QUEEN MANOR — SECOND FLOOR ALCOVE — DUSK
The music downstairs had the polished thump of curated decadence — jazz with the edge sanded off. The sort of sound rich people used to pretend everything was fine.
Upstairs, the world was quieter. Dimmer.
Thea found Delphini curled in the far corner of a half-forgotten reading alcove behind the staircase. Velvet cushions. Leaded glass window. A dusty oil painting of someone else's ancestors hanging above her like a silent judge.
Delphini sat sideways, legs drawn up beneath her, arms folded, face half in shadow. Her dress was black, sleek, and deliberately unfriendly. The kind that said yes, I know I'm beautiful, no, I don't care, and yes, I will bite.
Thea stopped in the archway and leaned against the frame, one eyebrow raised.
"There you are. I figured you'd either gone full vampire and vanished into the rose garden, or were secretly hexing the hors d'oeuvres."
Delphini didn't look over. "I thought about it. Decided it wasn't worth the wand energy."
Thea grinned. "Your loss. The shrimp skewers are asking for it."
Silence stretched. Thea wandered inside and dropped onto the bench opposite her, pulling her legs up, matching her posture. She tugged at a thread on the hem of her denim shorts.
"You know, most people fake it at these parties. Pretend they're having fun. Pretend they're not slowly dying inside."
Delphini's eyes flicked to hers — icy, unreadable. "I'm not most people."
"God, don't I know it."
That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of Delphini's mouth.
Thea nodded toward the window. "What are you looking at? Planning your escape route?"
"I'm evaluating threat vectors," Delphini said, completely deadpan. "Also watching a squirrel fall out of a hedge."
Thea squinted out the window. "...Oh yeah. He's fine. Probably."
Delphini shifted slightly, one hand coming up to tug at the leather cord tied around her wrist. "I don't like crowds."
"Really? I thought brooding in velvet corners was your version of speed dating."
Delphini finally looked at her, dark eyes flat but amused. "If I wanted to be social, I'd be downstairs talking to the woman with the fox brooch who smells like white wine and judgment."
Thea let out a short laugh. "Mom. She's a classic."
"She told me I had 'an interesting aura.' I'm fairly certain she meant it as a threat."
"She says that to all the potentially dangerous people," Thea said with a wave of her hand. "It's her version of a background check."
Delphini tilted her head. "Did she say it to you?"
"Every week of my teenage years."
Delphini nodded solemnly. "Explains a lot."
They fell into a silence that wasn't quite awkward — just heavy with things unsaid. The kind of quiet that stretched around people who'd seen too much and didn't trust what they hadn't.
Thea finally reached into the pocket of her faded hoodie and pulled out a crinkled pack of sour gummy bears. She offered it like a peace treaty.
"For the party," she said. "Sugar armor. We all need it."
Delphini hesitated — then took the packet delicately, as if it might be cursed. She opened it and popped one into her mouth.
Her eyes widened. "This tastes like battery acid."
"That's how you know it's working."
Delphini chewed, expression unreadable. "My bloodline would consider this an insult."
"Your bloodline can kiss my ass," Thea said brightly.
A pause. Then Delphini let out the smallest sound — not quite a laugh, more like a cough that was trying to evolve.
"I still don't know why you're talking to me," she said after a moment. "You don't know me. You don't owe me anything."
"I don't believe in owing people to be decent," Thea said. "And besides... I like weird girls with trauma and murder eyes."
Delphini looked away, toward the garden again. "You don't know what I've done."
Thea shrugged. "Maybe not. But I've Googled enough to know your godfather used to commit murder by snake."
"That wasn't my fault."
"I know. Doesn't mean it didn't leave a mark."
Delphini didn't respond. Her fingers played with the candy bag, crinkling it softly.
"I grew up in a place where every compliment was a manipulation and every kindness came with a knife," she said. "This feels… off."
"Yeah, welcome to Starling," Thea muttered. "We put the fun in dysfunctional."
Another silence. Then Delphini said, "You don't have to babysit me."
"I'm not," Thea said, standing and stretching. "I'm recruiting you. These parties are boring, and I want someone around who won't pretend that smiling makes things better."
Delphini narrowed her eyes. "That's not how friends work."
"Good thing I'm not normal."
Delphini stood too, slower. She tucked the candy into the folds of her dress like a secret weapon.
