Starling City Police Station — Booking Area — Morning
The harsh fluorescent lights buzzed and flickered overhead, casting a cold, unforgiving glow across the sterile walls and linoleum floor. The sharp clang of metal handcuffs echoed faintly as Oliver Queen was escorted down the narrow corridor, his movements restrained but purposeful. His hands remained cuffed in front, the bright orange jumpsuit an ill-fitting and jarring replacement for the familiar, battle-worn green leather he usually wore like a second skin.
Press photographers and camera crews had been corralled behind thick glass, lenses trained on him like vultures circling prey. Flashes popped relentlessly, painting fleeting portraits of a man caught in the spotlight—eyes steely, jaw clenched tight enough to crack stone.
Oliver's stride was measured, but there was no mistaking the simmering defiance in his gaze. Despite the cuffs and the humiliating uniform, his posture screamed "I'm not broken." The scars beneath that shirt might be invisible, but they shaped every muscle, every subtle movement—survivor's marks of a man who'd seen too much to play the victim.
Ahead, the intake officer barked a rapid-fire list of commands, voice clipped and impatient like a drill sergeant with no time for nonsense. Oliver didn't flinch.
Detective Quentin Lance stood off to the side, shoulders slightly hunched as if weighed down by the city's grime and the endless parade of villains and victims he'd seen. His face was a map of exhaustion—deep lines carved by years of chasing ghosts, a jaw clenched in a permanent scowl born from frustration and the stubborn refusal to quit.
Lance's eyes locked on Oliver as he passed, sharp and unyielding. There was something unspoken in that look—a mix of suspicion, reluctant respect, and a simmering tension that had defined their uneasy dance for years.
"Queen," Lance finally muttered under his breath, voice rough with fatigue. "You sure you want to play this game?"
Oliver's lips twitched, just the barest hint of a smirk. "I'm the only one who can, Detective. And I never back down."
Lance shook his head, exhaling slowly as he gestured toward the officer. "Get him processed. We'll see how long that attitude lasts."
The intake officer didn't need a second invitation. She snapped the cuffs open with a practiced click, pulling Oliver toward the booking desk where the process would strip away whatever scraps of normal life he had left.
Oliver's eyes flicked to the cameras one last time—calculating, ready. This wasn't the end. It was just another battle in a war that wasn't over yet.
—
Interrogation Room — Moments Later
Oliver sat across from Quentin Lance, the cold metal table between them feeling less like furniture and more like a battleground. The room's fluorescent lights hummed quietly, buzzing like a swarm of unwelcome insects. Quentin's eyes narrowed, tired but relentless.
"You were spotted near Iron Heights during the riot," Lance began, voice low and rough, the kind of voice that had barked orders at criminals for years and still hadn't lost its edge. "Witnesses say the vigilante wore a prison guard's uniform—and a ski mask. Helped Laurel Lance escape while she was meeting with her client, Peter Declan. Care to explain that little stunt?"
Oliver's green eyes flashed with a quiet fire that never quite went out, even when the odds were stacked high. He leaned back, arms crossed, voice steady but laced with that familiar edge.
"You really think I'd waltz into Iron Heights wearing a uniform that's a dead giveaway? Come on, Detective, you're barking up the wrong tree."
Quentin's jaw tightened. He slammed his fist on the table, rattling the sparse cups and paperwork.
"Enough with the games, Queen. Your fingerprints are all over this. You're in deep—"
The door suddenly burst open with a sharp crack. Moira Queen strode in like a storm, regal and furious, her eyes sharp as daggers. Harry followed, stepping in with measured grace; his emerald eyes were steel-cold, and his trench coat was every bit the picture of composed authority.
Harry's voice cut through the tension, calm but unmistakably firm. "Detective Lance, Oliver Queen will not say another word until his lawyer is present. Release him immediately."
Lance scowled, meeting Harry's unwavering stare with a wearied defiance. "And who the hell do you think you are, Potter? This isn't some game."
Harry's smile was thin, edged with steel.
