His face, all hard lines and sharper resolve, said everything. You should have stayed home tonight.
Another figure danced through the chaos. Red and black armor, red hood with a blank black mask. Batons spun, cracked, snapped. One guard took a baton to the teeth.
"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to play with sharp objects?" Harry said with classic British venom. He pivoted, using the second baton to jab hard into another man's ribs. "And to wear a proper cup?"
A gun came up behind him. He twisted.
Bang.
And vanished.
Into feathers.
A shriek echoed.
A raven flapped madly toward the ceiling.
Constantine Drakon blinked. Just once.
"The hell—?" he started.
"Never underestimate a British man's ability to be extra," a dry voice said behind him.
Hermione.
Dressed in deep black and warm brown, armor tailored to move like a second skin. Her hood framed her face—calm, calculated, and brilliant. Her wand flicked in one hand. In the other, a stiletto knife gleamed like a whispered threat.
Thunk.
The knife buried itself into Drakon's chest. Not fatal. Not yet.
He gasped. Staggered. Looked down at the spreading stain.
"Wha—who the hell are you people?"
Hermione tilted her head. "Reparations."
Back in the office, Adam Hunt was practically screaming into the phone.
"Police! I need—Goddammit, I said now! They're here! In the building! With weapons—"
Glass shattered.
A thrum of bowstring.
An arrow whistled past Hunt's ear, close enough to trim a hair.
Thunk.
Right into the CPU of his sleek, overpriced computer.
The arrowhead blinked.
Blue.
Tiny circuitry came to life inside. A micro-hack sequence ignited—encrypted signal beaming back to a hidden server like a digital parasite.
Hunt stared at the screen. Accounts started draining.
"No. No no no—" he said, watching forty million dollars vanish.
Not to one place.
But thousands.
Micropayments. Dispersals. Pre-programmed deposits routed to the victims of his greed.
Families. Employees. Disenfranchised workers. Old pensions. Closed accounts.
Justice, one line of code at a time.
The elevator dinged.
Cops stormed the floor.
Guns out.
Flashlights bouncing through smoke and strobing red.
"FREEZE! HANDS UP!" someone yelled.
But the vigilantes were already gone.
Out the window. Rappelling like wraiths down a line of nearly invisible wire.
Below, the gala.
Oliver Queen's charity party shimmered like a jewel across the street. Laughter. Champagne. String quartets.
The hoods vanished into it like ghosts into mist.
Detective Quentin Lance pushed through the crowd in the lobby, trench coat swirling, eyes sharp.
"What've we got?" he asked.
A beat cop pointed upward.
"Three figures. Hoods. Sliding down toward Queen's tower."
Lance narrowed his eyes. His jaw clenched.
"You've got to be bloody kidding me."
—
The alley behind the Starling Grand Hotel reeked of garlic knots and alley funk, a bizarre perfume that clashed mightily with the high-end gala only a few feet away. Somewhere above, a jazz band played something vaguely Sinatra, muffled by the brick and grime. A catering van blocked their view of the main entrance, offering just enough shadow to do what needed to be done.
Hermione Granger, elegance personified even while dusted with grime and sweat, pulled her wand from the sheath strapped to her thigh beneath her black tactical gown.
"Pack," she commanded crisply, tapping her battered beaded clutch.
In an instant, three sets of vigilante gear shimmered and collapsed into wisps of colorless light, vanishing into the depths of her handbag. Capes, weapons, even Harry's armored boots—they all disappeared like they'd never existed.
Oliver Queen let out a low whistle. "That is never not going to be creepy."
"Technically," Hermione said without looking up, "it's just well-practiced wandless nonverbal magic applied to an undetectable extension charm. Anyone with N.E.W.T.-level Transfiguration and Charms mastery could do it."
"Right," Oliver muttered, adjusting his cuffs. "Just your average wizard girl stuff."
"Exactly," Hermione said brightly, smoothing down her midnight-blue gown, which had been hidden beneath her suit a minute ago via illusion spell. "Glad we're on the same page."
