# FIRST NATIONAL BANK – INTERIOR – NIGHT
The vault door groaned open like a beast in pain, the grinding metal echoing through the marble lobby with the finality of fate itself. Derek Reston stepped back, flexing fingers that had spent thirty years coaxing secrets from steel, his red King mask catching the emergency lighting like spilled blood. At fifty-three, he moved with the deliberate precision of Currie Graham playing a man who'd learned that control was the difference between success and catastrophe.
"We're in," Derek announced, his voice carrying the smooth authority of someone ordering another round in a dive bar he half-owned. No excitement, no celebration—just professional satisfaction at a job well done.
Inside the vault, bricks of currency gleamed like a dragon's hoard under the harsh fluorescent lighting. Neat stacks of hundreds, fifties, twenties—more money than the Reston family had seen in their entire criminal career. For just a moment, Derek allowed himself a private smile behind the mask. Five years of running, scraping, and planning were about to pay off in ways that would set them free forever.
Kyle shouldered past his father with restless energy, channeling barely contained adrenaline and cocky swagger. The Ace mask did nothing to hide his excitement as he dove on the first stack of bills like a kid discovering Christmas presents.
"Holy shit, Dad," Kyle breathed, his voice cracking with emotion as he began shoving stacks into the first duffel bag. "Look at this. Just... look at all of it. After five years of ramen noodles and motel carpets that smell like someone died, we're finally taking what's ours."
"Language, Kyle," Derek muttered automatically, moving in beside his son with the kind of methodical efficiency that had made him an excellent foreman. "And take, don't announce. The money doesn't care how excited you are, and neither do the security cameras we're hoping stayed blind."
Kyle's grin was wolfish and unrepentant. "Sorry, Dad, but come on. Tell me this doesn't feel incredible. Tell me you're not at least a little bit pumped about finally getting what Queen Consolidated owes us."
Derek's hands never paused in their work, transferring bundles of cash with the mechanical precision of someone who'd learned to separate emotion from operational necessity. "What I'm feeling is cautious optimism tempered by the knowledge that we're not clear yet. Save the victory lap for when we're on a beach in Mexico."
"Mexico," Kyle repeated dreamily, still stuffing money into bags with enthusiastic efficiency. "Sun, sand, and margaritas that don't come from a mix. Plus, you know what the best part is? No more running. No more looking over our shoulders every time we hear sirens. No more pretending to be people we're not."
"We've been pretending to be people we're not for five years," Derek observed dryly. "What makes you think Mexico's going to be different?"
"Because in Mexico, we can afford to be ourselves," Kyle shot back with the kind of logic that sounded reasonable until you thought about it too hard. "Rich Americans with mysterious pasts and absolutely no interest in discussing their former business ventures."
From her position at the lobby windows, Janice's voice cut through their conversation with the sharp edge of someone who'd spent twenty years keeping Derek Reston focused on reality instead of wishful thinking.
"Boys," she said, her tone carrying the authority that came from being the only person in the family who could make Derek shut up and listen, "lovely as this father-son bonding moment is, we've got movement three blocks out. Multiple vehicles, coordinated approach, definitely not late-night pizza delivery."
Derek's head snapped up, his casual demeanor evaporating like morning mist. "How many vehicles?"
"Six that I can count," Janice replied, pressing herself against the wall beside the window for a better view. Her red Queen mask turned slowly as she tracked the approaching threats. "Could be traffic, but my gut says otherwise. These aren't random late-night commuters, Derek. This is tactical."
Derek felt that familiar cold weight settling in his stomach—the feeling that meant their carefully laid plans were about to collide with reality in ways they hadn't anticipated.
"Teddy," he called to his younger son, "how are we on electronic surveillance?"
Teddy hunched over the bank's security console like Tom Stevens playing a hacker having the worst night of his professional career. His fingers flew over multiple keyboards with desperate precision, lines of code scrolling across screens faster than most people could read.
"Electronic surveillance is holding," he reported, though his voice carried the particular strain that came from fighting a technological battle against opponents he couldn't see. "But Dad, someone's been probing our countermeasures for the past ten minutes. Testing them. Like they know exactly what we're capable of and they're measuring our responses."
Derek's blood turned to ice water. "Explain."
"It's like..." Teddy paused, searching for words that would convey the technical reality to people who understood locks and explosives but not digital warfare. "Imagine you're picking a lock, and someone's on the other side testing how much pressure your picks can handle before they break. That's what's happening to our electronic defenses."
