QUEEN MANOR — OLIVER'S BEDROOM — EARLY EVENING
The base-level hum of party prep vibrated through the manor like distant thunder — muffled beats from the DJ booth, shouting caterers outside the window, and the occasional thud of someone dropping a crate that absolutely wasn't filled with vintage champagne.
Inside Oliver's room, it was calm. Too calm, really — like the eye of a storm.
Harry Potter lounged on the window seat in a hoodie and worn jeans, emerald eyes skimming over the pages of The Art of War like it was bedtime reading. His socked feet were propped against the glass, one knee bouncing absently in time with the beat filtering through the window.
Across from him, Oliver sat low in a high-backed armchair, ankle monitor prominently displayed, hoodie hood up, brooding attitude on full display. He stared ahead like he was meditating. Or plotting arson. Honestly, with Oliver, it was often both.
The door opened without a knock.
John Diggle stepped in like a man on a mission — broad-shouldered, tense-jawed, and radiating that quiet "I'm here to stop you from doing something stupid" authority he wore so well.
He shut the door with a soft click. His eyes scanned the room, immediately landing on Oliver.
"We need to talk," he said.
Oliver didn't move. "Hey, John."
Harry, without looking up, lifted a finger in lazy greeting. "Evening. You're just in time for the nightly ethical crisis."
Diggle's eyes narrowed. "Don't play games with me, Oliver."
"Who's playing?" Oliver said, shrugging. "I'm throwing a party, Diggle. Possibly a new low for the Queen brand, but the hors d'oeuvres will be excellent."
"You're facing murder charges," Diggle snapped. "You were caught on camera as the Arrow. And you're hosting a prison-themed rave. I want to know what you're really doing — because I know you. You don't stir up a circus unless there's a trap door underneath it."
Oliver didn't flinch. Instead, he tilted his head slightly — toward the bathroom door.
The handle turned. The door creaked.
And another Oliver Queen stepped out.
Same jaw. Same posture. Same signature blend of menace and hair product.
Diggle blinked. "What the hell?"
The second Oliver — hoodie off, leather jacket on, sleeves rolled just so — smirked. "Hi, Digg."
The first Oliver, still slouched in the chair, laughed under his breath. And then his face shimmered.
The skin lightened. The angles changed. The green eyes became silver-blue, framed by thick lashes and a devil-may-care grin.
Within seconds, the seated Oliver had become... Tonks.
She leaned back and wiggled her newly bare toes. "Okay, okay — the face you made? Worth it."
Diggle stared at her like she'd just dropped in from Mars.
Harry finally closed his book with a soft thwap. "Digg, meet Tonks. She's a Metamorphmagus. And no, that's not slang for something weird."
Tonks grinned. "Fancy word for 'I can look like whoever I want.' But mostly just Oliver right now. Because someone has to host his party while he's off doing Batman cosplay in the Glades."
Diggle's brow creased. "You hired a shapeshifter."
"Harry called in a favour with a shapeshifter," Tonks corrected, raising a hand. "Big difference."
"She's a cousin of Sirius'," Harry added, stepping away from the window. "We actually met at a very weird auction involving cursed swords and an arsonist with a ferret. Long story."
"Medium-length story," Tonks added. "The ferret survived."
Diggle turned back to Oliver, who was now pacing toward the armoire.
"You planned this?" he asked flatly.
"Knew the camera in the stairwell was live," Oliver replied. "Knew someone would dig up the footage eventually. All it takes is one A.D.A. with a vendetta and a slow afternoon. So I staged the whole thing. Let them catch me on camera just enough to think they've got something."
He turned to face them fully, arms crossed.
"But when the Arrow starts showing up in the Glades while Oliver Queen is playing DJ at a prison-themed party in full public view... suddenly that footage isn't a smoking gun. It's a red herring."
"Reasonable doubt," Harry said simply.
"Exactly."
Tonks stood, stretching as her form shimmered back into Oliver again — perfect to the strand. "And I have his walk down now. The shoulder tension? That brooding lumberjack energy? Nailed it."
"I do not lumber," Oliver muttered.
"You absolutely lumber," Harry said. "It's majestic."
Diggle looked like he was halfway between impressed and furious. "You're putting your family through hell. Your mother. Thea. You think they don't notice you're not really there? That something's off?"
Oliver's jaw clenched. "Of course they notice."
He took a step forward, every ounce of amusement gone.