"This doesn't mean I trust you."
Thea nodded. "Fair. But you should know — I once slapped my brother in the middle of a board meeting because he was being an emotionally repressed jackass."
Delphini considered. "That does help."
Together, they started down the hall, toward the soft echo of music and murmured laughter.
"Also," Thea added, grinning, "if anyone calls you 'exotic,' you have permission to hex them. Bonus points if it involves glitter."
"I don't do glitter."
"You will. It's part of the initiation."
Delphini shook her head, but her steps were lighter than before.
And somewhere behind them, the alcove stayed empty — shadows fading just a little — as two girls stepped into the fray, shoulder to shoulder.
One wounded.
One weaponized.
Both, for once, not entirely alone.
—
QUEEN MANOR — MAIN HALL — NIGHT
The bass throbbed like a heartbeat with a caffeine addiction, rattling chandeliers and knocking drinks askew. The crowd spilled through the polished halls like a parade of the unrepentantly wealthy and dangerously bored. Models with faces sharp enough to cut glass, party boys with wallets thicker than their patience, and socialites who'd mastered the art of feigning interest all painted the manicured walls.
Moira Queen was nowhere to be seen, likely cowering somewhere with an expensive bottle and a silent scream.
Center stage: Oliver Queen—or at least, something that wore his skin and swagger like a rented tux.
Prison-issue gray slacks clung awkwardly to bare feet, linen shirt half-unbuttoned like it was trying to apologize, and the ever-present ankle monitor gleamed under the spotlights like a very expensive cufflink. One arm slung possessively around a platinum blonde whose smile was tighter than her Spanx.
"Let's make some noise, people!" Tonks's voice—sharp, teasing, and just slurring enough to be perfect—cut through the pulse. "Drink like you're drowning in inherited guilt. Dance like your trust fund depends on it. And for God's sake, don't puke in the koi pond. We like those fish better than you."
A chorus of cheers erupted, glasses raised, and somewhere a champagne cork exploded like a celebratory gunshot.
Tonks wove through the crowd with practiced menace, a wolf in a bespoke cologne ad. She tossed a wicked grin at anyone who caught her eye, laughed louder than necessary, flirted with calculated disaster. This wasn't just a party. It was a declaration. A living, breathing middle finger to anyone trying to pin her down.
"You're a walking felony, Queen!" shouted someone from the bar.
Tonks lifted a bottle, tilting it back like it was her personal Chalice of Defiance. "Born for this life, baby!" she hollered, voice cracking just enough to sell the act. "To criminal chic, tragic irony, and all the bodies buried beneath this mansion!"
Behind her, near the grand staircase, Quentin Lance leaned with the weight of a man who'd seen too many lies and not enough justice. His glass was untouched, his eyes cold, slitting through the chaos like twin searchlights.
"This isn't the same man who walked out of that room," he muttered under his breath, voice rough like gravel. "Not even close."
Detective Hilton, visibly lubricated on something strong and cheap, grinned next to him, already trying and failing to charm a woman whose glare could cut steel.
"Say what, Captain?" Hilton slurred.
"That isn't Oliver Queen," Lance repeated, voice low and hard. "It's a goddamn show. And I'm not buying tickets."
Hilton shrugged. "Maybe he's just celebrating. You know, like being exonerated by a shiny machine and a room full of suckers."
Lance's jaw twitched. No humor there.
From the billiard table, Tonks jumped up and struck a pose, balancing a champagne flute on the ankle monitor like it was a circus act.
"Watch this!" she called. "Bet my last dollar I can keg-stand with one leg tied behind my back. Someone hold my bourbon!"
The crowd howled in approval, drinks raised like a war cry.
Lance's fingers clenched around his glass so tight the veins bulged. Sara's dead, he thought. And this... this is his idea of mourning?
But more than grief, there was something else gnawing at him — the way this man moved. Too loose, too casual, like he was wearing someone else's bones. His voice had the rhythm of Oliver, but the soul was out of sync, like a bad cover band trying to impersonate a legend.
"I know you're hiding something," Lance whispered, eyes zeroing in on the wild card pretending to be a prince of Starling City.
Across the room, Tonks caught the look and winked—a flash of unrepentant mischief and something far colder beneath the surface.