Kyle looked up from the money bags, his cocky confidence wavering for the first time all evening. "That's not cops."
"No," Derek agreed grimly. "Cops don't have that kind of technical sophistication. Cops kick down doors and ask questions later."
"FBI?" Janice suggested, though her tone suggested she didn't believe it.
"FBI would have surrounded the building and demanded surrender through a bullhorn," Derek replied, his mind working through possibilities with the grim efficiency of someone who'd spent five years planning for exactly this kind of complication. "This is something else. Something that wants us inside the bank for reasons that have nothing to do with preventing robbery."
Kyle's nervous laugh carried an edge of hysteria. "Great. So we're not just robbing a bank—we're walking into a trap. This night just keeps getting better."
"Kyle," Derek's voice carried the kind of paternal authority that could cut through panic like a blade through silk, "focus. Two minutes to load and extract. Whatever's waiting for us outside, we deal with it when we get there."
"Dad," Teddy's voice cracked with the strain of maintaining their electronic defenses against increasingly sophisticated attacks, "I'm losing ground here. Whoever's out there, they're not just probing anymore. They're actively dismantling our countermeasures."
Derek made the calculation in his head—time to finish loading, time to reach their escape route, probability of breaking through whatever opposition was gathering outside. The math was ugly, but it was still workable if they moved fast and stayed smart.
"One minute," he decided. "Kyle, forget the small denominations. Teddy, give me whatever time you can buy. Jan, what's the street looking like?"
"Like a military operation disguised as traffic," Janice replied with bitter humor. "I count at least three SUVs that are trying very hard to look like they belong in downtown Starling at midnight. Plus what might be a command vehicle positioned across from the main entrance."
Kyle paused in his frantic money-stuffing to stare at his mother. "Command vehicle? Mom, what kind of cops have command vehicles?"
"The kind that aren't cops," Derek said with deadly certainty.
That's when the lights died.
Not a flicker. Not a fade. Just instant, absolute darkness that swallowed the emergency lighting like it had never existed.
For three heartbeats, the bank was a tomb.
Then the backup systems kicked in, bathing everything in hellish red that made the marble look like it was drenched in blood.
And Frank Morrison reached for his shotgun.
---
Frank had been working security at First National for eight years, ever since his comedy career had finally collapsed under the weight of too many bombing sets at clubs that smelled like desperation and broken dreams. At forty-five, he'd accepted that he wasn't going to be the next Kevin James, that his particular brand of self-deprecating humor about married life and suburban mediocrity wasn't going to pay for his daughter's college tuition or his wife's medical bills.
But security work? Security work he could do. It was steady, honest, and it let him feel like he was protecting something that mattered.
Tonight, that something was his bank.
The Mossberg 500 emerged from its concealed mount beneath his desk with practiced efficiency. Frank had qualified expert with shotguns during his brief stint in the National Guard twenty years ago, and some skills you never forgot—even when you spent most of your time explaining to drunk college kids that yes, they really did need to show ID to cash a check at midnight.
"Gentlemen," Frank announced with the kind of deadpan delivery that had served him well during his comedy days, "I've got some bad news and some worse news. The bad news is you picked the wrong bank. The worse news is I haven't had a good day since my wife made me start that low-carb diet, and I'm looking for someone to take it out on."
Kyle spun toward him, Glock already in hand, his movements sharp with barely controlled panic. "Are you serious right now? You're making jokes while pointing a shotgun at us?"
"Comedy's all about timing," Frank replied with unshakeable calm, his finger resting lightly on the trigger. "And right now, the timing says you boys should find somewhere else to be."
Derek stepped forward, hands visible and empty, projecting the kind of reasonable authority that had served him well in both legitimate and illegitimate negotiations.
"Buddy," he said, his voice carrying a particular blend of working-class wisdom and quiet menace, "you seem like a smart man. Dedicated employee, family guy, probably coaches Little League on weekends. Let me ask you something—is protecting this bank's money worth dying for?"
Frank's shotgun never wavered. "Is stealing it worth killing for?"
"Touché," Derek admitted with grudging respect. "But here's the thing. You pull that trigger, and everything changes. Right now, this is just property crime. You start shooting, it becomes murder. My son there?" He nodded toward Kyle. "He's scared, he's desperate, and he's got a loaded weapon. You really want to roll those dice?"
