QUEEN CONSOLIDATED — WALTER STEELE'S OFFICE
The skyline of Starling burned gold and silver beyond the blinds, casting lines across the room like bars in a gilded cage. Night in this city wasn't dark. It watched. And Walter Steele had never felt its eyes on him more than now.
The office was clean, deliberate—like the man himself. Mahogany desk, antique map of the original Starling boroughs, a half-drained glass of whisky that hadn't been touched in over an hour. The kettle on the credenza had long since gone cold, but the anger inside Walter hadn't.
He stood by the window, still and tall, the low light catching the edge of his jaw like it was carved from stone. Sleeves rolled, tie loosened, the top button of his shirt undone—just enough to suggest that the pressure had breached the dam but hadn't yet broken it.
The door opened.
She didn't knock.
Moira Queen entered like a woman walking into her own courtroom—heels sharp, hair pristine, wearing cashmere armor and a necklace that could've doubled as a garrote. Her expression was calm. Her eyes? Calculating. Cold in that specific, practiced way that only the truly powerful could manage.
"You called," she said simply.
Walter didn't turn.
"I did."
Silence.
Moira waited for him to go first. He didn't. Not until he'd sipped the cold whisky, made a face, and placed the glass down with a precision that rang louder than the crystal chime it made.
"You lied to me," Walter said.
Her chin lifted a fraction. "You'll have to narrow that down."
He turned at that. Slowly. No flourish. Just mass and meaning and years of leadership tightening behind his eyes like a coil ready to snap.
"Robert's yacht."
A pause. Not long. Just enough.
"I suppose congratulations are in order," she said mildly. "You've been busy."
Walter walked back to the desk with the deliberate grace of a man who knew every inch of the terrain. He picked up the manila folder and tossed it across the desk like a weapon. It landed flat. Open. The photographs spilled out in black-and-white decay.
"Found in a warehouse in the Glades," Walter said. "Registered to a shell company under Tempest LLC. Which, incidentally, has been draining Queen Consolidated funds like a leech dressed in a tailored suit."
Moira didn't flinch. "It was only a matter of time."
"That you got caught?" he asked.
"That you figured out you weren't the only one in this building with a spine."
Walter's jaw worked. The silence tightened. Then—
"I sent Josiah to move it."
Now she flinched. Barely. But he saw it.
"He didn't come back."
Moira's voice dropped an octave. "What happened?"
"Execution," Walter said, the word like lead. "Professional. No prints. No security footage. No trail. The boat's gone. Again."
Something behind Moira's eyes flickered—grief, maybe. Guilt. Maybe not.
Walter leaned forward, voice low and edged.
"Tell me, Moira. Was this part of your plan too? Or was Josiah just collateral damage like everyone else who gets too close to the Queen family secret?"
"I didn't know they would move this fast," she said, her voice tightly wound.
"You didn't tell me," he snapped. "You let me walk into it blind."
"I protected you."
"No." He pointed at her, fury now just under the surface, controlled but electric. "You protected you. You always do."
She took a step forward then, eyes gleaming.
"And what would you have done if I had told you?" she demanded. "Gone to the press? Launched a full internal investigation? Put a spotlight on a game where people die in the shadows?"
"I would've prepared," he said. "I would've had Josiah backed up, the area swept, the extraction controlled."
"And then they would've killed you instead," she said, voice sharp as a blade. "You don't understand what you're poking, Walter. These aren't embezzlers in pinstripes. These are wolves. Generational. Carnivorous. They don't just kill you. They erase you."
Walter stared at her, and for a long moment, he didn't say a word.
Then he stepped around the desk and stood toe to toe with her. The air shifted—charged, like thunder in a cathedral.
"Then maybe it's time someone reminded them we bite, too."
She laughed once. Not with amusement. Something harder. Sadder.
"You're not a wolf, Walter. You're a man. A good man. And in this war, good men don't last long."
"Then you'd better pray," he said, voice low and razor-sharp, "I never decide to stop being one."