"I'm the reason you'll regret holding Oliver here one second longer. Now, unless you want your name in the papers for trampling on rights, I suggest you let him go."
Moira's voice, sharp and commanding, followed. "Quentin, this is tearing my family apart. You have no idea what you're doing. Let him breathe."
Quentin rubbed his forehead, exhaling with a mix of frustration and exhaustion.
"You're lucky I'm feeling charitable today. Fine. He's free to go… for now."
Oliver rose, cracking his neck like a man who'd just been granted a reprieve but not a pardon.
Harry gave him a pointed look. "Don't make me regret this."
Oliver smirked, voice low but steady. "Relax, Harry. I know how to play this game. And trust me, I always win."
—
Outside the Interrogation Room
The sharp click of the cuffs unlocking echoed in the sterile hallway. Oliver rubbed his wrists with a slow, deliberate motion, like a man who'd been waiting for this moment but never quite trusted it would come. His eyes flicked up, locking onto Moira's across the room. The fierce pride there was unmistakable, but so was the worry.
"I'm not letting anyone else defend me," Oliver said, voice low but firm, each word carrying the weight of ironclad resolve. "Not the police. Not the media circus. Only Laurel."
Moira's lips pressed into a tight line before her features softened, the worry mingling with a mother's fierce protectiveness. She stepped forward, her voice a quiet promise wrapped in steel.
"We'll get through this. Together."
Oliver gave her a wry, half-smile—the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes but said more than words ever could. "Together," he echoed.
Harry, who had been standing just a step behind, clapped Oliver on the shoulder with steady, assured strength. His emerald eyes held a flicker of warmth beneath the sharp edges, but his voice was all business.
"Good. Because this storm? It isn't over yet. It's just getting started."
Oliver's smirk deepened into something a little more dangerous, a spark of the warrior beneath the man.
"Bring it on, Potter. I'm ready."
Harry arched an eyebrow, that rare hint of a grin tugging at his lips.
"Just try not to get yourself killed before dinner."
Oliver's laugh was low and gravelly, filled with a rough humor only carved out by a lifetime of fights.
"No promises."
—
Queen Mansion — Later That Day
The sleek black SUV eased to a stop before the sprawling estate. Oliver stepped out, shoulders squared but jaw tight, carrying the weight of battles both past and looming. Moira watched him with a queen's quiet intensity, fierce yet fragile in the same breath. She folded her arms, her gaze sharp, then glanced sideways at Harry as he slipped out of the car, trench coat catching the breeze, emerald eyes calm but razor-focused.
"We need Laurel," Moira said quietly, voice low with unmistakable urgency. "She's the only one who can turn this around."
Harry arched a brow, lips curling in a faint, knowing grin. "You mean she's the only one willing to stand up to her father. And Oliver."
Moira's eyes flickered, a mixture of guilt, pride, and stubborn resolve. "Exactly. And don't think I don't know the history there."
Harry smirked, stepping beside her. "Family dinners must be a blast."
Moira rolled her eyes. "You'd think, wouldn't you?"
"Let's go break some eggs then," Harry said, voice low but with that trademark steely calm.
—
CNRI — Laurel Lance's Office
Laurel sat behind her desk, the faint scent of antiseptic and stale coffee hanging in the air. Her posture was poised, professional—her armor against the world. She looked up as Moira and Harry entered, eyes cool and guarded.
"Mrs. Queen. Mr. Potter," Laurel greeted, her tone smooth but carefully neutral. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"
Moira stepped forward, shifting her stance from regal to warm, though the edge beneath remained sharp. "Laurel, we're not here for pleasantries. Oliver's situation is... complicated. You know the stakes."
Laurel's gaze flickered, shadows crossing her features. "I know exactly what my father thinks of Oliver. And what I think. This isn't just about law. It's personal. Blood spilled between us runs too deep."
Harry's voice cut in, calm and measured, the perfect balance of reason and conviction. "Sometimes the fiercest battles are the ones closest to home. Laurel, you're the only one with the clear head and the courage to give Oliver a real shot."