"You think I like lying to them? Hiding in my own home while a stranger wears my face? You think I don't want to tell Thea everything?"
Silence.
"But if the choice is between my family's comfort and this city's survival — I choose the city."
His voice dropped, low and sharp.
"I always have."
Tonks didn't say anything. Just watched him with quiet respect. Harry shifted beside her, jaw tight.
Diggle looked at Oliver for a long beat — seeing the exhaustion in his eyes, the weight he carried like it had fused to his bones.
"You think this will work?" he asked finally.
Oliver's reply was calm. Steady.
"It has to."
Diggle exhaled, shaking his head. "And what if it doesn't?"
Oliver glanced out the window, where the glow of the party was growing brighter by the minute.
"Then I go down fighting. Like always."
—
The bass thumped faintly beneath their feet, a dull heartbeat rolling through the manor like distant thunder. Outside, the party prep was in full swing—caterers shouting orders, crew hauling crates, the faint glow of orange prison-themed lights bleeding through the windows.
Inside, the atmosphere was quieter, taut with focus.
Harry lounged on the window seat, legs stretched out, emerald eyes scanning the tablet in his hands. The Art of War sat nearby, clearly outmatched tonight. He glanced up just as Oliver slid his own device across the desk.
John Diggle stood by the door, arms crossed, jaw clenched, already exuding that familiar I'm here to stop you from being an idiot energy.
Oliver's voice broke the silence.
"Leo Mueller."
John's eyes flicked to the screen Oliver held out: a crisp article headline, a shadowy photo of a man with cold eyes.
"German arms dealer. Specialized in disappearing acts. This time, though? He's shipping military-grade weapons into Starling City." Oliver's gaze sharpened. "Heavy stuff — assault rifles, explosives, you name it. If that shipment gets through, the Glades will look like a warzone by dawn."
Diggle's lips thinned, fingers already tapping a silent countdown in his mind. "That's a line in the sand."
Harry folded the tablet, standing smoothly. "Hermione's already on it. She's mapped out Mueller's known contacts, shipment routes, every whisper of intel she can scrape up. She's at the Foundry with Neville, waiting for you."
Oliver nodded at Diggle. "You're going to the Foundry. Hermione will brief you on the details — what we know, what we don't, and the plan moving forward."
John's eyes flicked from Oliver to Harry. "And you?"
Oliver smirked, that familiar flash of mischief in his green eyes. "Sneaking out. Got to remind the city that the Arrow's still alive."
Harry grinned, plucking a set of keys from the dresser. "I'm coming with you. Susan and Daphne will meet us there. Backup you can count on."
Tonks—currently perched on the bed, back in Oliver's exact form but with a relaxed, almost catlike ease—raised her glass without missing a beat.
"I'm holding down the fort. Manor party's under my reign tonight. Anyone gets rowdy, I'm perfectly capable of shapeshifting their face into a sore memory." Her grin was wicked and wide.
Diggle shook his head, amusement and frustration warring on his face. "Just don't get arrested again. We've got enough problems without the Queen family adding 'hostage situation' to the docket."
Oliver adjusted his cuff, the GPS tracker clicking softly as he stood.
"Time to find out what Mueller's really hiding — and make damn sure it never hits the streets."
Harry and Oliver exchanged a brief nod, unspoken years of trust passing between them.
John gave Tonks one last look, who winked and lifted her glass in a casual salute.
"Party on," she teased.
The door closed behind them, muffling the bass but leaving the storm just outside, waiting.
—
QUEEN CONSOLIDATED — WALTER STEELE'S OFFICE
The afternoon sun filtered through the venetian blinds, slicing the office into stripes of light and shadow. The faint hiss of the kettle on the credenza was the only sound competing with the steady tick of the old brass clock on the wall.
Walter Steele sat behind his imposing mahogany desk like a man who carried more than just company ledgers on his shoulders. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, the fabric of his crisp shirt creased from hours of tension. His eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the documents sprawled before him like a seasoned detective piecing together a case.
The door opened with the softest creak, and Josiah Hudson stepped in. Tall, broad, with an unshakable calm about him, Josiah moved like a man who had mastered the art of quiet control. He didn't wait for an invitation—he was here on business.
Walter nodded toward the empty chair across from him, voice steady, almost low enough to be a murmur.
"Josiah. I've got a job for you. Off the books."