Harry, who had already swapped his leather suit for a blood-red shirt, black vest, and matching slacks with the smug ease of a man who knew exactly how good he looked, grinned as he fixed his collar. "Honestly, Ollie, it's adorable watching you try to keep up."
Oliver, half-tying his bow tie, raised an eyebrow. "Adorable?"
"Like a Labrador with a bow and arrows," Harry said, patting him on the shoulder. "Deadly, but still wagging his tail."
"You're enjoying this too much."
"I always do."
Oliver exhaled, shook his head once, then leveled a look at him. "So. You turn into a raven."
Hermione paused, lips twitching.
"Ah," Harry said, slipping his wand into the holster beneath his jacket. "Yes. That."
"You just disappear mid-fight, feathers everywhere, and nobody blinks? That's... that's a thing that happens regularly?"
"Well, I did try to keep it low-profile," Harry replied. "But to be fair, there were a lot of guns firing at the time."
"And it slipped your mind?" Oliver asked, folding his arms.
"Did I forget to mention that you should wear a helmet when punching corrupt CEOs?" Harry shot back. "Yes. Yes, I did. Because we've known each other, what, six days?"
Oliver opened his mouth to protest, thought better of it, then grumbled, "Fine. Fair."
Hermione gave a quiet sigh, already knowing where this was going. "Honestly, Harry, you should've told him. It's basic field communication."
"I was distracted. He is shirtless and doing chin-ups almost everytime I see him. I'm straight, but it's a bit hard to focus."
Oliver blinked. "Wait, that is your takeaway?"
"Have you seen yourself?" Harry asked.
"Okay, this is officially weird."
Hermione cleared her throat pointedly. "Anyway. I'm an Animagus too."
Oliver looked at her like she'd grown a second head. "You're kidding."
"A black and brown owl," she said, chin lifting proudly. "And before you say anything else, the correct plural is Animagi. Not Animaguses. Animagusi. Animag—whatever. Animagi."
"She's very proud of that," Harry said in a stage whisper.
"I earned it," Hermione said, swatting his arm. "We trained during our time with the League."
Oliver tilted his head. "League? As in League of Assassins?"
"No," Hermione said sweetly. "League of People Who Actually Read the Manual."
"Burn," Harry added helpfully.
"Honestly," Hermione went on, slipping into what Harry had once dubbed 'Oxford War Mode,' "becoming an Animagus is one of the most complex magical feats in existence. The transformation requires not only years of preparation, but intense self-awareness, discipline, and—"
"—a penchant for dramatic flair," Harry cut in.
"—rigorous study," Hermione corrected, narrowing her eyes. "But yes. We did it to carry on a tradition."
Oliver crossed his arms again. "Sirius mentioned that. The Marauders. Bunch of magical pranksters who thought they were clever."
"They were clever," Hermione said, affronted.
"Too clever," Harry added. "But the rule was always: you run with your brothers, or you don't run at all. You fly when they fly. You fight when they fight."
Oliver's face twitched, not quite a smile. "So this is like... what? A magical vigilante blood pact?"
"Well, if the wand fits," Harry said, adjusting his cufflinks, "and it's hidden inside a collapsible cane-saber enchanted by a French wizard... then yes."
Oliver chuckled despite himself. "You two are completely mad."
"And yet," Hermione said, linking her arm through his, "here you are, wearing ten thousand dollars of formalwear over freshly acquired bruises, walking back into a gala filled with corrupt billionaires and fake champagne."
Harry linked his other arm through Oliver's, grinning like the boy who'd once stared down a dragon on a broomstick. "And let's not forget, you still have a mission to accomplish."
Oliver raised an eyebrow. "Which one?"
"Oh, you know." Harry winked. "Charm the drunk heiresses. Make a few enemies. Probably get slapped."
"No promises."
They stepped out of the alley, the streetlights catching their polished shoes and glinting cufflinks, three figures striding toward the gala entrance like they'd never been anything other than beautiful, dangerous, and exactly where they belonged.
High society by invitation. Heroes by nature. Marauders by choice.