Her hand closed on the doorknob. Her voice dropped, silk and threat wrapped in elegance.
"Stop digging."
He didn't blink. "Start talking."
But she was already turning.
At the door, she paused and glanced over her shoulder. Her voice was almost gentle.
"Don't chase ghosts, Walter. Especially ones that know how to kill."
The door clicked shut behind her like a guillotine blade falling.
Walter stood alone, hands clenched, breath shallow, fury pressing like a weight on his chest. He stared down at the folder, the ink, the photographs.
And then he reached for the phone.
"Patch me into the offsite archive," he told the operator. "Full records on Tempest LLC. I want every transaction from the last five years. No redactions."
"Sir," came the reply, "some of those files are classified by board encryption—Level Ten."
Walter's voice was ice.
"Then break it."
He hung up. Outside, the city pulsed.
And somewhere in the dark, the war had already begun.
—
QUEEN MANOR — OLIVER'S BEDROOM
The bass from the party downstairs thudded through the walls like a heartbeat trying to outrun a heart attack. The glassware rattled with every beat drop, and from three floors up, Tonks could still hear someone yelling about body shots and designer vodka.
Up here, it was a mausoleum wearing a billionaire's cologne.
Tonks, currently wrapped in the illusion of Oliver Queen like it was a second skin—messy hair, half-buttoned linen shirt, that trademark smirk hiding about six layers of trauma—adjusted the cuffs and rolled her shoulders. The room smelled of cedar, faint musk, and a closet full of secrets.
Then the comm in her ear crackled.
"Oi, go for Oliver," she said, slipping into that gravel-and-silk tone she'd spent weeks perfecting. Just the right edge of condescension and world-weariness.
The voice that came back? Calm. Focused. Very not-Diggle.
"Mueller's out. Escaped in the confusion. Vehicle tagged, but he won't stay above ground for long. Just wanted to let you know the play's live."
Tonks stiffened. Oliver. The real one.
"Copy that," she replied smoothly, voice unbothered. "I'll keep the decoy warm."
A pause. The kind that said suspicion was sniffing around.
"Anything weird on your end?"
She glanced toward the door where Laurel had vanished fifteen minutes ago, still tasting the lipstick ghost on her mouth.
"Quiet night," Tonks said. "Just ghosts."
"Yeah," Oliver replied. "We've got those too. Stay sharp."
Click.
She exhaled. Then came the knock.
"Mr. Queen?" a voice called—male, too polite. Too nasal. The kind of pitch that begged for trust, and didn't deserve it. "Catering said you hadn't eaten yet. I brought a plate up."
Tonks frowned. Catering didn't send plates. Not without a full-blown bodyguard buffet.
She backed away from the door, fingers sliding to the dagger tucked against her lower back.
"Leave it by the door," she called, lazy.
A pause. Then—
"They said to make sure you ate. Personally."
Click.
The sound of a pistol slide racking behind the wood.
Bugger this.
She lunged forward and flung the door open—just in time for the muzzle of a silenced pistol to come swinging up.
Tonks slapped the barrel aside with a sharp twist of her wrist, dragging the gunman into the room with his own momentum. The tray crashed to the floor in a mess of silver and steel. He moved fast—special ops fast—with kill in his eyes and poison in his grip.
He brought the pistol down toward her face. She ducked, pivoted, jammed her elbow into his solar plexus and kicked the door shut with a vicious heel strike.
"You're definitely not on tonight's menu," Tonks growled.
The man didn't answer. He just twisted, reversed the hold, and slammed her into the dresser hard enough to rattle the mirror. She grunted but drove her knee up—twice—and spun them both into the bedpost.
The suppressor hissed. The shot went wide, carving a smoking gash through the pillow.
She rolled, hands scrabbling. He tackled.
Another shot blasted into the mattress.
And then—
"FREEZE!"
The door exploded inward.
Detective Quentin Lance stormed in like a thunderclap in human form, trench coat billowing, Glock raised in a perfect two-hand grip.
The assassin turned, gun swinging.