Josiah raised a brow but didn't sit. "Off the books? That never means 'easy.' What's going on?"
Walter leaned forward, fingers steepled, the weight of his words cutting through the room.
"I've been tracking some suspicious financial activity. A company called Tempest LLC. It's been funneling Queen Consolidated funds in a way that's — let's say — creatively concealed."
Josiah's eyes narrowed, matching Walter's intensity. "Creative is corporate speak for 'trouble.' What have you found?"
Walter slid a manila folder across the desk. Inside were photos, grainy but unmistakable—the corroded remains of a boat half-swallowed by rust and neglect.
"That," Walter said, tapping the pictures with deliberate gravity, "is Robert Queen's boat. The one presumed lost years ago."
Josiah blinked slowly. "The family yacht? Thought that was lost at sea."
"Me too, until recently," Walter replied. "It was stashed in a warehouse tied to Tempest LLC's shell company—the same entity that's been siphoning our money."
Josiah's jaw clenched. "So what do you want me to do? Move it?"
"No." Walter's voice was firm. "Secure it. Keep it out of sight. I don't want this turning into a media circus or tipping off the wrong people."
Josiah's frown deepened. "What's the play? Why the cloak and dagger?"
Walter sighed, the first flicker of frustration crossing his usually stoic features.
"I don't have all the answers. Not yet. But this is bigger than just missing funds. Someone's playing a long game, and I want to get ahead of it before it gets ahead of us."
Josiah let out a low, amused chuckle. "Walter, you always want to get ahead of it."
Walter's lips twitched into a ghost of a smile. "Not just want, Josiah. Need."
Josiah gave a slow nod, voice dropping to a serious tone. "Understood. Consider it handled."
Walter stood and extended his hand. "And Josiah?"
Josiah paused, meeting Walter's steady gaze.
"Be careful."
Josiah cracked a grin, the kind that only comes from years of working alongside someone who always thinks five moves ahead.
"You worry too much. I'll handle it like I always do."
Walter watched Josiah leave, the soft click of the door punctuating the quiet. He turned back to the window, staring out over Starling City, the sprawling metropolis pulsing with secrets and shadows.
Somewhere, in the heart of that city and the tangled web of Tempest LLC, lay answers. And for Walter Steele, those answers couldn't come soon enough.
—
STARLING CITY — DISTRICT ATTORNEY'S OFFICE — CONFERENCE ROOM — AFTERNOON
The conference room looked like it had been designed to make people confess things. Smooth glass walls. Cold steel chairs. A rectangular table polished to such a shine Tonks could almost see her borrowed jawline reflected in it. Not that she needed the reminder — she'd spent twenty minutes practicing Oliver's brooding stare in the bathroom mirror before walking in. Nose angle, eye squint, furrow ratio. Perfection.
She slouched casually in the chair, arms folded, dressed down just enough to project controlled chaos: dark button-down, sleeves rolled, ankle monitor peeking out like a dare. Across from her sat Laurel Lance — all sharp cheekbones and restrained power in a blazer that really didn't have the right to look that good in daylight. Tonks risked a glance.
She's hot. Why is she hot? This is a legal meeting. There should be rules.
Kate Spencer stood at the head of the table, tablet in hand, posture perfect, expression cool. The kind of woman who could deliver a death sentence in the same tone she used to order an almond latte. Her eyes flicked to the door as it opened.
Detective Quentin Lance stepped in like a grudge personified — trench coat, visible frown, and the kind of walk that said he absolutely had not had his coffee yet.
Kate wasted no time.
"Detective," she said, her voice calm but edged like surgical steel. "You made an arrest last week. One that involved Oliver Queen." She didn't look at Tonks. "You didn't go through my office. Care to explain?"
Quentin crossed his arms, grunting slightly. "I had enough probable cause to bring him in. Didn't see a reason to wait for red tape."
"That red tape," Kate replied coolly, "is my job. The fact you didn't loop me in means I'm now cleaning up a PR mess while simultaneously trying to hold together a case that's already built on matchsticks and shadows."
Tonks — playing Oliver — gave a lazy shrug. "Welcome to my fan club."
Kate ignored the jab. She turned to face him directly.
"Let's talk options," she said. "You're in a difficult position, Mr. Queen. The video evidence isn't definitive, but it's damning enough. The court of public opinion thinks you're a vigilante. And frankly, that's easier to manage than a court of law."
She set her tablet down.
