The morning light didn't merely enter Walter Steele's office—it invaded. Each sunbeam cut through the floor-to-ceiling windows with surgical precision, dividing the sleek modern space into alternating bands of gold and shadow. The air smelled faintly of lemon polish and freshly brewed coffee, undercut by something sharper—perhaps the ozone from the building's climate control system, or perhaps the electric tension that always seemed to follow Thea Queen these days.
She stood perfectly still where the light was strongest, letting it illuminate her like a figure on some corporate chessboard. Her outfit was the kind of elegance that demanded attention without ever needing to ask for it.
The navy cropped blazer ended just above her waist, sharp-shouldered and perfectly tailored, exposing a deliberate strip of skin above the high-rise line of her black wide-leg trousers. Beneath the blazer, a silk shell top in near-translucent blush shimmered faintly with each breath, its deep V-neckline revealing more than protocol usually allowed—but never more than she intended. The trousers hugged her hips before flowing smoothly down to just above the ankle, showing off sculpted calves and black patent leather pumps with thin ankle straps that caught the light with every shift in weight.
A gold pendant necklace rested against her chest, drawing the eye downward with clinical precision. A matching bracelet and a simple ring completed the picture—elegant, restrained, and deliberate. Her makeup was cool and calculated: defined eyes, nude gloss, nothing that distracted from the woman herself.
He made a show of finishing his email before looking up, letting the silence stretch just long enough to be uncomfortable. His fingers paused on the keyboard mid-sentence, the keys giving a faint click as he released them. The pause was calculated—a small test. The old Thea would have fidgeted. This one just watched him with those unsettlingly calm eyes, her patience absolute.
"Thea," he said at last, gesturing to the chair across from him. His voice was steady, the practiced neutrality of countless boardroom battles, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. He could feel the muscles knotting beneath his tailored shirt, the same way they always did when Robert had been about to drop some corporate bombshell.
"We both know why I'm here," she said after taking the offered seat. The words weren't rushed, but they carried a strange weight, as if each syllable had been measured and found sufficient.
Walter exhaled through his nose, the sound louder than he intended in the quiet office. He could smell her perfume now—something expensive and floral with an undercurrent of gunmetal. The combination was unsettlingly apt. "You've never been one for small talk," he conceded, leaning back in his chair. The leather creaked familiarly beneath him, a sound that usually comforted him. Today it just sounded like a warning.
A ghost of a smile touched her lips, there and gone so fast he might have imagined it. "And you've never been one for power plays." Her head tilted slightly, the light catching the sharp line of her jaw. "Which is exactly why you're sitting in that chair."
She moved then, walking slowly to the desk with a predator's grace. Her heels clicked against the marble like a metronome counting down to something inevitable. When she placed the two binders on his desk, the thud echoed through the room, the sound somehow heavier than their physical weight should have allowed.
Walter eyed them warily. The top binder was standard Queen Consolidated issue-black leather with the company's crest embossed in gold leaf. The second was something else entirely, bound in a matte graphite polymer that seemed to absort light rather than reflect it. There was no logo, no title. Just weight and silence.
"Should I be concerned he asked.
That depends, Thea replied, flipping the binder open herself. "Do you want to survive the next three years, or do you want to thrive?"
Her fingers-manicured but with nails cut short for practicality-traced the OC logo before turning the page with deliberate care. The paper was thicker than standard stock, the kind used for non-disclosure contracts and classified tenders. It smelled faintly of clean ink and ozone
"Phase One: Stabilization. She tapped a highlighted section with the tip of her nail, painted in a neutral matte that somehow looked more dangerous than red. "Applied Sciences gets full reinvestment-I've rerouted capital from the shuttered Pennington project to cover it. The board won't notice until the quarterly call
Walter opened his mouth to question the legality of that, but she was already turning the page.
"Calvani Optical's fiber installation in Starling North has to be operational before Christmas. Contracts are prepped, vendor approval's waiting for your signature Blue tabs. And as for Logistics? That entire department gets restructured by end of 04
She underlined a name: Mia Alvarez
Siphon off the dead weight. Elevate Mia. She knows this city's arteries better than anyone even after what Merlyn Global did to the routing infrastructure
Walter's jaw clenched at the memory of Malcolm Merlyn's hostile acquisition maneuvers years earlier. Even now, the scars were buried in the company's balance sheets. He forced himself to relax, leaning forward to skim the pages
The margins were filled with notes in Thea's precise handwriting-not the loopy cursive of her teenage notebooks, but a sharp, slanted print. Color-coded tabs mirrored board members pet priorities green for ESG, red for ROI, blue for compliance.