Lance nearly dropped his glass.
Before he could move, the room erupted in chaos. The DJ's setup crashed spectacularly, the source a shriek and a levitated punch bowl hurled straight into the chandelier. Crystal exploded like frozen fireworks.
Tonks threw back her head and laughed, loud and unapologetic.
"Ten points to Gryffindor, motherfuckers!" she roared, raising her glass in a defiant salute.
No one noticed Quentin Lance slip silently through the side door, his jaw clenched like a man carrying a thousand-pound secret.
Tonks watched him go, then downed the rest of her champagne with a smirk.
As she climbed the grand staircase to deliver a toast destined to offend half the guests and scandalize the other half, she muttered under her breath, voice low and dangerous:
"Well. That's definitely gonna be a problem."
—
FOUNDRY — OPERATIONS ROOM — NIGHT
The low hum of machinery mixed with whispered enchantments. Screens glowed, casting shifting blue light over Hermione's nimble fingers, typing in a flurry of spells laced with precision tracking charms. Nearby, Neville crouched over a tangle of enchanted devices, his broad frame a comforting anchor in the buzzing chaos.
Diggle stood like a sentinel, arms crossed, eyes sharp as ever.
The heavy metal door groaned open, and Oliver stepped in with quiet, deliberate purpose. Hot on his heels were Harry—nicknamed Blood Raven, and carrying the perfect blend of British charm and razor-sharp wit—Susan, whose fiery red hair and fierce gaze promised both magic and mischief, and Daphne, cool and deadly, exuding a dark allure that made the air itself thicken.
Diggle's gaze flicked up. "We got him. Leo Mueller's location's live, courtesy of the transponders you lot planted on his car. Weapons deal's going down tonight—right outside the docks."
Oliver's jaw clenched. Calm, measured, he said, "Then The Arrow, Blood Raven, Skadi, and Morrigan will make damn sure it doesn't."
Harry smirked, voice dripping with dry sarcasm. "Quite the heroic quartet, aren't we? Sounds like a bad rock band's farewell tour."
Daphne shot Harry a sideways glance, lips twitching. "I prefer to think of us as a lethal symphony. You can be the tambourine, if you like."
"Tempting," Harry said, eyes glinting emerald green. "Though I'm more of a lead vocalist myself."
Susan laughed, a low, sultry sound that caught Daphne's attention—and maybe something more. Their eyes locked briefly, a silent conversation sparking in the dim light.
Diggle cleared his throat, cutting through the playful tension. "Oliver, I'm guessing this wasn't a spontaneous operation."
Oliver gave a tight, knowing smile. "No. I needed a perfect alibi. Tonks is still running point as Oliver at the manor, throwing that party like a goddamn hurricane. Meanwhile, the real me gets to suit up and do what I actually signed up for."
Diggle's face darkened just enough to say, I know you're lying, and I don't like it.
"An arms deal, unplanned," Diggle said bluntly. "But you'll handle it."
Oliver's voice lowered. "I wasn't expecting it. But I'll handle it."
Harry leaned in, voice laced with teasing menace. "You're awfully brave for someone who just admitted surprise. Or is that just your sexy brand of denial?"
Oliver shot him a dry look. "You want me to handle Leo or flirt with you?"
Harry grinned. "Why not both? I'm multi-talented."
Susan stepped closer to Daphne, shoulders almost touching. "You two planning on starting the party early, or are we actually going to save the world tonight?"
Daphne's smirk was wicked. "Depends. Can I multitask?"
Neville, steady as ever, chuckled and rumbled, "Save the flirting for after we kick some ass, yeah? I'm still waiting for someone to explain how I got volunteered for tech support."
Hermione looked up from her keyboard, sharp as a whip. "Because without my magic—and my research—none of this happens. You're welcome."
"Right," Neville said with mock groan. "And here I thought I was the muscle."
Diggle's eyes locked on Oliver. "Here's what I'm not okay with: the lies. You don't have to carry this alone. Not like this. Not without telling the people who watch your back."
Oliver's eyes flicked away, a flicker of guilt. "You're right. I'm sorry, John. I should've been straight with you."
Diggle's voice softened, just a touch. "Good. Because next time, I want the full story before you pull a stunt like this."