Laurel's jaw tightened. "I can't. Not with everything... the past, the mess. Taking his case feels like signing up to relive all of it."
Moira's eyes softened, stepping closer with deliberate grace, voice dropping to a near whisper, motherly but with a tactical undertone. "Laurel, as your aunt and someone who's seen this family at its worst, I'm begging you. Oliver isn't just some client. You know him. If you don't do this, who will?"
Harry exchanged a quick glance with Moira, lips twitching in silent amusement. He knew the game she was playing—and he was all in.
Laurel's resolve flickered, eyes glistening with the weight of history and doubt. "I... I need time. This isn't easy."
Moira gave a nod, the unspoken plea hanging heavy in the air.
Harry stepped forward, voice steady but persuasive. "We're not asking for forever. Just a chance. One shot."
Laurel's breath hitched. After a long moment, she gave a slow, reluctant nod.
—
Outside the Office
Moira let out a slow breath, half relief, half lingering worry. Harry clapped her shoulder with easy confidence.
"Your 'distraught mother' routine? Oscar-worthy, Aunt Moira."
Moira smirked, eyes sharp as ever. "Only the best for my family. Besides, you're not so bad at playing the concerned uncle yourself."
Harry grinned, eyes twinkling. "Welcome to the chaos."
—
STARLING CITY COURTHOUSE — BAIL HEARING — THE NEXT DAY
The courtroom was packed, a low hum of tension pressing against the marble walls like a thunderstorm waiting to break. Reporters sat shoulder-to-shoulder in the back, pens ready, cameras aimed, all eyes focused on the man standing front and center like he owned the room — even though, legally speaking, it was trying to own him.
Oliver Queen stood tall in front of the bench, no cuffs, no shackles — but all the same, the weight of the accusations hung heavy in the air: Assault. Trespassing. Murder.
Typical Tuesday, really.
His green eyes swept the courtroom once, slow and measured, before settling squarely on the formidable woman presiding over the hearing.
Judge Moss adjusted her thick-rimmed glasses with one hand and leveled a gaze at Oliver that could have boiled water. The gavel sat in front of her like it was just waiting for an excuse to be slammed. Her voice, when it came, was gravelly but composed — the kind that made grown men sit straighter.
"Well, well," she said, tone as dry as a Starling summer. "Mr. Queen. I see you're still allergic to staying out of the news."
Oliver cracked the barest smile, that trademark smirk lurking just beneath his calm exterior.
"Not my fault they keep writing headlines about me," he said casually. "Maybe I just have one of those faces."
Judge Moss snorted. "You have one of those criminal records. Let's not pretend charm is a legal defense." She shuffled the papers before her. "You are charged with assault, unlawful entry, obstruction of justice, and — oh yes — murder. Again. How do you plead, and how do you wish to proceed?"
Oliver straightened a little, voice crisp and confident. "Not guilty. And I'll be representing myself."
That did it.
The courtroom broke into hushed gasps and murmurs like someone had just dropped a bombshell. Even the stenographer's eyebrows threatened to flee her forehead.
From the prosecution table, Kate Spencer slowly rose to her feet, every inch the composed, battle-tested District Attorney. Her dark suit was sharp enough to cut glass, and her glare was calibrated to wither lesser men.
"Well," she said, folding her arms. "That should make things interesting."
Judge Moss leaned back slightly, eyeing Oliver like he'd just tried to challenge her to arm wrestling in the middle of church. "You're serious?"
"Very," Oliver replied. "Figured I'd cut out the middleman and argue with the system directly."
Spencer stepped forward. "Your Honor, the prosecution moves to deny bail. Mr. Queen has a documented history of flight, evasion, and vigilantism. And I don't use that last word lightly."
Oliver turned to face her, cool as a glacier.
"I'd argue 'vigilantism' is subjective," he said. "You call it reckless. I call it cleaning up the mess your office can't."
Kate arched an eyebrow, smile tight. "Ah, right. The old 'I'm special' defense. Just curious — is that before or after the part where you kill people in alleys?"