He paused at a particularly damning footnote tied to an urban development project championed by Sanderson. The words "conflict of interest' were underlined three times.
"The board will fight you on all of it," she said. "But I've included the leverage you'll need to win"
The way she said "leverage' was clinical. Not emotional. Not gleeful. Just a fact of corporate war
Walter didn't speak. He tumed the page.
The paper crackled like fire in the quiet office
"Phase Two: Acquisitions"
Thea's voice shifted Cooler. Professional. The tone of someone who had long since stopped asking for permission.
"Kord Omnitech's drone R&D branch will be open for acquisition in eighteen months. Their last quarterly call buried a lot of layoffs in ambiguous phrasing, but the internal numbers are soft. This is a controlled collapse."
The numbers were sharp. Not just clean, but battle-tested. He saw disaster scenarion stress-tested alongside best-case timelines. The cash flow models had already factored in supply disruptions, anti-trust challenges, and labor strikes.
"Buy them quietly." Thea said. "Use shell bids through Harkness Capital and Van Hom Global Start with optics-let them think about camera systems. for maritime surveillance. When they pivot to sell off IP, we'll already have the licensing edge
She slid a folded slip of heavy paper across the desk,
Walter opened it carefully. The coordinates listed weren't banking institutions -they were encrypted server vaults maintained by Sionis Systems, a high-security tech firm known for handling Wayne Enterprises' black-budget projects
The account routing instructions."
The next page stopped him cold
Phase Three Expansion,"
A schematic unfolded-layered, rich with annotations and energy signatures WayneTech currently held Gotham's green energy infrastructure in a corporate stranglehold, but this....
This wasn't a challenge. It was a workaround.
"Localized grid architecture, Walter breathed. "This is micro-reactor fusion. Who built this model?"
"Ferris Electric's closed-loop design, improved by Tucker Engineering's modular fallover nodes. I had STAR Labs vet it for environmental safety
She tapped a section in the upper left. You roll this out across the West Coast -Keystone, Coast City, even Opal-we undercut Ferris fech's rates by 12% with a carbon-neutral output
Walter's eyes widened. That'll set off alarms at the Department of Energy
"Let them panic, We're not doing this through federal bids. Infrastructure by invitation. Cities sign MOUs, we build behind closed doors. No headlines.
She closed the binder with the soft finality of a gavel falling.
Then she slid the second dossier forward.
"And this? This is the future"
Walter opened it. He expected numbers. He got vision.
No spreadsheets. Blueprints. Strategic maps. Zoning overlays. Watar tables. Emergency routes.
Mobile clinics, co developed with Dayton Medical. Modular housing engineered by Terrific Tech. Underground data cabling mapped to bypass Starling's crumbling systems.
Satellite networks co-funded by Columb Technologies a barely known subsidiary of Wayne Aerospace. Each network node had a secondary use
broadband access, emergency communication, power redistribution.
It was a war plan disguised as civic revitalization
Thes leaned forward, both palms on the desk, echoing Robert Queen's old. boardroom stance.
The scent of her perfume intensified. Jasmine. And something else beneath it -industrial, sharp. Like solder smoke or polished steel.
"We rebuild the city," she said, voice low, steady. "Not with charity. With infrastructure. With permanence"
Watter's pulse quickened.
He traced the schematic of a vertical farm stacked between two disused rail spurs in the Glades. It could feed 10,000 people. Off-grid. Off-radar.
This isn't business," he murmured. "It's survival," she replied.
Her hand hovered briefly above the page, fingers trembling. She stilled them quickly, but not before he saw. The adrenaline. The exhaustion. The cost.
He looked up at her. She hadn't slept. She was running on fury and purpose, and somewhere underneath it, grief
He had seen Robert look like this once. The night before the Queen's Gambit launched.