Harry, leaning casually against a console, added with a sly grin, "And maybe a heads-up that the 'real' Oliver's gonna be playing vigilante tonight. I could've planned a nicer outfit."
Daphne laughed softly, eyes glittering. "Next time, I'm bringing a date. Preferably one who doesn't pretend to be the Green Arrow's understudy."
Susan smirked, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm offended. I thought my Morrigan persona was hard to ignore."
Harry's emerald eyes sparkled as he leaned closer to Daphne and Susan, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Speaking of ignoring, anyone else feeling the heat between our resident ice queen and fiery enchantress?"
Neville snorted. "I'm here for the gunfire, not the drama."
Oliver's voice rang out, calm and resolute. "Enough. We end this tonight. Together."
Diggle nodded sharply. "Alright. Let's get you guys geared up."
The room surged with energy—magic and tech, steel and fire, and the unspoken promise of battle and maybe… something more.
—
The door hissed shut behind them, locking the world out and the mission in. The lighting adjusted automatically—dimming to a cool, tactical glow that shimmered against enchanted steel and weaponized elegance. The Foundry's armory wasn't just functional. It was beautiful in the way a sword was beautiful: sleek, dangerous, humming with latent violence.
Hermione—hair tied back, sleeves rolled, wand tucked into a holster at her hip—was running a final diagnostic on the runic harmonizer near the lockers. She didn't look up as the others entered, simply muttered, "Try not to set off the seismic wards this time."
"No promises," Harry quipped from across the room. "But I'll do my best not to break your precious murder-bunker."
He was half into his armor already, the blood-red and black bodysuit molding itself to his body like it had been poured on. The serpentine pattern slithered with dark elegance across his chest and limbs—black where the suit was supple and quiet, red where the Basilisk-forged plates promised carnage. As he clipped the last strap of his pauldrons into place and pulled the hood up over his head, the mask sealed itself in a whisper of magic.
His emerald eyes flickered once behind the rune-etched white lenses, scanning readouts.
"Damn," Daphne muttered, pausing mid-strap. "You look like the final boss in a very hot nightmare."
Harry tilted his head toward her, voice distorted by the mask—deep, smooth, with just a hint of magical growl.
"And you look like you walked off a Norse fashion runway hosted by frost giants and weaponized heartbreak."
Daphne—already zipped into her skintight white-and-blue suit, the high-tech fabric rippling faintly like glacier mist—arched a blonde brow, her hood resting around her neck. "Was that a compliment?"
"It was a flirt, darling. Keep up."
She smirked and turned her back to him to adjust the clasp on her collapsible spear—deliberately, perhaps, giving him a view of her figure-hugging armor as it caught the chill-blue runes that webbed across her back. "Try not to get stabbed tonight, Blood Raven. I might not be in the mood to save your ass twice."
"Save it?" Harry stepped up behind her, voice dropping an octave. "You've been staring at it all evening."
Daphne flushed slightly, biting her bottom lip—and not denying it.
Susan, meanwhile, was perched on the bench nearby, lacing up her knee-high dragonhide boots with methodical precision. Her armor—midnight black edged in blood-rune red—caught the light in a way that made her look like a walking omen. She smoothed her hands down her thighs, then tugged her half-mask up and over her mouth. Crimson sigils flared and then dimmed to a steady heartbeat pulse.
"You two gonna make out or murder each other?" Susan asked, one fiery brow raised.
Harry turned, slowly. "Why not both? I'm told I'm very versatile."
"I've got no complaints," Susan said, standing with a roll of her shoulders. "Though personally, I prefer when my combat partners aren't actively flirting mid-mission."
"I'm charming under pressure," Harry said, casually spinning one of his runeblades into his palm. "Also charming over drinks, during fights, and when—"
"—he's about to get hexed," Hermione cut in, still typing without even glancing up.
Daphne walked past Susan, brushing her shoulder just slightly. "You good?"
Susan's eyes flicked sideways. "Always."
The contact wasn't accidental.
Oliver stepped in from the secondary chamber, and the temperature of the room shifted.
His new armor was a statement: forest green, matte and brutal, with black tactical joints and aged gold trim like the quiet wisdom of old wounds. The suit fit him like a second skin, moving with him as he rolled his shoulders, tested a lunge, drew his bow once and let the string hum.
He caught his reflection in the long strip of enchanted steel meant to mimic a mirror. "Fleur did good work."