Oliver's jaw tensed. "I'm not the one hiding behind a badge and a law degree."
Judge Moss banged her gavel once. Not hard — more like a warning shot.
"All right, let's not turn this into a CW courtroom drama. Ms. Spencer, I've heard your argument. Is there anyone sane here who'd like to oppose the motion?"
The doors at the back of the courtroom creaked open.
Enter: Laurel Lance.
She strode down the aisle like she owned the damn place — black heels tapping purposefully, her posture all confidence and fire. She was dressed for war, not compromise. And when she reached the front, she slid her bag onto the defense table with a snap and turned toward the bench with unwavering poise.
"Your Honor," she said, voice strong and direct. "Laurel Lance, counsel for the defense. I'll be representing Mr. Queen."
Oliver blinked. He hadn't expected that. He didn't say anything — but the shift in his expression was unmistakable. Relief. Gratitude. And something else buried under years of shared history.
Judge Moss blinked. "Ms. Lance… you're aware Mr. Queen was just about to mount his own defense?"
Laurel nodded. "I'm sure it would've been riveting television, Your Honor. But I'm here to make sure this stays in the realm of law."
Kate Spencer didn't sit. "And I'm sure this is just a coincidence," she said with a pointed smile. "The one woman in the city who can't seem to stay away from Mr. Queen suddenly appears to save him from his own ego."
Laurel didn't flinch. "I'm here because the law matters. And because he deserves a fair shot."
"You really think he's not a flight risk?" Kate asked, incredulous.
"I think he's not stupid," Laurel shot back. "He knows what's at stake."
Kate folded her arms again. "Then what do you propose? A pinky swear and a tracking spell?"
Laurel's lips twitched — just a little. "Electronic monitoring. GPS ankle bracelet. Curfew. Limited travel. House confinement. He cooperates, or he goes back in."
Judge Moss made a low, thoughtful sound, her eyes flicking between the two women like she was watching a tennis match. Then she turned to Oliver.
"Mr. Queen. Anything to say before I make a decision?"
Oliver shrugged slightly. "Only that I'm used to being underestimated. Doesn't bother me. And I'm not running. I've already spent five years doing that."
The room went still again.
Judge Moss tapped her gavel lightly once.
"All right. Bail is granted under the following conditions: full GPS monitoring, nightly curfew, and restriction to his residence unless traveling for court-related matters. Violate any of these, Mr. Queen, and I will personally have you dragged back here in chains. Understood?"
Oliver gave her a short, respectful nod. "Understood, Your Honor."
Kate Spencer sat down with a sigh. "Well. That'll be fun."
Judge Moss stood, gathering her files. "Court is adjourned. Ms. Lance, good luck. You'll need it. And Mr. Queen — try not to add any new charges before the trial. That's not a challenge, by the way."
"I'll do my best," Oliver replied, smiling faintly. "No promises."
The gavel cracked down, echoing through the hushed room like the final beat of a war drum.
Laurel turned toward Oliver, folding her arms.
"You really were going to represent yourself?" she asked, arching a brow.
He smirked. "Figured it couldn't go worse than the last time I hired a lawyer."
She rolled her eyes. "You're insufferable."
"You came back."
"I always do," she said softly.
And for the first time since he walked into the courtroom, Oliver Queen let himself exhale.
—
OUTSIDE THE COURTROOM — MOMENTS LATER
The grand wooden doors of Courtroom 4 swung open with a groan, releasing a wave of tension into the marble-clad corridor like steam from a pressure valve. Reporters surged forward, their microphones like weapons, cameras already flashing as if they were trying to blind justice with strobe lighting.
Oliver Queen barely flinched.
He moved through the crowd with that signature calm — the kind that wasn't apathy but something forged in fire and five years of hell. He had a leather jacket slung over one shoulder now, collar popped just enough to say I'm not trying, I just look good anyway. The press shouted questions, but Oliver ignored them, his eyes scanning for only one person.
Laurel Lance was already by the elevators, arms crossed, phone in hand — tapping the screen with that distinct do not mess with me rhythm that made even the boldest interns reconsider their life choices.