"I'm prepared to offer you a deal."
Tonks raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess — community service? House arrest with a side of confession?"
Kate didn't blink. "Plead not guilty by reason of insanity. It gives us all an out. You avoid prison, the city avoids a scandal, and your lawyer gets to say you're seeking help."
Tonks narrowed her eyes. Oliver Queen wouldn't flip a table here, but he'd definitely smolder with righteous indignation, she thought. She leaned back and gave her best lethal smile.
"I'm not insane," she said.
Kate arched a brow. "That may not be the worst legal strategy, given your current optics."
"You want me to lie to stay out of jail?" Tonks asked. "Because I've already got a lie going, and I promise, it's the better one."
Quentin's gaze sharpened. "You're saying you're innocent?"
Tonks turned to him. "Yes."
"Convince me."
Tonks tilted her head, smirk fading into something colder. "I'll take a polygraph. Right here. Right now. With you in the room."
Kate folded her arms. "Polygraphs aren't admissible."
"I don't care about court," Tonks said, voice dropping. "I care about him." She nodded toward Quentin. "You want the truth? He can tell when I'm lying."
Quentin stared at her. Hard. Like he was trying to read through layers of performance, pain, and maybe… pride.
Later, as the meeting broke, Laurel pulled Tonks—still Oliver—to the side, near the tall windows overlooking the courthouse plaza.
"You sure about this?" Laurel asked softly, her brow creased. "Kate's deal—it's not glamorous, but it protects you. You take it, you get out clean. You don't have to fight anymore."
Tonks studied her face. She looks tired. Worried. Beautiful. She cleared her throat.
"I'll take the deal if I fail the test," she said.
Laurel blinked. "What?"
"If the polygraph says I'm lying," Tonks repeated, quieter this time. "I'll plead insanity. I'll do what you're asking. But I'm not pleading to something that isn't true just to make everyone else feel better."
Laurel let out a slow breath, nodding. "Okay. Okay, that's fair."
Tonks gave a little smile, softer now. "Didn't expect you to care so much."
Laurel stepped a little closer, arms still crossed. "Don't mistake concern for softness, Oliver. You're not the only one with something to lose here."
Tonks swallowed. Yup. Definitely hot.
"I'll keep that in mind," she murmured.
Across the room, Quentin watched them with the wary air of a man who knew something didn't quite add up — but didn't have enough proof to pull the thread.
Yet.
—
The room was the kind of gray that made hope feel like a bad idea. Dull walls. One buzzing fluorescent overhead. Two-way mirror that was definitely hiding at least one judgmental cop and maybe a vending machine that never worked.
Tonks sat in the chair across from the polygraph machine, wires strapped to her fingers and chest. The damn thing beeped and pulsed in slow, steady rhythms, oblivious to the fact it had just been hit with a silent, wandless Confundus Charm the moment she "accidentally" brushed against it while pretending to fix her cuff.
Simple misdirection. Classic Auror trick.
She shifted in her seat, adjusting the borrowed weight of Oliver Queen's body — tall, brooding, built like a brick wall with abandonment issues. The ankle monitor peeked out from beneath her slacks like a passive-aggressive middle finger. She exhaled slowly through her nose and dropped into the lazy, cocky slouch she'd seen Oliver use on security footage a dozen times.
Laurel Lance sat next to her, arms folded, blazer sharp, lips sharper. She was radiating professional composure, but Tonks had eyes — and very gay thoughts — and couldn't help noticing the curve of her jaw, the tension in her posture, the sheer ridiculousness of how good she looked under soul-crushing institutional lighting.
"She's too hot for this room," Tonks muttered under her breath, just loud enough for no one to hear.
Across the table, the technician — mid-forties, balding, tie that said "I gave up in 2009" — nodded absently. "We'll start with control questions."
From behind him, Quentin Lance leaned against the wall like a man allergic to comfort. Trench coat. Five o'clock shadow. Judgy cop energy turned up to eleven. He hadn't sat down once since the room started spinning.
"Full name?" the tech asked.
"Oliver Jonas Queen."
"Date of birth?"
"May sixteenth, nineteen ninety-eight."
"Place of birth?"
"Starling City."
The polygraph hummed and blinked. No spikes.
"We're calibrated," the technician said. "Ready to proceed."
Quentin stepped closer, eyes like searchlights. "Alright. Let's start simple. You ever been to Iron Heights Prison, Oliver?"