"Your son should have thought about that before he decided to rob my bank," Frank replied with the kind of stubborn dignity that belonged in a Frank Capra movie. "Some things are worth standing up for, even when it's scary. Even when it's stupid."
Kyle's laugh was sharp and bitter. "Standing up for what? This isn't your money. It's insured corporate cash that belongs to the same people who've been screwing over guys like you and my dad for decades. You're not protecting anything except rich people's profits."
"Maybe so," Frank said with maddening calm, "but it's still my job. And I'm still going to do it."
Janice's voice cut across the standoff from her position at the windows, carrying the kind of urgency that meant their tactical situation was deteriorating rapidly.
"Derek," she said sharply, "whatever's happening out there just got a lot more serious. I'm seeing tactical teams, electronic surveillance equipment, and what looks like enough firepower to level a city block."
Derek felt his stomach drop as the implications hit him. They weren't dealing with standard police response anymore. Someone had escalated this situation beyond bank robbery into something that resembled a military operation.
"Federal?" he asked, though he suspected the answer would be worse than that.
"I don't think so," Janice replied grimly. "Feds would have announced themselves by now. This is... something else."
Teddy's voice cracked as his electronic defenses finally crumbled under whatever sophisticated attack was being mounted against them.
"Dad, I've lost everything," he announced with the kind of professional calm that barely concealed panic. "Communications, surveillance, countermeasures—it's all gone. Whoever's out there just took control of every electronic system in a six-block radius."
Kyle's weapon swung toward the bank's entrance as the sound of vehicles positioning themselves became audible even through the thick walls.
"This is bad," Kyle said with masterful understatement. "This is really, really bad."
"No kidding, genius," Frank said dryly, his shotgun still trained on the family of bank robbers who were rapidly becoming the least of everyone's problems. "Though I have to say, for a master criminal, your situational awareness leaves something to be desired."
"My situational awareness is fine," Kyle snapped back. "It's the situation that's gone completely insane."
Derek made the calculation in his head—time to exit, distance to their escape route, probability of breaking through whatever military-grade opposition was gathering outside. The math was catastrophic, but catastrophic didn't mean impossible.
"New plan," he announced with the kind of calm authority that had kept his family alive through twelve successful heists. "We're not going out the way we came in."
"What are you talking about?" Kyle demanded.
"Maintenance tunnels," Derek replied, already moving toward the bank's rear corridor. "Every building this old has service access to the storm drain system. Teddy mapped them during reconnaissance."
"Dad," Teddy said with quiet desperation, "those tunnels weren't designed for emergency extraction. They're narrow, they're flooded, and they exit into areas that are probably already under surveillance."
"They're also not being watched by whatever military unit just surrounded this building," Derek pointed out with grim logic. "Sometimes the worst option is the only option."
Frank's voice carried across the lobby with the kind of stubborn determination that suggested he hadn't given up on his security guard responsibilities despite the increasingly surreal circumstances.
"You boys aren't going anywhere," he said firmly. "Not until SCPD gets here and sorts this mess out properly."
Kyle's response was immediate and heated. "Old man, you have no idea what you're dealing with here. Those aren't cops outside. Those are people who solve problems by making the problems disappear permanently."
"Then maybe you shouldn't have created problems in the first place," Frank replied with unassailable logic. "Just a thought."
"Oh, that's helpful," Kyle shot back sarcastically. "Thanks for the life coaching, Frank. Really timely advice."
Before Frank could deliver what undoubtedly would have been a devastating comeback about criminal life choices and their consequences, the bank's plate glass windows exploded inward in a shower of glittering fragments.
The first thing through the window wasn't SCPD tactical teams or FBI agents or even the private military contractors they'd been expecting.
It was an arrow.
The shaft was matte black, the fletching designed for maximum accuracy rather than visibility, and it struck the marble floor between Frank and Kyle with surgical precision before exploding in a burst of brilliant white light that turned the red-lit lobby into a strobe effect nightmare.
"Flashbang arrow," Derek identified grimly, his years of criminal experience providing context that none of them wanted. "Military grade. We're not dealing with local law enforcement anymore."
Kyle staggered backward, his vision strobing between blindness and too-bright clarity, his Glock wavering as he tried to acquire targets that kept shifting in and out of focus.