—
The soft strains of a string quartet whispered through the grand ballroom of the Starling Grand, weaving between clinking champagne flutes, murmured gossip, and the clatter of heels on polished marble. Gold and crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over a glittering sea of gowns and tuxedos, while trays of hors d'oeuvres floated past like edible art exhibits. The air itself smelled of wealth—aged scotch, imported flowers, and just the faintest trace of scandal.
Oliver Queen was holding court near the bar, flanked by supermodels who looked like they'd been pulled straight off the cover of Vogue. He wore a perfectly cut tux, his tie rakishly loosened, a whiskey glass dangling from his fingers. That smug grin—the one that seemed genetically engineered to disarm fathers and seduce daughters—was aimed full-throttle at a blonde in Versace.
"So then I told the pilot, 'If you can't land it on the yacht, you're not invited to the afterparty.'" He chuckled, taking a sip. "He managed."
The blonde giggled. Her friend whispered something and blushed. Oliver smiled wider. God, he missed this.
And then—
BANG.
The ballroom's double doors flew open with a thunderous crash. Conversation stopped. A string snapped on a violin.
"Starling City Police Department!" barked a voice that could have scared a confession out of granite.
Detective Quentin Lance stormed in, trench coat flapping like a cape, fury written across every line of his face. His eyes scanned the ballroom with the precision of a sniper. Officers followed in behind, weapons holstered but hands twitching near the grip.
The music stuttered to a halt. The rich flinched.
Oliver didn't.
He turned slowly, taking a sip from his whiskey as he made a show of assessing the commotion.
"Detective Lance," he said smoothly, as if greeting an old friend. "You could've just RSVPed."
Lance's glare could've melted titanium. "Don't test me, Queen."
"I'm trying not to," Oliver said innocently, spreading his arms. "But you make it so easy."
Just behind him, Harry Potter adjusted his crimson dress shirt and flashed a smile that had all the charm of a British aristocrat and all the danger of a dragon. "Bit dramatic, innit?" he said to no one in particular, sipping his champagne like he was judging the vintage.
"Police theatrics," Hermione muttered beside him, sipping a glass of white wine. She wore midnight satin like it had been invented for her, her pearl earrings swaying as she turned to study the intruders. "Honestly. Could've just knocked."
Lance ignored the commentary and signaled his officers. "Clear the side rooms. Check the balconies. Nobody leaves this building."
"Detective, you're really killing the mood," Oliver said, following him with slow, deliberate steps. "Is this about that parking ticket? Because Tommy swore he'd pay it."
"I did not," said Tommy Merlyn from across the room, halfway through telling a Brazilian heiress about the time he accidentally crash-landed a jet-ski into an oil baron's yacht. "Also, what's happening?"
Oliver tilted his head toward him. "Apparently, you're the host of a police raid now. Congratulations."
Tommy blinked, visibly processing. "That explains the guns. Uh, hi?" He offered a weak wave to Lance. "Can I help you, officer... detective... general?"
Lance didn't smile. "We have intel that three armed vigilantes are using this event to disappear. A man in green, one in red, and a woman in brown and black. They were seen fleeing into this building less than twenty minutes ago."
Hermione straightened beside Harry, eyes narrowing. "Define 'intel,'" she said. "Because I can promise you, eyewitness accounts in low light are famously unreliable."
Lance turned on her. "Who are you?"
"Someone with better sense than to wear a trench coat to a black-tie event," she replied sweetly. "Also, a consultant for the British Ministry of Justice. If you'd like me to explain that in small words, I'd be happy to."
Harry leaned in, smirking. "Her patronus is a courtroom summons."
"Cute," Lance muttered.
"Flattering," Harry said. "And true."
Lance turned back to Oliver. "You know what I'm talking about. That vigilante saved your rich ass the other night. Him and the one in red. Ring any bells?"
Oliver chuckled. "Sorry, Detective. The last time I saw someone in a hood, it was a DJ."
Lance stepped closer. "You think this is a joke?"
"I think you're waving a badge at people who donate more to your pension fund than the city council," Oliver replied smoothly, lifting his glass. "And I think you don't have a warrant."
"That won't stop us."
"Well," Oliver said, turning and raising his voice just enough to carry over the murmuring crowd, "since you're so committed to catching these mysterious do-gooders..."