Tonks blinked. "No."
The tech nodded. "He's telling the truth."
Quentin didn't even flinch. "Are you the vigilante known as the Hood?"
Tonks looked him dead in the eye, shoulders loose, mouth a perfect smirk.
"No. I'm not."
Beep. Buzz. Flatline.
"Truthful," the technician confirmed.
Laurel let out a breath so subtle it could've been an accident.
But Lance — oh no. He wasn't finished.
"Let's talk about the island," he said, voice suddenly low and quiet. The kind of quiet that came before something exploded.
Tonks stiffened, just for a second. It was subtle, but Laurel's eyes flicked to her in response.
"Were you alone on Lian Yu?" Lance asked.
"No."
"Who was there?"
"I don't know all their names. There were people. And they… they weren't friendly."
Laurel's hand twitched slightly in her lap. Tonks saw it but didn't react.
"They tortured me," Tonks added, softer now. "Beat me. Broke me. Take your pick. It wasn't exactly a yoga retreat."
The machine stayed steady. The technician nodded again.
"All reads as truth."
Quentin stared, jaw ticking. "Did you kill anyone while you were on that island?"
That one hit like a slap. The air in the room got heavy.
Tonks looked down at the table, jaw clenched. "Yes," she said. "I killed Sara."
Laurel sat bolt upright. "What?!"
Tonks didn't look up. "I brought her on that yacht. I wanted her there. She wasn't supposed to be. If I hadn't made that call… she'd still be alive."
"You didn't kill her," Laurel snapped.
"I sentenced her," Tonks whispered. "There's no difference."
The technician blinked. "Still reading as truthful."
There was a beat of thick silence.
Then Tonks reached up and yanked off the leads with trembling fingers.
"We're done."
Laurel started to rise. "Oliver—"
But Tonks was already halfway out the door, voice trailing behind her like a shadow. "Don't follow me."
The door slammed shut.
Inside the interrogation room, the technician cleared his throat awkwardly. "For what it's worth… all responses indicate honesty."
Laurel rounded on her father. "So? Are you going to release him now?"
Quentin's arms were crossed, jaw locked. "No."
Her eyes narrowed. "You heard the results. You heard what he said."
"He's hiding something," Quentin said coldly.
"You always think he's hiding something."
"Because he is," Quentin snapped. "You heard that story in there? Half-truths and poetic guilt? That wasn't a confession, it was a carefully rehearsed tragedy. And I've been a cop too damn long to let a sob story and a flatline monitor make me forget what instinct feels like."
Laurel's expression hardened. "This isn't just about the case. This is about Sara. You want someone to blame."
"I want the truth," Quentin growled.
"Well maybe you had it and you just didn't like the shape of it," Laurel fired back.
They stared at each other for a long beat. Father and daughter. Both wounded. Both right, in their own way.
Finally, Quentin turned away, rubbing his temples.
"I'm not letting him walk. Not yet. Not until I know what he's really covering up."
Laurel didn't say anything.
She just looked toward the door Oliver had walked through — and for the first time in a long time, she wondered if the man wearing her ex's face was actually the one carrying his secrets.
—
QUEEN MANOR — POOLSIDE — LATE AFTERNOON
The late sun stretched across the Queen estate like a lazy cat—warm, golden, and just a little too smug. The pool glittered in the light, pristine and unused, framed by sculpted hedges and too many floral arrangements for a party that was still three hours from starting.
From the kitchen door, Oliver Queen emerged barefoot, sleeves rolled, linen shirt hanging open just enough to suggest casual opulence. Tonks adjusted the cuff of her borrowed body's shirt with practiced ease, feeling the uncomfortable tick of the ankle monitor with every step across the hot stone patio.
Her face wore the perfect mask: chin dipped, brow furrowed just enough, the trademark Queen smolder aimed somewhere between guilt and indifference. She even nailed the body language—measured stride, shoulders tight, like every breeze might be a threat.
By the pool, Thea Queen sat curled on a lounge chair in denim shorts and a faded Ramones tank top, her knees drawn up, magazine open but abandoned. She had sunglasses perched in her hair and a suspicious look aimed directly at her "brother."
Tonks plastered on the slow, deliberate smile Oliver would use right before dodging a question or deflecting blame with a perfectly timed smirk.
"Hey, Speedy."
Thea raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Hey."