"You've accounted for every variable," he said quietly, Except one Their eyes met
"How am I supposed to reach you when-"
"You won't"
"I'm going completely dark," she continued, straightening slightly. The light caught the fine chain around her neck that he hadn't noticed before—too thin to hold jewelry, probably securing some kind of drive or data chip against her skin. "No phones. No paper trail. No emergency contacts." Her eyes were fathomless. "For three years, I won't exist."
Walter stood abruptly, his chair scraping back across the tile with a sound like a scream. "Thea, you can't possibly—"
"I can. I am." Her voice didn't rise.
He rounded the desk, his polished shoes silent on the carpet. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "You're asking me to gamble everything."
Thea didn't retreat. If anything, she seemed to grow taller. "No," she corrected softly. "I'm giving you a loaded dice."
Walter looked at her for a long moment—really looked. The girl who used to sneak cookies from his desk drawer was gone. In her place stood something forged in fire and grief, tempered by secrets he could only guess at. He glanced down at the binder still open on his desk, at the plans that could reshape a city. "You're trying to make the city bulletproof," he murmured.
"No," she said, and for the first time, something like real emotion colored her voice. "I'm trying to make it worth saving."
There was a beat of silence. Then another. In the back of his mind, Walter heard Robert's voice—quiet, amused—from some long-ago conversation: "She'll surprise you, Walter. When the time comes, she'll be twice as ruthless as I ever was."
Walter exhaled slowly, the sound loud in the quiet office. "You're leaving."
"Temporarily."
"And if I refuse?"
Thea's smile was knife-sharp. "You won't." She reached over and flipped the binder to Appendix C. "Because buried here is exactly how to dismantle Sanderson's voting bloc before he can challenge you next quarter."
Walter's eyes flicked to the indicated section. The documents there weren't just blackmail—they were surgical strikes. Each board member's weakness distilled into three bullet points or less. His own section was surprisingly thin. Just two words: "Loyalty rewarded."
"Three years," she said, straightening her blazer with a sharp tug. "Keep the wolves at bay. Protect what matters." Her voice softened slightly. "That's all I ask."
She turned toward the door, her heels clicking against the marble with the same metronomic precision as before. At the threshold, she paused. "Oh, and Walter?" She didn't turn. "My mother... She puts on a good show, but she's barely holding it together." The slightest crack in her voice. "Watch her for me."
Then she was gone—leaving behind the scent of jasmine and gunpowder, and a man staring at the blueprint for a revolution.
Walter stood frozen for a long moment before his body caught up with his mind. "Thea!" he called, hurrying to the doorway.
She stopped in the hall but didn't turn, her silhouette framed by the emergency exit sign's bloody glow.
"Wherever you're going..." His voice caught slightly. "Be careful."
For the first time that morning, something flickered in Thea's eyes—something almost like warmth. Then it was gone, replaced by that unsettling calm. "Always am," she said.
And then she was gone, leaving Walter Steele alone with the weight of a kingdom in his hands—and the chilling certainty that whatever storm she was walking into, it was far more dangerous than anything in their boardroom.
---
The abandoned steel mill stood as a monument to Starling City's industrial corpse, its skeleton of rusted beams groaning in the evening wind. Golden hour light sliced through broken windows, illuminating dust motes that swirled like ghosts above the cracked concrete floor. Chains swayed from the ceiling, their shadows stretching long across the space where Roy Harper moved through his forms—a lone figure dancing with ghosts in the fading light.
Roy's body told the story of three months under Thea's tutelage. The softness of his street-kid frame had been carved into something harder, his movements carrying a new economy of motion. His faded red tank top clung to shoulders that had widened with muscle, the once-pale skin of his arms now sun-browned and crisscrossed with the faint silver lines of healing cuts. The hand wraps around his knuckles were frayed at the edges, stained dark in places where split skin had marked his progress.
He flowed through the combination Thea had drilled into him—jab, cross, elbow, knee—his breath coming in steady rhythm. When he pivoted into a roundhouse kick, the movement carried none of the hesitation from their first sessions. Only the clean arc of potential energy becoming kinetic, his body remembering what his mind sometimes still doubted.
The strike never landed.
Thea caught his ankle mid-air, her grip like iron as she materialized from the shadows between one heartbeat and the next. She'd entered without sound, her combat boots sleek and close-fitted, more tactical than bulky, the soles whispering against the ground as she stepped into his space.