Oliver caught up to her and gently reached for her arm — just a light touch, nothing dramatic.
"Laurel," he said, voice lower than the din behind them, "thanks for showing up. Honestly... I didn't think you would."
She glanced up from her phone, arching an eyebrow with a look that could scald granite.
"Wow," she said. "You almost sound surprised."
"I'm not surprised," Oliver replied, mouth twitching. "Just... impressed. I figured you'd be too busy filing restraining orders against my charm."
She rolled her eyes but didn't pull away. "You don't have charm, Oliver. You have... that face. People forgive a lot when you look like you just walked out of a cologne commercial."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"Don't."
They stood there for a moment — just them, the chaos of the courthouse falling away in the background like a stage going dark around the two leads.
Oliver's tone softened. "Still. I meant what I said. You didn't have to come. And definitely didn't have to save me from myself."
Laurel gave him a look — not annoyed, not indulgent. Something warmer. Something wearier.
"Yeah, well. You representing yourself? That's not justice, Oliver. That's a slow-motion car crash, and I've seen enough of those where you're behind the wheel."
He smirked, hands slipping into the pockets of his jeans. "I've gotten better at crashing."
Laurel leaned slightly against the marble wall, arms still crossed, but her voice lost some of its edge.
"You know," she said, "for a guy who keeps insisting he's not The Arrow, you're really bad at avoiding dramatic rooftop entrances and courtroom one-liners."
Oliver tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. "Are you saying I have a type?"
"I'm saying you have a problem." She nudged him lightly with her elbow. "But no, you're not the Arrow. That guy's out there risking his life to clean up this city. Doing good. Helping people. You? You're just Oliver Queen."
He chuckled, deep and low. "Ouch."
Laurel smirked. "Call it a lawyer's closing argument."
He leaned in slightly, playful. "So... I'm not the Arrow, huh?"
"Not even close." She smiled now — that rare, real one. "The Arrow's out there trying to save souls. You're more like the charming disaster they send in when the soul-saving didn't take."
Oliver let out a dry laugh, the kind that had just a little too much truth in it.
"So what does that make me?" he asked, quieter now. "The screw-up who refuses to die?"
"No," she said, gaze softening. "The bastard who refuses to quit."
Oliver blinked once, slowly. That hit deeper than she knew. Or maybe she did know — Laurel always had a gift for aiming straight at the part of him still learning to breathe again.
"Yeah," he murmured. "That sounds about right."
Laurel glanced at the crowd behind them, already dispersing now that the fireworks had faded. She stepped away from the wall, brushing a hand over her coat sleeve as she turned to him.
"Well," she said, all business again. "Let's get you that ankle bracelet."
Oliver grinned, stepping to her side. "It'll go great with my collection of emotional baggage."
Laurel didn't miss a beat. "And that's just the carry-on."
They walked toward the elevator together, the weight of everything still between them — but, for once, not heavy enough to crush the moment.
—
STARLING CITY COURTHOUSE — FRONT STEPS — MINUTES LATER
The courthouse doors groaned shut behind Laurel like a final verdict, sealing the storm behind her. Except the real storm was waiting outside.
Detective Quentin Lance stood rigid on the steps, trench coat buttoned too tight, hands shoved in his pockets like they were the only things keeping them from shaking. His eyes, bloodshot and cold, locked onto Laurel like a spotlight. The press still lingered at a distance, buzzing like vultures, but neither father nor daughter spared them a glance.
"You've gotta be kidding me," Quentin muttered, voice rough as pavement. "Tell me I didn't just see you walk out of that courtroom as Oliver Queen's damn attorney."
Laurel's heels clicked softly as she descended toward him. She didn't flinch. Not from the gravel in his voice or the disappointment in his eyes.
"Afternoon, Dad," she said, cool as the breeze pulling at her coat. "Nice to see you too."
"Don't play cute with me, Laurel," he snapped, stepping forward, his words slashing the space between them. "You're defending him? Him? The guy who dragged your sister onto that boat, into that life? The guy who left her behind to die?"