Too slow.
BANG.
One shot. Clean. Center mass.
The man crumpled.
Silence.
Tonks panted, sprawled half-behind the bed, heart trying to jackhammer through someone else's ribcage.
Quentin stepped in, lowering the gun slightly, eyes sharp and skeptical.
"You alright?"
She nodded. "Thanks to your timing. I thought the canapés were supposed to be the killer part."
Quentin didn't smile. He glanced down at the corpse.
"You get his name, or did he just whisper sweet nothings and try to put a bullet in you?"
Tonks winced, rubbing her jaw. "Said something about making sure I ate. Figured he brought the lead course."
Quentin crouched beside the body, frowning. "Professional. Military stance, custom suppressor, no ID. You pissed off the wrong catering service, Queen."
She straightened up, groaning. "Not my fault I'm allergic to assassins."
Quentin gave her a sideways glance. "Your ankle monitor pinged red. Then it went dead for thirty seconds. I was out front. Just in case."
"Well," Tonks muttered, looking down at the shredded pants leg, "guess the house arrest clause just saved my ass. And ruined my trousers. Fleur's gonna hex me."
Quentin finally exhaled. "Come on. Let's get you checked. And maybe lock your door next time you throw a penthouse rave."
She gave him a smirk, even as the adrenaline crash hit. "I'll trade you a drink for an alibi."
They stepped out into the hall. Downstairs, the party kept howling like nothing had happened.
Because the rich don't hear gunshots. Not until it's already too late.
—
QUEEN MANOR — GRAND FOYER
The party was bleeding out.
What had once been a gala of clinking champagne, sharp cologne, and billion-dollar egos was now a blur of high heels and hushed voices. The last of the drunken elite stumbled toward the exits, their designer masks slipping in the low light. Limousines lined the circular driveway outside, headlights like watchful eyes.
At the top of the marble staircase, Tonks moved with a slight limp and a lot of attitude, wearing Oliver Queen's body like it owed her rent. Her shirt hung open just enough to show off a bruised collarbone, her jaw was starting to bloom purple, and her hair was still artfully disheveled. She winced every third step but didn't let it slow her down.
Detective Quentin Lance walked beside her like a storm cloud in a trench coat. One hand hovered near his sidearm, his eyes scanning every shadow like he expected someone to pop out and take a second shot. His voice was all gravel, his patience worn thin by the Queen family's unique brand of rich-people nonsense.
Moira Queen stood like a sculpture of judgment incarnate at the foot of the stairs, arms crossed, eyes narrow. She wore power the way some people wore diamonds—effortlessly and with the promise of sharp edges. Sharon Stone, eat your heart out. Next to her, Sirius Black leaned with all the grace of a man who'd been forced to wear a tie and was deeply offended by the concept. His suit was askew, his collar unbuttoned, and his expression said he'd rather be hexing someone.
"Twenty minutes," Sirius said dryly as Tonks reached the landing. "I leave you alone for twenty bloody minutes and you start a knife fight with the hors d'oeuvres guy?"
"He started it," Tonks muttered, rolling her shoulder. "I just finished it with flair."
Moira's voice sliced clean through the room.
"What the hell happened?"
Lance didn't blink. "Your son just got a bullet with his name on it delivered on a silver tray. Assassin. Posed as catering. I shot him."
Moira inhaled sharply. Just once. It was the most emotion she'd allowed in public since Robert's funeral.
"Who let him in?" she demanded, already halfway through fury. "I want every member of staff identified, questioned, and fired."
"Relax, Stone Cold," Sirius drawled. "Let the detective detect."
Quentin nodded. "Already pulling security footage. He came in clean. Whoever he is, he knew your security better than your own people."
"Charming," Tonks muttered. "Do I at least get a fruit basket for surviving?"
Moira ignored the joke. "Detective Lance," she said coolly, "thank you for saving my son's life."
Quentin raised an eyebrow. "But?"