Tonks dropped into the chair next to her with a dramatic sigh, letting her head loll back as if sunbathing. "So, how's the pre-party panic scale? Are we at 'mildly stressed' or full-on 'fire the florist and destroy all the tablecloths' meltdown?"
"Somewhere in between," Thea said, flipping a page in her magazine without looking at it. "Depends. Are we expecting normal rich people drama or FBI involvement this time?"
Tonks gave her a grin. "That depends on whether anyone brings shrimp cocktails and unresolved childhood trauma."
That earned the barest twitch of a smirk from Thea.
They sat in silence for a beat, the kind that wasn't entirely comfortable.
Thea finally turned to face her, arms crossed over her knees. "You've been acting weird."
Tonks kept the grin, but her spine stiffened slightly. "Weird? Weird how? Like, talking to mirrors weird or wearing socks with sandals weird?"
Thea gave her a flat look. "You know what I mean. Since you came back, it's like… you're Oliver, but you're not. You move different. You look at people different. You talk like you've got a thousand-yard stare even when you're discussing iced tea."
Tonks swallowed, throat tight. Thea was sharper than the file reports had suggested. And perceptive. A little too perceptive.
"I was on a hell island, Thea," Tonks said, shifting to a more somber tone. "You think that doesn't change a person?"
"It should," she said, "but not like this."
She dug into her beach bag and pulled something out — a dark, jagged shape tied to an old leather cord. It looked older than either of them.
"I kept this," she said quietly. "You gave it to me after Dad's memorial. You said it came from the island. Said it protected you. Said it was… real."
Tonks stared at the obsidian arrowhead like it might explode.
"Oh," she said, reaching for Oliver's dry humor and praying she could sell it. "Right. That. Pretty sure I got that in a souvenir shop at the Honolulu airport. I think it came with a plastic tiki god and a free lei."
Thea didn't laugh.
"You're such a terrible liar."
Tonks forced a smirk. "Only when I'm trying to protect someone."
Thea stared at the arrowhead for a beat longer, then tucked it back into her bag like she was folding away an old wound.
"I didn't want to believe it," she said, voice softer now. "The stories. The rumors. The vigilante crap. You being… violent. Cold. I told myself it couldn't be true. You're Oliver. A disaster with commitment, maybe, but not a killer."
Tonks felt her chest tighten, something sharp and uncomfortable catching in her throat.
"You're not going to lose me again," she said quietly.
Thea looked at her. "You don't get to promise that. Not anymore."
Tonks nodded once. Fair. Still, she pushed on.
"Have you seen Delphini?"
Thea blinked. "Harry's long-lost sister who was raised by snake supremacists?"
"That's the one."
Thea frowned, brushing hair out of her face. "She was in the gardens earlier. With one of Harry's girls. The redheaded one who hexed the pool heater last night."
"Susan," Tonks offered.
"Yeah, that one. Delphini seems… cool. Intense. Like a ballerina with knives in her sleeves. But she's been through hell, hasn't she?"
"Most people don't make it through a Voldemort-related origin story without some lasting trauma," Tonks muttered. "She's adjusting. Harry's doing what he can."
"She told me the whole thing," Thea said. "Kidnapped as a baby. Raised as Voldemort's 'heir' in some castle in Transylvania? That's like the plot of a Gothic soap opera."
Tonks barked a laugh. "All we're missing is a thunderstorm and a dramatic staircase."
"She seems… lonely," Thea added after a beat. "Like she doesn't know how to be a person. Or a sister."
"That's because she doesn't," Tonks said. "She's still figuring out who she is, let alone how to live like she belongs somewhere."
Thea nodded slowly. "I'll talk to her. Spend some time. Maybe introduce her to online shopping and ironic Tumblr memes."
Tonks smiled at that. "Appreciated."
There was a pause, then Thea squinted at her sideways. "But you still owe me a real explanation. Like, the truth-truth."
Tonks stood and offered a hand. "Absolutely. Right after I explain why I suddenly like chamomile tea and started saying 'please' before asking Alfred for the Wi-Fi password."
Thea rolled her eyes and took the hand.
"Freak."
"Queen."
Music began to drift through the open French doors—slow, upbeat, the first signs of an expensive distraction taking shape.
The party was beginning.
And as Tonks walked back inside, still wrapped in the illusion of someone else's face and life, she couldn't shake the prickling feeling between her shoulder blades.