She folded her arms across her chest. "You want to talk about dragging people into things? Because right now, you're the one dragging your personal grief into a courtroom."
Quentin scoffed — sharp, bitter, wounded. "Don't give me that lawyer speak. This isn't grief, Laurel. This is justice."
"No, Dad. It's obsession."
Quentin's jaw clenched. "You think I'm obsessed? He's a murderer. A liar. A walking body count. And you know it. You know it."
"Do I?" Laurel took a step closer, her voice rising. "Because what I know is that you're so desperate for someone to blame, you're throwing darts with your eyes closed and hoping Oliver bleeds."
His voice boomed. "He got Sara killed!"
"She chose that life!" Laurel's voice cracked through the space like a whip. "She chose to be out on that boat. She made her own decisions, Dad. Don't reduce her to a victim because it hurts less than accepting who she really was."
"She was my daughter!" he roared, chest heaving.
"She was my sister!" she shot back, her voice thick now. "And I miss her too. Every damn day."
The silence after that was a punch to the lungs. Neither of them moved. The world narrowed to just the two of them — a grieving father, a grieving sister, and a whole lot of ghosts.
Quentin looked away, blinking fast. His voice dropped, almost a whisper now. "He took her from me. And then your mother... she couldn't take it. She walked out, and I—I just kept waking up to emptier and emptier houses."
Laurel softened, just a shade. But the steel in her spine didn't bend.
"Mom left because she couldn't breathe in a home drowning in blame," she said quietly. "You think Oliver's the reason everything broke, but maybe it wasn't that simple. Maybe it never was."
Quentin turned back toward her, eyes bloodshot and stormy. "You really believe he's innocent?"
"I believe he's not the monster you need him to be."
He looked at her like he didn't recognize her — like somewhere along the line, his little girl had gone and become someone with her own moral compass, and it didn't point where his did anymore.
"Guess that puts us on opposite sides of the line now," he muttered.
"No," Laurel replied, voice low but firm. "Just different sides. For now."
He hesitated, like there was more he wanted to say but didn't trust his voice to carry it. Then he turned and started down the steps, each footfall heavy with the weight of too many funerals.
Laurel watched him go, her mouth a thin, tight line.
As Quentin reached the bottom of the stairs, she called after him — quiet, but clear.
"You're not the only one who misses them."
He stopped. Just for a beat. Long enough to let the words land. He didn't look back.
And then he walked away.
Laurel stood still against the wind, blinking up at the gray sky. Her hands trembled for half a second before she tucked them in her coat pockets. She clenched her jaw, swallowing the ache in her throat.
Behind her, Oliver reappeared with quiet footsteps — the one person who always seemed to show up when she was still deciding if she needed space or support.
"You okay?" he asked, voice low and rough.
She didn't look at him right away.
"No," she said. "But I will be."
They stood there a moment longer, side by side on the cold stone steps of a city that never seemed to forgive, never seemed to forget.
Then, without a word, they walked down together — two people carrying the weight of too many ghosts, but still moving forward.
—
QUEEN MANOR — LIVING ROOM — LATE AFTERNOON
The golden light of the dying sun poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Queen Manor, bathing the grand living room in an almost sacred glow. Outside, the estate grounds were buzzing — party staff stringing lights, setting up tables, unloading crates of sound equipment. Inside, it was a different sort of theater.
Oliver Queen reclined lazily in one of the estate's oversized leather armchairs like he was auditioning for the cover of Convict Chic Weekly. His boot was propped on the ottoman, pant leg hiked up just enough for the officer kneeling at his side to secure the court-mandated GPS bracelet to his ankle.
"I am holding still," Oliver said, bored tone underscored by his smirk. "It's not like I'm about to dive through a window and rappel off the balcony. That was last month."
The officer gave him a look — unimpressed, unamused, and absolutely not paid enough for this.
"You tamper with this monitor, Mr. Queen," he said, tightening the last strap, "you're not walking out of the next courtroom. Bail or no bail. Understood?"