"I can't see," he announced with admirable honesty. "I literally cannot see anything except spots and pain."
"Join the club," Frank muttered, his shotgun tracking empty air as he blinked rapidly in an attempt to clear his vision. "Though I have to say, this is definitely not covered in the security guard manual."
A second arrow followed the first, this one trailing what appeared to be some kind of high-tech cable that anchored itself to the ceiling with a soft thunk. The line went taut, and then a figure in forest green slid down it with the kind of fluid grace that belonged in action movies rather than bank robberies.
The Arrow landed in the center of the lobby with predatory silence, his composite bow already nocked with another arrow, his hooded face scanning the scene with the calculating assessment of someone who'd learned to evaluate threats and eliminate them with mathematical precision.
Even in the strobing emergency lighting, he was an impressive sight—tall, lean, moving with the controlled violence of someone who'd been forged in circumstances that would have broken lesser men. The green hood cast his features in shadow, but his eyes were visible: pale blue, cold as winter, focused with the intensity of a hunting predator.
Kyle's vision cleared just enough to see the legendary vigilante who'd been hunting them for weeks, and his response was immediate and professional.
"Contact!" he shouted, bringing his Glock up with practiced speed. "Dad, it's him! It's the Arrow!"
But instead of taking cover or diving for safety, Kyle did something that surprised everyone in the lobby, including himself.
He grinned.
"Finally," he said with satisfaction that bordered on relief. "I was starting to think you were just an urban legend. Some kind of Starling City boogeyman that existed only in witness statements and blurry surveillance footage."
The Arrow's response was to draw his bowstring back another inch, the specialized arrow's tip gleaming with whatever technological enhancement made it more dangerous than traditional archery equipment.
"Kyle Reston," the Arrow said, his voice carrying the kind of gravelly authority that suggested he'd identified his target and was prepared to neutralize the threat. "You're under arrest for armed robbery, assault with a deadly weapon, and conspiracy to commit felony theft."
Kyle's laugh was genuinely delighted. "Under arrest? By who? Last I checked, vigilantes don't have arrest powers. You're just another criminal with better press coverage."
"The difference," the Arrow replied with deadly calm, "is that I don't threaten innocent people to get what I want."
"Innocent people?" Kyle's voice climbed with indignation. "Frank over there is pointing a shotgun at my family. The bank we're robbing belongs to the same corporate structure that destroyed our lives five years ago. Where exactly are these innocent people you're so concerned about?"
Frank, who had been following this exchange with the bewildered attention of someone watching a philosophical debate conducted at gunpoint, finally found his voice.
"Excuse me," he said with the kind of polite confusion that suggested he was having trouble processing the evening's increasingly surreal developments, "but could someone please explain why we're having a moral discussion in the middle of a bank robbery? Because I feel like I missed some important context here."
"The context," Derek said with weary authority, moving to position himself between his son and the Arrow, "is that sometimes good people get pushed into bad situations by circumstances beyond their control."
The Arrow's attention shifted to Derek, and even behind the hood, his expression suggested he was processing information that complicated his tactical assessment.
"Derek Reston," the Arrow said. "Former Queen Consolidated employee. Terminated for theft of company materials."
"Terminated for trying to feed my family when your father decided we were too expensive to keep around," Derek corrected with the kind of bitter honesty that cut through corporate euphemisms like a blade. "But yes, technically theft. I took materials I thought I'd earned through fifteen years of loyal service."
"That doesn't justify what you've become," the Arrow replied, though his voice carried less certainty than before.
"Doesn't it?" Derek asked with genuine curiosity. "My son was going to be an engineer. Honor roll, scholarship offers, the whole American Dream package. My other son was captain of his high school chess team and had early admission to MIT. My wife was taking night classes to become a paralegal."
Derek's voice grew harder as he continued, blood seeping through his jacket where an old wound had reopened under stress.
"Robert Queen's business decisions destroyed all of that in a single afternoon. So tell me, Arrow—what exactly should I have become? What's the appropriate response when the system fails you so completely that crime starts looking like the only rational choice?"
The Arrow was quiet for a moment, his pale blue eyes moving between Derek and Kyle with the kind of moral calculation that suggested he was wrestling with questions that had no clean answers.
"There are always alternatives to crime," he said finally, though his voice lacked conviction.