Sooner or later, someone was going to stop seeing Oliver.
And start seeing her.
—
MERLYN GLOBAL GROUP — PENTHOUSE OFFICE — NIGHT
The elevator opened with a sound too quiet to be anything but deliberate. A hush built for people who always expected to be obeyed.
Moira Queen stepped out as if the world were a runway and she'd already won the war. Her heels clicked in rhythmic authority across the marble floor. The hem of her black wool coat, tailored within an inch of perfection, swayed like it knew it belonged in a power play.
The office was sleek — steel and glass, cold and modern — yet the man inside was warmer than he had any right to be.
Malcolm Merlyn stood near the window, a crystal glass of red wine in his hand and the cityscape sprawled beneath him like a feast he had already claimed.
"Moira," he said without turning. His voice purred — smooth, practiced, a little too pleased with itself. "Punctual as ever. I wasn't sure if you'd still respond to my calls."
Moira didn't slow her stride. "You called. I assumed it had something to do with Oliver. Otherwise I would've sent a junior assistant with a polite 'go to hell.'"
Malcolm smiled, still not facing her. "That sharp tongue. I've missed it."
She stopped just behind him, arms folding. "Cut the nostalgia, Malcolm. You said this was urgent."
He turned then, slow and theatrical — dark suit tailored to the millimeter, his expression all polished charm and coiled threat.
"I heard about Oliver's… situation." He gestured to the open city behind him like it were the stage of some Greek tragedy. "Arrested. Again. This time, for murder. It's almost poetic."
Moira's face didn't move, but her eyes hardened. "The charges are baseless. My son is not a killer."
Malcolm's brow quirked slightly. "Aren't we all, in our own ways?"
She gave him a withering look. "You always were dramatic."
He poured another glass of wine from a decanter on the side table, offering it without a word.
She took it this time — not because she wanted to drink, but because refusing it would feel like losing ground.
"To Oliver's innocence," Malcolm said dryly, clinking her glass without waiting for permission.
"To the day you stop trying to manipulate everyone within ten feet," she replied.
They sipped. He chuckled softly. "Still the best dinner party sparring partner I've ever had."
"Malcolm."
"Fine," he said, lounging back against the arm of a leather couch. "Let's skip the foreplay. I want to know what Oliver is hiding."
Moira didn't react — not visibly.
"Everyone hides something," she said.
"Not like him." His voice was softer now, lower. "He came back from that island a ghost wearing skin. The scars. The training. The rage. You think I can't see it? You think I don't recognize it?"
Her voice sharpened. "You don't know him."
"Oh, Moira," Malcolm said, almost pitying. "I know you. And I know what kind of secrets people keep for their children. I've kept a few myself."
Moira looked away, swirling her wine.
"He isn't who you think he is," she said.
"I'm sure he isn't," Malcolm replied, stepping closer. "But that's precisely what concerns me. Because Starling is on the brink, and if your son is sitting on a powder keg… I need to know before it blows up in all our faces."
She turned back to him, spine straight, eyes like razors. "If you go near him again—if you so much as threaten him—"
"I won't threaten him," Malcolm interrupted smoothly. "But if Oliver Queen is lying, we need to know. If he's hiding something that puts the Undertaking at risk—"
Her eyes flashed. "That word doesn't leave this room."
"I'm not the one you should be worried about," he said, stepping even closer now, the wine forgotten on the table. "If Oliver knows more than he's saying—if he's compromised—it puts everything we've built in jeopardy."
Moira's breath hitched. Just slightly.
"You think I'm blind?" she whispered. "You think I haven't seen the weight he carries? The night terrors? The scars he won't speak of?"
She stepped in now, matching his heat with ice. "I see everything, Malcolm. I see you. And if you come for him again, if you even breathe in his direction—"
"What?" Malcolm asked with a smile, tilting his head. "You'll kill me?"
She didn't answer. She didn't have to.
There was a long silence. Tension vibrated between them like piano wire.
Then Moira turned, coat flaring behind her as she walked toward the elevator.
"Don't mistake my restraint for consent," she said over her shoulder. "And don't mistake a mother's loyalty for ignorance."
The elevator doors opened with a soft ping.
Malcolm raised his glass to the window again, watching her reflection disappear.
"Good," he murmured. "Because when the time comes, I'll need her at her sharpest."
The city blinked back at him, unaware of the storm already gathering beneath its skin.
---
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