He handed his glass to the nearest model and stepped into the center of the ballroom.
"I'll offer an incentive," he said. "Two million dollars. To anyone in this room who can give Detective Lance solid intel on our local hooded heroes."
Dead silence. Even the champagne fizzed quieter.
Lance blinked. "You're offering a bribe?"
Oliver shrugged. "Call it a public service donation."
Tommy coughed. "You sure you want to do that, Ollie?"
"Relax, Tommy," Oliver said, not taking his eyes off Lance. "If someone in here did know anything, they'd have already sold it to the tabloids."
A long, loaded pause. The crowd looked around. No one moved.
Lance clenched his jaw, fists at his side.
Then he exhaled slowly and turned to his men. "We're done here."
"Sir?" one of the officers said.
"They're not here," Lance said through gritted teeth. "And if they were, they're gone now."
He glared at Oliver one last time. "But mark my words, Queen. They slip up—I'll be there."
Oliver smiled. "I'll set another plate at the table."
Lance turned and stalked off, barking orders as his officers followed, grumbling about politics and billionaires.
The moment the doors closed, the ballroom seemed to breathe again. The music hesitantly resumed. Conversations trickled back to life.
Tommy shook his head. "That was officially insane."
"I prefer the term 'strategic misdirection,'" Oliver said.
Harry raised his glass. "Bloody brilliant, mate."
Hermione sighed. "You're lucky Lance didn't arrest you."
Oliver grinned. "He couldn't take me in. I'm the entertainment."
"You're a menace," Hermione said.
"Still better than the DJ," Tommy added.
They clinked glasses.
And high above them, unnoticed by all, a shadow slipped silently off the roof, melting into the night.
The party was far from over.
—
CNRI – The Next Morning
Laurel Lance sat slumped at her desk, eyes glazed over, staring at the same paragraph of legalese she'd been trying to parse for the last ten minutes. The words blurred into each other, like some cruel optical illusion designed to mock her. The soft hum of the fluorescent lights overhead buzzed incessantly, and from the far corner, the coffee machine sputtered and hissed like it was trying to wake her up.
Which wasn't happening.
Her mind kept wandering back to last night—back to Oliver. Not the man she used to know, not the ghost she'd held onto, but this new, cold version of him. The one who looked through her like she was a stranger. The one who'd waved off her apology like it was nothing. "It's fine, Laurel. You weren't wrong to say it." Those words echoed in her head. The way he said it—so flat, so dead inside—was like a punch to the gut.
And then the worse part: "I used to wish the same thing. That it had been me."
Cold. Hollow. Like a knife twisting in the wound she thought had started to heal.
She shivered, pulling her cardigan tighter around her shoulders.
And then he'd looked at his watch—impatient, like time was running out on him, not her—and said, "I haven't changed, Laurel. Not in the ways that matter. I'll only hurt you again. I'm sorry. I need to go."
That was Oliver Queen? The guy who once faked kidnappings just to dodge awkward conversations? That guy was gone. Maybe forever.
Laurel blinked, dragging herself out of the haze. "Laurel?"
Joanna De La Vega was standing over her, balancing a stack of papers and a coffee cup with "Laurel" scrawled crookedly on the sleeve. Joanna's eyes narrowed, clearly unimpressed by Laurel's vacant stare.
"You okay?" Joanna asked, arching one perfectly shaped brow. "Because you look like you just got hit by a truck. Or maybe several trucks. Or that truck from last week."
Laurel managed a weak smile as she took the coffee. "Thanks. I'm just… tired. That's all."
Joanna wasn't buying it. She dropped the papers on Laurel's desk with a little too much enthusiasm. "Well, you're going to want to see this. Seriously. It's huge."
Laurel groaned inwardly but flipped open the folder anyway, instantly alert. Her eyes scanned the page, then widened. "Wait. What?"
Joanna grinned like she'd just uncovered the city's best-kept secret. "Yup. All of our clients. Every single one. Got wire transfers. Anonymous donors. The total? Forty million dollars."
Laurel blinked again, but this time the confusion wasn't from lack of sleep. "Forty million? Dollars? Seriously?"