She took a step forward. Her heels clicked like a gavel. "But this is private property, and your badge doesn't give you license to lurk around my house like a tabloid photographer. Next time, try knocking."
Lance's lip curled into something not quite a smile. "Next time, try keeping your son off every suspect list in Starling."
Tonks raised a hand. "Hi. Still shot at. Still here."
Then Lance's phone buzzed. He checked the screen, frowned, then relaxed.
"Huh," he muttered. "Look at that. You just caught the biggest break since your yacht exploded."
He crouched, pulled a small key from his coat, and unfastened the GPS ankle monitor.
"The Arrow and his sidekicks were spotted tearing through a weapons deal across town," he said. "Half the city saw it on livestream. Witnesses, cams, you name it. DA dropped the charges."
Tonks blinked. "And I missed it? Rude."
Moira's eyes narrowed to surgical precision. "So you're saying Oliver isn't the Arrow."
Lance gave her a long, tired look. "I'm saying I don't have a case. For now."
Sirius gave a low whistle. "Well. That'll kill the gossip column."
Tonks straightened, rubbing at her jaw. She offered Lance her hand.
"Thanks," she said, her voice low. "For saving my life. Even if it makes me owe you one."
He took it, grumbling. "You're still a pain in my ass. But maybe not a murderer."
He turned to leave.
Moira stopped him with a voice like a slap.
"You've done your job, Detective. Now get the hell out of my house."
Lance didn't flinch. "Always a pleasure, Mrs. Queen."
He walked out with that same quiet fury, his coat trailing like the cape of someone who didn't need superpowers to bring the pain.
Tonks let out a breath, leaning against the banister.
Sirius nudged her. "So. You gonna tell me what actually happened? Or should I assume it involved lingerie and a betrayal kink?"
She gave him a tired look. "I got kissed. Then I got stabbed. Then I got saved. It was a whole thing."
Sirius whistled. "Sounds like prom night at Malfoy Manor."
Moira was already walking away, phone at her ear, heels clipping like metronomes of doom. Her voice, hushed and lethal, drifted down the hall.
"We need to talk. It's Malcolm. He moved too soon."
Tonks closed her eyes.
And just like that, the illusion of safety cracked wide open again.
—
MERLYN GLOBAL — MALCOLM MERLYN'S OFFICE
THE NEXT DAY
The elevator doors whispered open with a sigh of velvet and vengeance.
Moira Queen stepped out like a verdict.
Her heels struck the marble with crisp, deliberate menace—each step a countdown. Her hair was sleek, makeup perfect, and her tailored coat flared behind her like the train of a dark queen on a warpath. She didn't knock.
She didn't need to.
Inside, Malcolm Merlyn's office stretched wide and surgical—glass, steel, and silence. The city skyline blazed behind him in stark lines of gold and silver. His desk was empty save for a tablet, a decanter of bourbon, and the expression on his face: calm, charming, completely unbothered.
Moira stormed in like she owned the building.
Which, in her mind, she did.
Malcolm didn't rise. He just leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, head tilted as though she were an unexpected but not entirely unwelcome surprise.
"Well," he said with that insufferably smooth tone of his, "that was fast. I expected at least a polite delay."
"You sent an assassin after my son," Moira snapped. "You're lucky I didn't bring a gun."
Malcolm's brows lifted. "Moira. Let's not pretend outrage. It doesn't suit your cheekbones."
She stopped in front of his desk, hands planted on the glass, her diamond ring catching the sunlight like a blade.
"Don't toy with me, Malcolm. Not today."
His smirk faded—slightly.
"I had to take action," he said, voice calm but glacial. "After Lance's press stunt, the entire city was whispering. If Oliver was The Hood, and he was getting reckless—"
"He's my son," she interrupted, eyes flashing. "You don't get to decide when he becomes collateral."
"Don't be naive," Malcolm said. "You made this bed the moment you dragged him into the Undertaking. You wanted him protected. I did what was necessary."
"You murdered Josiah," she spat. "You silenced a man who was loyal to both of us for over a decade."