"Are there?" Kyle interjected with bitter laughter. "Name one. Go ahead, Mr. Moral Authority. Tell me what alternatives my family had when we lost our house, our savings, our future, and our faith in the idea that hard work and honest living actually mean something in this country."
Before the Arrow could formulate a response to that particular challenge, Teddy's voice cut across the lobby with the kind of electronic urgency that meant their situation had just become exponentially worse.
"Dad!" Teddy called out from his position at the security console, his young voice cracking with stress. "Whatever's outside just went active. I'm reading full spectrum electronic warfare, communication jamming, and what looks like preparation for breaching operations."
Derek felt the tactical situation shifting around them like sand in an hourglass. They'd planned for police response, federal agents, even private security. But they hadn't planned for the kind of military-grade opposition that was apparently taking position around the building.
"How long until breach?" Derek asked.
"Two minutes, maybe less," Teddy replied with professional calm that belied his age. "Dad, these aren't cops. This is something that would make Delta Force nervous."
Kyle's weapon swung toward the Arrow with renewed aggression. "This is your fault," he snarled with the kind of desperate anger that came from watching carefully laid plans disintegrate in real time. "You called them. You led them here."
"I came alone," the Arrow replied with absolute certainty. "Whatever's outside, I didn't bring them."
"Then who did?" Kyle demanded.
The answer came in the form of shadows moving with inhuman grace.
The skylight above them didn't shatter—it simply opened, as if the glass had decided to politely step aside for whatever was descending through it. A figure in crimson and black dropped into the lobby with the fluid silence of something that had learned to move like liquid death.
The Blood Raven landed in a crouch that absorbed the impact without sound, his basilisk-hide armor gleaming like fresh blood under the emergency lighting. The deep red bodysuit clung to his muscled frame with the precision of something that had been crafted rather than manufactured, while the black tactical plates provided protection that belonged in military applications rather than vigilante costumes.
His crimson hood was pulled low over a mask that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, leaving only white eye lenses that glowed with technological enhancement. When he straightened to his full height, he moved with the kind of predatory grace that made everyone in the lobby suddenly very aware that the rules had changed.
"Well," the Blood Raven said, his voice distorted by electronic modulation into something that carried authority like a physical force, "this is cozy. A bank robbery, a moral philosophy seminar, and what appears to be the beginning of a military siege. Really, it's like Christmas morning for anyone who enjoys watching carefully laid plans collide with Murphy's Law at light speed."
Frank Morrison stared at the second masked vigilante, his shotgun wavering as he tried to process the fact that his quiet Friday night shift had somehow become the setting for what appeared to be a superhero convention.
"Okay," Frank said with the kind of forced calm that came from years of dealing with situations that made no sense, "I'm officially in over my head here. Are you guys like a team? Do you have matching business cards? Should I be calling someone other than 911?"
The Blood Raven's masked head tilted toward Frank with what might have been amusement. "You should be calling for an ambulance," he said with silk-wrapped steel. "Because in about ninety seconds, people are going to start bleeding, and most of them don't deserve to die for other people's mistakes."
Kyle's Glock tracked between the two vigilantes with the nervous precision of someone who'd suddenly realized he was outgunned and outmatched.
"Two against four," Kyle said with false bravado. "I like those odds."
"Do you?" the Blood Raven asked with polite interest. "How delightfully optimistic. Tell me, have you factored in the private military contractors who are currently surrounding this building with enough firepower to level a city block?"
Derek's head snapped toward the masked figure. "What contractors?"
"The kind that the bank paid to make problems disappear permanently," the Blood Raven replied with grim certainty. "The kind that aren't particularly interested in arrests, trials, or due process."
Janice's voice carried across the lobby with the kind of maternal authority that cut through tactical discussions like a knife.
"Derek," she said sharply, "whatever philosophical debate we're having here, it needs to end. Now. I'm seeing movement that suggests breach teams preparing for entry, and I don't think they're planning to take prisoners."
Derek felt the weight of five years' worth of decisions pressing down on him like a physical thing. Every choice that had led them to this moment, every compromise that had seemed reasonable at the time, every line they'd crossed in the name of family survival.
"Kyle," he said quietly, "put the gun down."
"Dad?" Kyle's voice cracked with confusion and betrayal.
"You heard me, son. Put it down. All of this—the bank, the money, the running—it ends tonight."