"Exactly." Joanna leaned forward, dropping her voice conspiratorially. "Split evenly across everyone involved in the class action suit. Enough to pay back everything they lost—and then some. Some of those folks could retire to Tahiti and never look back."
Laurel shook her head, frowning. "But… who? Where did that kind of money even come from?"
Joanna smirked. "Funny you should ask." She slid her phone across the desk like she was dealing out poker cards. "You see this?"
Laurel grabbed the phone and squinted at the screen. The headline from The Starling Post screamed:
TRIO OF VIGILANTES RAID HUNT GLOBAL OFFICES—COSTLY FILE LEAK, DAMAGES, AND 'MISSING FUNDS' RAISE QUESTIONS.
Below the headline, a grainy security camera still showed three figures scaling the side of a building—a tall guy in a green hood, another man in red with a black mask with white eyes obscuring his face, and a woman dressed in black and brown leather, all moving like shadows come to life.
Laurel let out a slow breath. "Well… that would explain Oliver's sudden exit last night."
Joanna nudged her with a grin. "So… think he's one of them?"
Laurel opened her mouth, then closed it again, lost for words. "No. I mean… I don't know. But it's definitely not that Oliver anymore."
Joanna's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Really? Because the timing's suspicious as hell. Green Hood busts into Hunt's office just hours after Oliver throws that fancy party with half the city's movers and shakers."
Laurel shrugged helplessly. "Even if it was him, why wouldn't he tell me?"
"Because," Joanna said softly, "maybe you'd try to stop him. Or maybe he's trying to protect you by keeping you in the dark. Or maybe he thinks he's too far gone to deserve a second chance."
Laurel's gaze dropped to the wire transfer sheets again. "Forty million dollars. To the people Hunt ripped off."
Joanna nodded seriously. "And it's clean. Anonymous enough that the banks didn't even blink. No strings attached."
Laurel tapped her pen rhythmically against the desk. "They're not vigilantes. Not really."
Joanna chuckled. "Guardian angels, maybe?"
Laurel let out a tired laugh. "Starling could definitely use a few guardian angels."
They shared a quiet moment, the distant sounds of the city filtering through the windows—the blare of car horns, the wail of a siren far off, the news anchor drone on about the masked figures and their bold escape.
Joanna finally broke the silence. "I just hope they know what they're doing. That they're careful."
Laurel's eyes scanned the rooftops, almost expecting to see a flicker of green or a flash of red slipping through the shadows. "They're not done yet," she said quietly.
Joanna smirked. "Neither are we."
Laurel smiled, more genuinely this time. Maybe Starling did have new protectors. Maybe some things were finally starting to change.
—
Queen Mansion – Oliver's Room
The thick black marker slid across the page like a guillotine. One name—Adam Hunt—crossed out. One less cancer in Starling City.
Oliver Queen exhaled slowly through his nose, shoulders tense, the weight of five years still visible in the tight line of his jaw. He stood in front of the heavy oak desk, the infamous list still open in front of him, pages rippling slightly under the breeze from the nearby open window.
"That's one down," Oliver said, his voice gravelly and devoid of ceremony. "One less name."
Hermione, seated primly in the armchair beside the fireplace, raised a single eyebrow. She looked over the rim of the digital tablet she'd been scanning. Her British accent cut clean through the tension. "Honestly, you make it sound like you're checking off your shopping list. 'Milk, eggs, one morally bankrupt land baron.'"
Harry, half-sprawled across the edge of Oliver's immaculately made bed like it was his own dormitory back at Hogwarts, smirked.
"Let's not forget, Hunt was chock-full of preservatives. Practically corporate Twinkie material. You did the city a favor, mate."
Oliver didn't reply, but the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth might've betrayed amusement. Maybe.
"Justice," he said, flipping the book closed with a decisive snap. "Plain and simple."
"See, that's probably what Batman says right before punching someone so hard they wake up in another continuity," Harry said, swinging his legs off the bed and sitting up. "No offense, mate, but you've got the 'brooding vigilante with emotional constipation' act down to an art."