Malcolm's tone didn't change. If anything, it cooled.
"Josiah stumbled too close to the core files. He accessed sealed records—unauthorized. I couldn't afford the risk."
"You didn't even warn me," Moira said, stepping around the desk now, voice low and vicious. "You made me bury another friend, and lie to his wife and children, because you were afraid of exposure."
"I was protecting us," Malcolm said, rising at last. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. "You think you're the only one grieving? Josiah was a necessary loss."
Her hand twitched like she wanted to slap him. She didn't. But she did step closer.
"If you ever come near my family again—if you breathe in Oliver's direction—I'll rip your empire out from under you and leave you bleeding on the boardroom floor."
Malcolm's eyes narrowed just slightly. "That sounds very emotional of you."
She leaned in. Her breath frost and fire.
"That's me being civilized. If you want emotional, Malcolm, keep pushing."
A long, dangerous beat passed.
Then Malcolm straightened, adjusted the cuff of his perfectly tailored suit, and offered her a polite smile—sterile and sharklike.
"Well," he said softly, "good thing Oliver isn't the enemy. The failed assassination attempt makes that abundantly clear."
"Don't insult me with that performance," Moira said coldly. "You were testing him. You were hoping to provoke a reaction—something only The Hood would do."
Malcolm didn't deny it.
Instead, he stepped past her, poured himself a drink, and sipped it with maddening leisure.
"We've confirmed the vigilante was active during the attack. Multiple witnesses. Footage. Satisfied?"
"I'm not here for your satisfaction," she said, turning back to him. "I'm here to remind you that I'm not your puppet, and Oliver isn't your pawn."
"And yet," Malcolm said, swirling the glass, "you're still playing the game."
Moira stared at him—through him.
"For now."
Malcolm's smile widened, all teeth and theater.
"You always did play the long game beautifully."
"And you always did mistake control for power."
She walked to the door with the grace of a queen leaving a battlefield. Her fingers curled around the handle.
"Oh, and Malcolm?" she said, turning her head just slightly, voice like silk over steel. "If anything happens to Oliver again—anything—I won't come back here to talk. I'll come back with lawyers. Or worse."
"I don't respond well to threats," Malcolm said pleasantly.
"Good," she replied. "Because that wasn't one."
She left, heels slicing the silence behind her.
Malcolm watched her go, his expression unreadable.
Then he turned to the window, glass in hand, the city gleaming below like a chessboard dipped in blood.
"Good girl," he murmured to himself, voice low and cold. "Now let's see how far you're willing to go."
—
QUEEN MANOR — OLIVER'S STUDY
SAME TIME
The room was soaked in shadow and flickering firelight, the storm outside pounding like a second heartbeat. Tonks—wearing Oliver Queen's face like a grim joke—leaned against the heavy mahogany desk, a glass of whisky cradled in one hand. The bruise on her collarbone throbbed with every pulse, but the real ache was behind her eyes.
She ran a finger through her unruly hair, still trying to find the right mix of "I'm totally in control" and "holy hell I'm barely holding it together." The shirt was Oliver's—expensive, casual, and rumpled just enough to look deliberate. She'd mastered the walk, the smirk, the "fuck off" vibe like it was second nature.
The knock was soft—too soft for a house full of noise.
She looked up. Laurel stepped in, heels clicking quietly on the polished floor, sharp and precise. Tonks couldn't help but notice how the dim light caught the angles of Laurel's face, the way her dark hair was pulled back, strands loose near her temple. The woman radiated danger and grace in equal measure.
Yeah, Laurel Lance was definitely—without question—fucking hot. Distracting as hell.
Tonks straightened, smirking just a bit, voice gravel-and-silk, channeling the ghost of Oliver with a sharp edge.
"Laurel. To what do I owe the pleasure? Or should I say the inquisition?"
Laurel shut the door with a quiet click and didn't smile.
"I went over the polygraph again," she said, voice low and steady but with something tangled underneath. "You passed."
Tonks gave a mock bow, swirling the whisky.