"She'd kill you if she heard you say just 'good,'" Harry said, tone amused as he approached. "Those pauldrons were inspired by second-century Gallic cavalry. She spent a week enchanting them. You scuff them, and she'll hex your ability to perform in bed."
Oliver didn't blink. "Noted."
"Also," Harry added, glancing at his own suit, "you break that bow, and you're buying me a new wand."
"You don't even use a wand in costume," Oliver pointed out.
Harry shrugged. "Exactly. That's how expensive they are."
Neville entered next, hauling a duffel over one shoulder, his sleeves rolled and forearms like carved oak. "All right, pretty boys and prettier girls, are we ready to make tonight painful for the bad guys?"
"Emotionally or physically?" Harry asked.
"I was thinking both," Neville said, tossing Susan a spare rune-grenade.
Hermione finally stepped back from her console. "All magical tracking charms are synchronized with your lenses and suit runes. You've got visual spectrum enhancement, proximity alerts, thermal overlays, and emergency disillusion triggers. Don't waste them."
Daphne shot her a sly grin. "I never waste anything."
"Except time," Hermione muttered. "Which you're currently doing."
Diggle's boots echoed as he strode in last. He looked over each of them with the same quiet pride he always had before a mission. No speeches. No dramatics. Just that calm gravity he carried like a shield.
"You're locked in," he said. "Mueller's going down tonight. But stay sharp. This deal smells off. Too clean, too well-hidden."
Harry tapped the side of his temple. "We've got magic, martial arts, military-grade gear, and four wildly attractive sociopaths in matching outfits. I'd say we're ready."
Oliver gave a single nod. "We move as a unit. No solo heroics."
Harry raised a hand. "Define 'solo.' Because sometimes I just move dramatically away from explosions."
Daphne slid her hood up and over her head, the mask forming in a shimmer of frost-runes. "Let's give them a show they won't survive."
Susan followed, eyes glittering red through the faint rune-glow of her half-mask. "After tonight, Starling's arms market will think twice."
Oliver pulled his hood low, the concealment runes flashing like fireflies for a brief second.
And then the exit ramp lit beneath their boots—glyphs igniting, humming with intent.
They walked forward together—green, black, crimson, white.
Not heirs. Not students. Not survivors.
Tonight, they were wrath, wrapped in armor and magic.
Tonight, they were war.
—
QUEEN MANOR — OLIVER'S BEDROOM — NIGHT
The music downstairs thundered like a war drum on Red Bull, shaking picture frames and thumping through the bones of Queen Manor. Glass clinked, someone screamed something about artisanal tequila, and the bass dropped hard enough to make the chandelier twitch.
Upstairs, it was a different world.
Oliver's bedroom smelled faintly of cedar, cologne, and secrets. The moonlight spilled across sharp corners and expensive shadows. The bed was too neatly made. A watch rested on the dresser like it hadn't been touched in years. It felt more like a museum than a living space.
Tonks sat at the edge of the bed, barefoot, shirt unbuttoned halfway down like a billionaire too drunk to finish undressing. Her ankle monitor blinked lazily. She flexed her toes against the hardwood floor, rolling her shoulders, trying to settle the buzz beneath her skin. This wasn't her first deep-cover mission, but it was the first where the target was this gorgeous and the lighting this romantic.
There was a knock.
"Come in," Tonks called, gruff, casual, perfectly Oliver.
The door creaked open. Laurel Lance slipped in.
And damn, Tonks thought. She's hot. Not just objectively hot, but the kind of devastating that made you forget your own name. That killer blazer, legs that went on for days, and those sharp cheekbones that could absolutely cut glass. Katie Cassidy hot.
Laurel closed the door behind her with a quiet click, folding her arms and standing like she wasn't sure what to do with herself. Her hair was slightly mussed. Her eyes were rimmed with tired. And she was still the most dangerous thing in the room.
"I'm sorry," she said.
Tonks arched an eyebrow. "For crashing the party, or for bringing Lance Junior Cop Energy to the dance floor?"
Laurel almost smiled. "For my dad. He's… not handling things well."
"I noticed," Tonks replied, leaning back on her palms. "That man glares like it's a sport and he's playing for nationals."