Hermione stood, slipping the tablet into her enchanted beaded handbag. She gave both of them a look—half disapproving, half long-suffering.
"You two are insufferable," she muttered.
"Aww," Harry grinned, brushing imaginary dust off his red leather jacket. "You say the sweetest things, 'Mione."
Oliver grabbed his hoodie from the back of a nearby chair and slung it over his shoulder. "I've got recon to do on the next target. We move quickly. Someone fills the power vacuum if we don't."
Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Which translates to: I'm going to stand on top of a skyscraper and glare at people until something illegal happens."
He didn't deny it. Which said plenty.
Harry checked his phone and groaned.
"Damn. I'm officially late. Daphne's going to kill me, revive me, and then kill me again for good measure."
Hermione tilted her head. "You are makind her wait."
"Not on purpose!" he defended, running a hand through his eternally messy hair. "Look, just don't start the next 'Hooded Vengeance' mission without me, alright? I want in on the action."
Oliver gave a small nod. "We'll wait. Don't take too long."
The three moved out into the hallway, the click of Hermione's boots echoing softly. As they reached the grand staircase, a blur of movement and attitude rounded the corner.
"Thea," Harry called, spotting her instantly. She was dressed to kill—designer sunglasses dangling from one hand, phone in the other, black leather boots laced tight.
She paused, rolling her eyes as if bracing herself.
"Uh-oh. That tone. What'd I do now, Dad?"
"You going out?" Harry asked, arching a brow.
Thea raised a sassy brow right back. "Yes, Dad. Brunch with Maddie and Zoe. Why?"
Harry gave her a look. The kind of look older brothers were born to perfect.
"Just hoping one of them isn't Margo."
Oliver, who had remained quiet and watchful, frowned. "Who's Margo?"
"Ex-friend of Pipsqueak here," Harry replied smoothly, jerking a thumb at Thea. "Tried to introduce her to the wonderful world of cocaine-laced glitter and vodka in plastic cups."
"Pipsqueak?" Oliver repeated, amused. "I always called her Speedy."
"Oh my God," Thea groaned, throwing her head back. "Why does every man in this family think it's their birthright to give me embarrassing nicknames?"
"Because," Harry grinned, "you're short, fast, sharp-tongued, and once rode around on a hot pink Vespa."
"It was fuchsia, you absolute troll."
Oliver's eyes narrowed, his protective instincts clearly kicking in. "She tried to get you hooked?"
Thea sighed, shooting Harry an affectionate glare.
"Tried is a strong word. Margo made an offer, I was dumb enough to not walk away fast enough, and Harry here went full Ministry of Sass and hexed her phone."
"She opened TikTok," Harry added, "and it screamed 'I'm a terrible person and my parents don't love me!' every time. For a week."
Hermione let out a laugh despite herself. "Now that's effective deterrence."
"Anyway," Thea continued with a flick of her ponytail, "I told Margo to go screw herself and blocked her number. Haven't seen her since. I'm not doing drugs. Happy now?"
Oliver's features softened just a bit. "Good."
There was a long pause—unspoken worry threading between them. Then Thea looked down at her phone and mumbled, "I've been trying. Y'know. Since you came back. Since Harry moved in permanently. It's… easier. Having you two around. Like maybe I'm not totally alone in this mansion with ghosts and tabloids."
Harry smiled gently. "You're never alone, Pipsqueak. Annoying? Yes. But not alone."
Thea snorted and shoved his arm. "Whatever."
She turned to go, throwing a lazy wave over her shoulder. "Later, weirdos."
Once she was out of earshot, Hermione glanced at Oliver. "You're really thinking of turning the old mill into a nightclub?"
Oliver nodded. "Front for the lair. We need a legitimate reason to be in the Glades all the time. People ask fewer questions if we're running something 'legit.'"
"Disco Inferno?" Harry offered. "Club Quiver? Ollie's Secret Hole?"
Hermione made a strangled sound. "Please don't call it that."
Oliver, deadpan as ever, said, "I was thinking something low-key. 'Verdant.'"
Harry tilted his head. "That's actually… not bad."