Kyle stared at his father like Derek had suddenly started speaking a foreign language. "Dad, what are you talking about? We're so close. We're literally holding the money. All we have to do is get out of here and—"
"And what?" Derek interrupted with the kind of paternal authority that had shaped Kyle's entire worldview. "Run for the rest of our lives? Keep looking over our shoulders? Keep teaching you and your brother that the only way to survive is to take from other people?"
Derek's voice grew stronger as he continued, fed by convictions he'd been suppressing for five years.
"I did this to you, Kyle. I turned you into this. When Queen Consolidated destroyed our lives, I should have found legitimate ways to rebuild. I should have swallowed my pride, taken whatever work I could find, and shown you that setbacks don't define who you are."
"Dad—"
"Instead, I taught you that the world owed us something," Derek continued with heartbreaking honesty. "I taught you that when the system fails you, the answer is to fail it right back. I made you into someone who thinks violence is the solution to every problem."
Kyle's hand shook as he stared at his father, the Glock wavering between the vigilantes and the floor.
"You didn't make me into anything," Kyle said desperately. "I chose this. We all chose this."
"You were eighteen years old," Derek replied with gentle finality. "You chose what I taught you to choose. That's on me, not you."
Frank Morrison, who had been listening to this family therapy session conducted at gunpoint with the fascinated attention of someone watching a train wreck in slow motion, finally cleared his throat.
"This is all very touching," he said with characteristic directness, "but could we possibly have this conversation after I stop pointing a shotgun at people? Because my wife's always telling me I have terrible timing with emotional moments, and I'm starting to think she might have a point."
That's when the bank's front door exploded inward.
Not kicked open. Not unlocked and entered politely.
Exploded.
The heavy glass and steel barrier disintegrated in a shower of fragments as Detective Lucas Hilton and his tactical team breached the building with the kind of professional violence that suggested they'd expected resistance and were prepared to overcome it through superior firepower.
"SCPD! Everyone on the ground! Now!"
Lucas moved through the smoke and debris with the controlled aggression of someone who'd spent twenty years dealing with situations that could kill him if he made the wrong decision. His weapon was drawn but not aimed, his eyes scanning the lobby with tactical assessment that catalogued threats and civilians with equal precision.
Behind him, four officers in full tactical gear spread out with military efficiency, their weapons trained on everyone present while their radio chatter provided real-time updates to whatever command structure was coordinating this operation.
"Multiple suspects, weapons visible, civilians present," one of the officers reported with professional calm. "Requesting ambulance for apparent gunshot wound."
Lucas's eyes found Derek first—wounded, sitting against the teller counter, clearly the leader despite his compromised condition. Then Kyle, armed and dangerous but with his weapon pointed toward the floor rather than at targets. Then Frank, whose shotgun was now aimed at nobody in particular as he tried to process the sudden influx of law enforcement.
And finally, the two vigilantes who had no business being at his crime scene but were somehow managing to make the situation more complicated just by existing.
"What the hell is this?" Lucas demanded, his voice carrying the particular edge that came from having his professional authority challenged by people in costumes. "This is a police operation, not amateur night at the vigilante club."
The Arrow stepped forward with the kind of calm authority that suggested he'd been expecting this confrontation and was prepared to handle it diplomatically.
"Detective Hilton," he said with respectful formality, "we responded to reports of an armed robbery in progress. We were attempting to resolve the situation with minimal violence when your teams arrived."
"Resolve it how?" Lucas asked with dangerous quiet. "By having a philosophical discussion with armed criminals while they rob my bank?"
The Blood Raven moved to Derek's side with fluid grace, his masked attention focused on the wounded man with what appeared to be genuine medical concern.
"He needs immediate attention," the Blood Raven announced with clinical authority. "Gunshot wound to the shoulder, significant blood loss, possible shock. Where's that ambulance?"
"En route," Lucas replied automatically, his training overriding his annoyance with vigilante interference. "Four minutes out."
"He might not have four minutes," the Blood Raven said with quiet urgency, his hands moving over Derek's wound with surprising medical competence. "The bleeding's not stopping, and his pulse is getting weaker."
Kyle knelt beside his father, his weapon forgotten as paternal concern overrode criminal priorities.
"Dad, stay with me," Kyle said desperately. "Dad, you're going to be okay. The paramedics are coming, and everything's going to be fine."
Derek's eyes found his son's face through the haze of pain and approaching shock, and somehow managed a weak but genuine smile.