Laurel stepped closer. "After Sara died, he broke. Threw himself into the job. Obsessed. Pushed everyone away. My mom left. I tried to hold things together, but it felt like everything cracked around me."
Tonks sobered. The levity drained from her face, leaving behind something rawer. "You did what you had to. You survived. That counts."
Laurel looked down. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I never really asked what it was like for you. What you went through on that island."
Tonks gave a half-shrug. "You weren't supposed to. The prodigal son returns, right? No baggage. Just abs and a thousand-yard stare."
A pause.
Laurel took another step closer. Her gaze flicked to Tonks'—Oliver's—chest.
"Can I see them?"
Tonks hesitated. She almost cracked a joke, something about scars and emotional metaphors, but Laurel's eyes were too serious.
Slowly, Tonks stood. Her fingers went to the buttons of the linen shirt, undoing them one by one. The shirt slid off her shoulders and onto the floor with a whisper.
The scars were all there—meticulously recreated. Jagged, cruel, deliberate. It was a gallery of survival, painted on borrowed skin.
Laurel's breath caught. She reached out, hesitantly, and her fingers brushed along a long scar near the ribs.
Tonks shivered. Definitely not from the cold.
"I didn't know," Laurel said. Her touch was light, reverent. "God, Oliver… how did you survive this?"
Tonks swallowed. Her throat felt dry.
"I didn't want to. Not for a long time. But there was a part of me—small, stupid, stubborn—that wanted to live. That wanted to come back. For something more. For someone."
Laurel looked up. Their eyes met.
Something cracked.
She kissed her.
It wasn't tentative. It was hard and fast and burning. Her hands tangled in the open shirt, and Tonks kissed her back because God, she wanted to. Because Laurel tasted like apology and fire, and it had been too damn long since she let herself want anything.
Then Laurel pulled away. Abrupt. Breathless. Horrified.
"I can't," she whispered. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"
"Laurel—"
But she was already backing up, reaching blindly for the door.
"I'm sorry," she said again. Then she was gone. The door clicked shut behind her.
Tonks stood there, shirtless, heart racing.
She exhaled slowly, touched her lips, and muttered, "Bloody hell. That definitely wasn't in the mission brief."
Downstairs, the party roared on.
But upstairs, Tonks felt the quiet like it had teeth.
—
STARLING CITY DOCKS — ABANDONED WAREHOUSE — NIGHT
The air tasted like iron and thunder.
Fog rolled in from the water, slithering between shipping crates like a ghost looking for somewhere to haunt. The warehouse loomed ahead—Warehouse 17—a rust-streaked hulk squatting at the end of the dock, its broken windows like jagged teeth, the halogen lights inside casting just enough glow to promise blood.
Inside, the scent of oil, gunpowder, and arrogance mixed in the stale air.
Leo Mueller stood near the loading ramp in a pressed charcoal coat, hands clasped behind his back like he was waiting for a goddamn opera to start. His voice was clipped, continental, and smug.
"You get the rest of the payment when the truck crosses city limits. If I hear gunfire or sirens, your next paycheck is your funeral."
Griggs, the gang leader—neck tattoos, sleeveless puffer jacket, chain swinging like a threat—scoffed and slapped one of his boys on the back. "We'll be outta here before your silk shoes touch gravel, boss."
Mueller didn't dignify that with a smile.
Around them, two dozen heavily armed men moved crates into a matte-black semi-truck. Cyrillic warnings glowed faintly on the weapons: armor-piercing rounds, explosives, and enough steel to start a small civil war.
Mueller stepped toward the SUV idling at the loading dock.
And then the lights died.
Not a flicker. Not a fade.
Just—darkness.
A heartbeat later: a scream. Wet. Quick. Gone.
Griggs spun around. "What the f—?"
A glowing orb bounced across the concrete.
Small. Runed. Ticking.
BOOM.
A silent flashbang rune detonated in a bloom of red light. For a full two seconds, sound died. Vision disappeared. Guns clattered to the floor. Screams turned to garbled cries.
And then…
They descended.
—
Blood Raven landed in the center of the chaos like a vengeance spell given human shape.
His black and crimson armor clung to his form like a second skin, the Basilisk-scale plating shimmering darkly in the emergency strobes. His red hood curved low over his obsidian mask, white eye-lenses glowing with predatory focus.
He moved like smoke and prophecy.