Hermione blinked. "Wow. You're capable of subtlety. Color me shocked."
Oliver gave them both a look. "Meet at the mill in an hour. We'll set up surveillance. And Harry?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't be late for your date."
Harry grinned, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Oliver gave him a once-over. "You already look like trouble."
"I am trouble," Harry said, swaggering toward the stairs, coat flaring dramatically. "I just happen to dress better."
And with that, they scattered—Oliver to the shadows, Hermione to the war room, and Harry to charm a Slytherin with a smirk and just enough British wit to burn.
Starling had no idea what was coming.
—
Queen Mansion – Private Study
The fire crackled quietly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room's opulent interior. Moira Queen sat in her high-backed armchair, the same one Robert used to occupy while reading the Starling City Gazette in the evenings. Her fingers, adorned with a delicate but deliberate array of rings, drummed lightly on the armrest.
The grandfather clock ticked softly.
Then came the sound of the door opening—no knock. Just the deliberate swing of hinges and the click of expensive leather shoes against the hardwood floor.
A man stepped inside, face half-hidden beneath the brim of a charcoal fedora. He moved with practiced ease, the sort of grace money couldn't teach—but violence could. He didn't wait for an invitation.
Moira glanced at him once, cool and composed. "You're late."
The man shrugged. "Had to make sure I wasn't followed."
She didn't offer him a drink. That would imply hospitality. He hadn't earned that.
He stood before her, hands in his coat pockets. "The bodies were disposed of cleanly. No DNA, no tire marks, no security footage. Starling's finest won't find a thread to pull."
"And the police report?" she asked, her voice crisp as ever—upper-crust but razor-sharp.
"Officially? Piracy gone wrong. The kidnappers got greedy, held the Queen heir, his best friend, and his cousin for ransom. And then…" A slight smirk. "Vigilantes with terrible color coordination showed up."
Moira's lips pressed together in a tight line. "Those men weren't meant to be slaughtered like dogs."
"It complicates things, and you know it," the man said. "One of them had a Starling Dragons tattoo. They're Triad-adjacent. That might raise questions if someone knows where to look."
She didn't reply.
He took a few steps closer, lowering his voice. "You still want to know what Robert told Oliver before the boat went down? What that final confession was?"
Moira's gaze snapped toward him. Cold. Dangerous. "Yes."
"I could make the boy talk," he said. "He's got fire, but I've cracked worse."
"No." Moira stood, moving to pour herself a drink. "Absolutely not. He's family."
"So was Robert."
She turned sharply. "Robert died a hero. Sacrificed himself to save Oliver. That… buys him a great deal more mercy than you or your employers ever will."
The man chuckled humorlessly. "Suit yourself. But if we're not using my methods, you're running out of options."
Moira turned back to the fire, her face half-lit by its glow.
"There are other ways to learn the truth," she said softly. "Oliver is still my son. He's not as careful as he thinks he is. He came back changed—harder, colder. But he still wears his heart on his sleeve. Sooner or later, he'll tell someone. And when he does…"
She turned back to the man, her expression steel. "I'll be listening."
He nodded once. "Then I'll keep my ear to the ground. But if Queen Junior starts sniffing too close to the Undertaking—"
"You'll do nothing unless I say so," Moira snapped.
A long beat passed. The man nodded again, slower this time.
"As you wish… Mrs. Queen."
He turned to leave. Just before reaching the door, he hesitated.
"Oh, one more thing—there was someone else. At the docks. Before the hoods arrived. Someone in white. No insignia, no tech, no arrows. Just fists. Wrecked two of the kidnappers like they were made of paper. Left before backup arrived."
Moira's brow creased. "Another vigilante?"
"I don't know. But I'll find out."
The door shut behind him.
Moira stood alone in the study, sipping her drink as the fire dimmed. Her eyes lingered on the old family photo on the mantle—Robert, herself, and a much younger Oliver. Untouched. Smiling.
She whispered, almost too soft to hear: "What did you tell him, Robert?"
And from somewhere far beyond the walls of Queen Mansion, the city breathed—loud, grimy, defiant.
And secrets stirred beneath its surface.
---
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