"Score one for the good guys. And me."
Laurel folded her arms, then pulled a set of papers from her bag and laid them out on the desk with clinical precision.
"Except for one."
Tonks cocked an eyebrow, amused and a little wary.
"Oh? Enlighten me."
Laurel tapped the paper where the polygraph's red line jittered erratically.
"You said you'd never been to Iron Heights Prison."
Tonks blinked, keeping the cool smirk perfectly in place.
"Yeah, that's right."
Laurel leaned forward slightly, voice dropping.
"We visited it together. Eighth grade. Field trip. You spent most of the time grilling the warden about escape routes and tallying shiv scars."
Tonks's smirk faltered for a heartbeat.
"That was… what, fifteen years ago? Give a guy a break, Lance."
Laurel's eyes didn't waver. "I thought you might have forgotten, until I saw these."
She pointed to the flutters on the chart—sharp, undeniable spikes.
"Other flutters too," she said quietly. "Questions about the island. About what you did after you came home."
Tonks set her glass down and let the smirk drop with it.
"You think I'm lying."
Laurel crossed her arms tighter.
"No. I think you're hiding."
Tonks exhaled, the sound heavier than she wanted it to be.
"Because I am."
She looked away, voice rough and more honest than she'd allowed in weeks.
"Since the island? I don't sleep. Not really. I close my eyes and all I see is fire. Screaming. Worse things. Things I don't want to admit, not even to myself."
Laurel stayed silent, her gaze steady and patient.
"I can barely eat. Food's lost its taste. Half the time I can't sign my own damn name. My hands… tremble. I can't even hold a pen steady. Much less a bow."
She laughed then—a harsh, broken sound.
"So, no. I'm not the Arrow. Hell, I'm barely the man I used to be."
Laurel's arms dropped, her voice softer now.
"I didn't come here to accuse you."
Tonks looked up, eyes locking with Laurel's. "Didn't you?"
A pause.
"No," Laurel said, taking a breath. "I came because… there's still something between us."
Tonks's heart skipped, then shoved back down the feeling like it was poison.
"We're clearly still attracted to each other," Laurel said, voice wavering just a touch. "But this… this can't happen."
Tonks nodded once, sharp and painful.
"Agreed."
The space between them was electric, loaded with all the things they'd never say aloud. Tonks fought the urge to reach out—fight the impulse to touch the woman standing so close and so impossibly out of reach.
Finally, Laurel slid the polygraph results back across the desk, a soft but final gesture.
"I thought you should have these."
She turned, hesitating at the door.
"I want to believe you," she said, voice almost vulnerable.
Tonks swallowed hard.
"I know."
The door clicked shut, leaving Tonks alone with the storm and the fading illusion.
She slumped against the desk, dropping the mask for just a breath. Oliver Queen faded, and beneath the bruises, guilt, and exhaustion, Nymphadora Tonks stood bare.
She scanned the jagged spikes on the paper and muttered dryly:
"Should've Polyjuiced Hermione for this. She never flubbed a test."
The fire popped. The rain hammered the windows.
And out there, secrets sharpened their claws.
—
STARLING CITY — INDUSTRIAL SECTOR — NIGHT
The sky was bruised purple, the moon hiding behind a veil of angry clouds. Rain slicked the concrete like oil, and thunder rolled low across the skyline like a warning shot no one wanted to hear.
Another warehouse. Another drop.
This one was newer, colder—on the surface. But beneath the clean façade and fresh paint, the stink of desperation clung to the walls like mildew. Warehouse 9, off Terminal Row. No official listings. No security cams. No reason to exist.
Except Leo Mueller was back.
And trying to move the rest of his cursed arsenal before Starling caught up.
Too late.
They were already here.
—
INSIDE THE WAREHOUSE
The men moved fast this time. Smarter. Tighter formations. Less posturing, more paranoia.
Mueller stood at the far end, barking orders in German-accented English. He wore a kevlar-lined coat now—black with silver trim—and a grim expression like he was already planning how to spin his escape in the press. Behind him, the cargo truck rumbled, ready to bolt.