A thug lunged with a blade. Blood Raven caught his wrist, twisted, and drove an elbow into his throat so hard it made a noise like glass cracking. The man dropped.
"Try stabbing with less optimism next time," Harry said cheerfully. "Or, you know—don't."
Another came from behind with a shotgun. Without turning, Harry pivoted, grabbed the barrel mid-swing, and slammed the man's head into a crate edge. The body slumped with a dull thud.
"Honestly, lads," he said, twirling a runed dagger between his fingers. "You're making this very hard to feel threatened."
—
Skadi moved like winter's wrath wrapped in silk.
She flowed down from a hanging catwalk, white armor gleaming pale blue in the gloom. Her collapsible spear snapped open in her hand with a crack of frost-runes. The floor iced beneath her boots with every step.
Three men opened fire.
She spun—a blur of cold steel and perfectly timed pivots. Bullets bent midair as her defensive runes shimmered. She ducked under a wild swing, sliced a man's hamstring, and swept his legs out in a single fluid motion. He hit the ground screaming.
"Too loud," she muttered, pressing a frost rune to his temple. It exploded in cold light. Silence followed.
Another attacker raised his gun.
Daphne lunged, caught his wrist mid-pull, twisted, and whispered, "You blinked."
Then shattered his kneecap.
—
Morrigan was fire and shadow, bleeding menace in every step.
She moved through the smoke like a blade between ribs—silent until the kill.
One of the freelancers turned, spotting her too late.
Her crimson runes lit. A spell-coil lashed from her gauntlet like a whip and wrapped around his throat, yanking him forward into her waiting fist. She didn't flinch as his head snapped back.
"You really wore that to a magic gunfight?" she asked the next one, incinerating his rifle with a flick of her wrist. "Shame."
Susan dodged a cursed bolt, spun low, and uppercutted the caster with a punch crackling with kinetic magic. He flew six feet backward and didn't get up.
She paused, breath steady, eyes glowing through the black half-mask.
"Next."
—
And then the shadows parted—
The Arrow was already there.
Not with a flourish.
Not with a roar.
Just presence.
He didn't speak.
He simply drew.
Thwip.
An arrow pierced a man's palm, pinning his weapon to the crate behind him.
Thwip.
The second buried into a thug's thigh as he reached for a detonator. He dropped, screaming.
Thwip-thwip-thwip.
Three more. Chest. Shoulder. Gloved hand.
All down.
Then Oliver dropped the bow and moved forward like an avalanche in matte green—silent, coiled, surgical. He ducked a punch, drove a knee into a ribcage, and spun the man around just in time for Blood Raven to snap-kick him unconscious.
"Missed your mark," Harry said, breathless. "Luckily, I brought style."
"You talk too much," Oliver replied.
"You brood too much."
"Move."
—
Mueller's SUV peeled out from the rear exit, tires shrieking as it tore into the misty night.
Harry turned sharply. "He's making a break for it."
"I see it," Oliver replied, already calling it in. "Diggle, we have a runner. Tag's still active?"
"Still pinging. I've got eyes on him. He won't get far."
—
The warehouse lay in ruins.
Smoke curled up to the rafters. Half the crates were cracked open—lethal magic glittering inside like cursed treasure. The thugs groaned on the floor, disarmed, broken, unconscious. Some moaned. Most didn't.
Harry crouched by one of the fallen, flipping the mask off the guy's head and whistling. "He had a full mouth guard and a cursed tattoo on his spine. Overkill, honestly."
He turned to Susan. "I'm sorry—were we the bad guys?"
Susan leaned on a crate, panting lightly. "Only on Thursdays. And maybe in leather."
Daphne brushed a frost-laced strand of hair from her face. "Are we done here? Because I have blood on my sleeve, and I'd rather not explain to Fleur how I ruined her stitchwork."
Harry stepped between the two of them, arms slung around both shoulders. "Ladies. A successful triple-date night, I'd say. Explosions, witty banter, and at least one internal injury. Now all we need is champagne and a shower."
Daphne smirked. "Together or separately?"
Susan gave a soft laugh. "Depends on who's buying the soap."
Oliver slung his bow across his back, sighing. "Save the flirting for when Mueller's in cuffs."
"Right," Harry said, turning toward the shadows, voice lowering. "Let's hunt."
---
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