"Kyle," he said softly, his voice barely audible over the continuing radio chatter from Lucas's team, "I need you to listen to me very carefully."
"Dad, don't talk like that. You're going to be fine."
"Son," Derek continued with the kind of paternal authority that cut through denial like a blade, "I need you to do something for me. I need you to tell these officers everything they want to know."
Kyle's face went pale. "Dad, no. We don't talk to cops. That's rule number one. You taught me that."
"I taught you a lot of things," Derek replied with heartbreaking honesty. "Most of them were wrong. Don't compound my mistakes by protecting people who don't deserve protection."
The Blood Raven looked up from Derek's wound, his white eye lenses reflecting the emergency lighting like mirrors.
"What people?" he asked with sharp interest.
Derek's gaze moved to the masked vigilante, and something passed between them—an understanding that went beyond the immediate circumstances of bank robbery and arrest.
"The buyers," Derek said weakly. "The people who've been purchasing the materials I've been stealing from Queen Consolidated warehouses for five years. The people who knew exactly what those materials could be used for and didn't care about the consequences."
Lucas Hilton's attention sharpened like a blade focusing light. "What materials? What buyers?"
But Derek's eyes were already closing, blood loss and shock finally claiming consciousness despite his determination to finish the conversation that might save his family from consequences they'd never fully understood.
Kyle looked around the lobby—at his unconscious father, at the police officers whose weapons were still trained on his family, at the vigilantes who'd somehow become his father's medical team, at Frank Morrison who was still holding his shotgun like he wasn't sure whether the crisis was over or just beginning.
"This is insane," Kyle said with admirable understatement. "This whole situation is completely insane."
"Welcome to Starling City," the Arrow replied dryly. "It grows on you."
Kyle stared at him for a moment, then did something that surprised everyone present.
He started laughing.
Not hysterical laughter. Not desperate laughter. Just the kind of genuine amusement that came from recognizing the cosmic absurdity of circumstances that had spiraled so far beyond anyone's control that the only rational response was to appreciate the dark humor.
"You know what?" Kyle said, letting his Glock clatter to the marble floor with finality. "My dad's right. This is on me. All of it. And I'm tired of running from consequences that were always going to catch up to us eventually."
He raised his hands, looking directly at Detective Hilton with the kind of clear-eyed determination that suggested he'd finally made a decision that felt right instead of just expedient.
"I want to make a deal," Kyle announced. "Full cooperation, complete disclosure, everything we know about everyone we've worked with. But I want guarantees about my family's safety, and I want to know exactly who's been pulling the strings in this whole operation."
Lucas studied Kyle's face with the calculating assessment of someone who'd spent twenty years learning to distinguish between genuine cooperation and sophisticated manipulation.
"What kind of guarantees?" Lucas asked carefully.
"The kind that ensure my mother and brother don't end up dead in their cells from mysterious accidents," Kyle replied with grim practicality. "The kind that acknowledge this whole thing goes deeper than just the Royal Flush Gang robbing banks to fund our retirement."
The Blood Raven straightened from Derek's side, his masked attention focusing on Kyle with laser intensity.
"Smart man," he said with approval that suggested Kyle had just passed some kind of test. "Very smart man."
As paramedics finally burst through the demolished entrance and began working on Derek's injuries, as Kyle and his family were processed through arrest procedures they'd spent five years trying to avoid, the Arrow and Blood Raven melted back into the shadows with the kind of silent efficiency that left people wondering if they'd ever been there at all.
But Derek Reston's words echoed in the marble lobby long after the vigilantes had disappeared: sometimes good people got pushed into bad situations by circumstances beyond their control.
The question that remained was whether the system that had failed them once could be trusted to provide justice the second time around.
Or whether that justice would have to come from people who operated outside the system entirely.
Outside in the darkness, the Arrow and Blood Raven regrouped with grim satisfaction. The Royal Flush Gang was finished, Derek Reston would live, and Kyle had chosen cooperation over continued violence.
But Harry could see something working behind Oliver's pale blue eyes—the kind of moral calculation that suggested this story was far from over.
"What's next?" Harry asked quietly.
"Now we find out who's been buying stolen Queen Consolidated materials," Oliver replied with deadly certainty. "And we make sure they understand that some debts come with interest they can't afford to pay."
The house always collected its debts eventually.
But sometimes, the house discovered that it owed debts of its own.
---
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