"Seal the perimeter. Load the core weapons first. I want wheels up in three."
A merc turned to nod—and was yanked screaming into the shadows.
CRACK.
His body hit the ground like a dropped mannequin. Silent. Limp.
Mueller's head snapped around. "Lights. On. Now."
They flickered.
Then failed.
—
Blood Raven landed like a dropped curse.
Boots struck concrete with a low thud, Basilisk armor glinting red and black in the emergency lights. He didn't pause. Didn't speak.
A throwing rune burst from his hand, exploded midair into a spray of phosphorescent needles, each one seeking flesh.
The first three mercs dropped, gasping, their limbs numb.
A fourth raised a gun.
Harry disarmed him with a flick of his wrist and slammed the man's face into a crate so hard the wood splintered.
"Honestly," he muttered, "Mueller must've been shopping from the bargain bin."
—
Skadi followed—cold, perfect, wrath incarnate.
She moved with no wasted motion, her spear flicking open in a hiss of blue-white light. Runes along the shaft shimmered like moonlit steel.
She ducked under a hail of bullets, slid between pallets, and came up inside a formation of four men.
The first went down with a shattered leg.
The second dropped from frostbite blooming across his spine.
The third screamed as his rifle turned to ice in his hands and exploded.
The fourth ran. Smart man.
Too bad he hit the wall a moment later, unconscious, courtesy of a flying frost disc to the back of the head.
—
Morrigan appeared like a flame given legs.
Scarlet runes ignited up her arms as she dashed through the chaos, cloak flaring behind her like a war banner.
"Hi, boys," she said sweetly, before hurling a blast of kinetic fire into a stacked shipment of crates, sending both them and the men behind them flying.
Someone tried to take her from behind.
Bad move.
She whirled, elbowed him in the throat, and hit him with a containment charm. He hit the floor bound in glowing chains, gagged by magic.
She sighed, checking her nails.
"Men."
—
And then The Arrow stepped from the dark.
Silent. Steady.
No theatrics.
No need.
He moved with lethal precision—an arrow notched, drawn, and fired in less than a breath.
Thwip. A shoulder hit.
Thwip. A knee.
Thwip. A detonator shot clean out of a merc's hand, ricocheting into the rafters with a loud clang.
The Arrow advanced like a judgment written in matte green leather, eyes locked on his target.
Leo Mueller.
—
Mueller turned, gun in hand.
He never got to fire it.
Thunk.
An arrow pierced the webbing between his thumb and forefinger, pinning his weapon to the wall behind him. He screamed, dropping to his knees.
The Arrow stepped forward. Close now.
Blood Raven, Skadi, and Morrigan flanked him silently—specters in crimson, frost, and fire.
Mueller looked up, shaking.
"P-Please," he gasped. "We can negotiate. I'll talk. I can name every buyer from—"
The Arrow raised another arrow. Pointed it directly between Mueller's eyes.
"No," he said flatly.
Mueller froze.
"You had your chance," the Arrow said, voice low and cold as sleet. "You came back. You doubled down. You didn't care who got hurt."
He took a slow step closer.
"You have failed this city."
Mueller whimpered. "W-What are you—?"
The arrow didn't fly. Not yet.
Instead, it shifted slightly. Just a threat. A promise.
Behind the Arrow, Blood Raven stepped forward, cracking his knuckles.
"I vote we let him talk," he said with that wicked grin. "Then tie him to a rune-bomb and let the cops decide if he's worth defusing."
Skadi tilted her head. "You're getting bloodthirsty, Raven."
Morrigan smirked. "He's just competitive."
The Arrow lowered the bow—slightly. Then turned to Harry.
"Call it in."
Harry sighed. "You're no fun."
Still, he flicked a runed shard into the air. It blinked twice, then pulsed red.
"Tracker locked. SCPD inbound in three."
Mueller slumped, bleeding and beaten, as red lights lit up the far end of the road.
---
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