Oliver lifted an eyebrow. "Crystal."
As the officer stood and packed up his kit without so much as a thank you, Tommy Merlyn stepped into the room with the casual finesse of someone raised among the city's elite and permanently exhausted by their antics. He had a tumbler of whiskey in one hand, and his other hand was tucked into the pocket of his tailored slacks as he leaned against the fireplace mantle like it owed him money.
"Don't take it personally," Tommy said to the officer as he passed. "He just gets cranky when people attach things to him without buying dinner first."
The officer didn't dignify that with a reply. The door clicked shut behind him a moment later.
"Honestly," Tommy muttered, taking a sip of his drink, "you couldn't go subtle for five minutes?"
Oliver swung his leg off the ottoman and stood, adjusting his cuff and glancing at his ankle like it was the newest Queen Consolidated accessory.
"Subtle's not in season," he said. "And besides, the monitor adds... edge."
Harry Potter, currently perched on the armrest of the long velvet couch, glanced up from his phone with an expression somewhere between fond annoyance and sheer disbelief. Dressed in charcoal jeans and a black Henley, his emerald eyes cut across the room with the quiet authority of someone who didn't need to raise his voice to win an argument.
"So let me get this straight," Harry said slowly. "You're throwing a party."
"Correct," Oliver replied, already pouring himself a drink from the decanter.
"While on house arrest."
"Correct again."
"A prison-themed party."
Oliver turned, lifting the glass in salute. "You're three for three."
Tommy looked between them, deadpan. "Did I miss the part where felony charges became a cause for bottle service?"
Oliver strolled to the window, nodding with approval at the sight of the inflatable JAILHOUSE archway being inflated by two very confused-looking caterers. "Look, the city thinks I'm guilty. The court thinks I'm dangerous. If I sit around in here brooding, they'll read it as a confession. But if I throw a party? I control the narrative."
Harry stood up slowly, folding his arms. "Right. Because nothing says 'I'm totally innocent' like dancing in an orange jumpsuit while wearing government-issued jewelry."
Oliver didn't even blink. "It's a statement."
"It's a meltdown," Harry replied, voice dry as sandpaper. "And not even a creative one."
Tommy gestured toward Oliver's ankle. "Dude. You've got tracking hardware on your leg and you're worried about your aesthetic?"
"Exactly," Oliver said. "It's about confidence. Power. If I act like I'm afraid, they'll eat me alive. But if I turn house arrest into a nightclub with canapés and mood lighting? Suddenly, I'm not the hunted. I'm the host."
"You're also going to be the headline of every tabloid tomorrow," Harry added. "And not in a fun way."
"I'm already the headline," Oliver said. "Might as well make it a good read."
Tommy sat down in the armchair across from him, letting out a sigh. "Okay, but real talk — please tell me you didn't hire actual strippers dressed as prison guards."
Oliver didn't answer.
"Oh God," Tommy groaned, burying his face in his hands. "There are strippers."
Oliver took a long, satisfied sip of whiskey. "Don't blame me. Blame the theme."
Harry shook his head and muttered, "I cannot believe we're related."
"Technically," Oliver said with a grin, "you are the one related to me."
"Don't remind me."
Outside, the bass dropped. Heavy and rhythmic, it vibrated the windows ever so slightly — a clear indication that the sound check was underway. Searchlights spun lazily into the darkening sky, and the faint glow of orange party lighting bled through the tall windows.
Tommy glanced toward the noise and sighed, almost fondly.
"You know," he said, "you're lucky you're charming. If anyone else did this, they'd be in solitary by sunrise."
Oliver smiled. "Good thing I look great in orange."
Harry turned from the window, gesturing toward his cousin. "Just... please. Wear something bulletproof. I have a weird feeling."
Oliver gave him a look. "You always have a weird feeling."
"Yes, and I'm usually right."
Oliver winked. "Wouldn't be the first time I danced through a death threat."
"Try not to make it a habit," Harry muttered.
"No promises," Oliver said cheerfully, tossing back the rest of his drink as the party outside roared to life.
---
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