"Dropping your elbow again," she said by way of greeting, releasing his leg with a small push that forced him to adjust his stance. "And your guard's still too wide after the third strike."
She wore a black sports bra that left little to the imagination—thin-strapped and minimalist, more skin than fabric, designed for movement and intensity. Her compression shorts sat low on her hips, hugging her form like a second skin, with mesh panels running down the sides to expose hints of thigh beneath the dim light. Her hands were wrapped tight in charcoal-grey tape, knuckles already darkened from earlier impacts. The simple ponytail swayed with each step, a no-nonsense style that only emphasized her poise and control.
Roy didn't flinch at her sudden appearance anymore—not after the fourth week when she'd started appearing out of nowhere during his solo training sessions. "Thought you'd stand me up," he said, rolling his shoulders. "Been working on that new combo you—"
She caught the heavy bag mid-swing as he turned to demonstrate, stopping two hundred pounds of momentum dead with one outstretched hand. The chains groaned in protest. "Show me properly," she said, stepping back into a ready stance. "And this time, pretend your life depends on it."
What followed wasn't sparring. It was dissection.
Thea pressed forward with clinical precision, her strikes calibrated to expose every weakness in Roy's form. When he overcommitted on a right cross, she drove a liver shot beneath his ribs that stole his breath in a pained gasp. As his stance widened instinctively during the retreat, her knee snapped up to hammer his thigh, deadening the muscle with surgical accuracy. And when he telegraphed a hook by dropping his elbow—just as she'd warned him not to do—she deflected with her forearm and countered with an elbow to his exposed jaw, stopping the strike a hair's breadth from impact.
"Faster, Harper!" She blocked his desperate cross and swept his legs in one fluid motion, sending him crashing to the mat with bone-rattling force. The air burst from Roy's lungs in a pained grunt as she planted a knee beside his head. "Do you want to die in some alley?" she demanded, her braid brushing his cheek as she leaned down. "Because that's how it happens—one lazy move when you're tired, one second of hesitation when it counts."
Roy rolled to his feet, teeth bared as he sucked in breath. "No!"
"Good." Thea tossed him a training knife from her thigh sheath, the dull polymer blade flashing in the dying light. "Then remember that fire."
They flowed into disarming drills that blurred the line between training and combat. The knife flashed between them as Roy learned—through bruised ribs and stinging slaps to unprotected areas—the difference between fighting and surviving. When Thea trapped his wrist in a lock that made tendons scream, she didn't ease up until she heard two sharp taps of surrender against the mat.
She released him with a push that sent him stumbling back. "You're getting better," she admitted, retrieving the training knife and slotting it home with a click. "But you're not ready."
Roy opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off with a raised hand.
"I'm leaving, Roy. For a while."
The words landed like a physical blow. Roy froze mid-motion, the sweat dripping from his brow onto the mat between them suddenly loud in the quiet space. "Leaving?" The word cracked in his throat. "Why? Things are just getting—"
"Things here are stagnant for me." Thea turned to her gear bag, her movements deliberate as she withdrew a sleek black burner phone in a shockproof case. "I need to learn what this city can't teach."
She tossed it to him underhand. Roy caught it against his chest, the weight settling in his palm like a promise—or a sentence.
"This is your lifeline." Thea's voice carried steel beneath its calm, the same tone she used when explaining how pressure points could drop a man twice his size. "My number's programmed. Only for true emergencies—life or death, city under siege level. Understood?"
Roy's thumb traced the edges of the phone, his grin flashing bright and false. "What, like aliens invading or something?" The joke fell flat when Thea didn't smile back, her expression unreadable in the gathering dark. Beneath the bravado, she saw the flicker—not fear, but the quiet terror of a street kid realizing his safety net might vanish. "Understood," he said finally, the word thick in his throat. "What... what do I do while you're gone?"
"Train." Thea tossed him a fresh set of hand wraps from her bag, the fabric still stiff with newness. "Every day. Harder than this." She gestured to the rafters where she'd hung three new heavy bags at different heights—one at head level, one at ribs, one low for leg work. "Watch the Glades. Protect where you can. Learn its rhythms until you can predict them better than your own heartbeat."
She stepped closer, close enough that Roy could smell the faint scents clinging to her—leather from her gloves, metal from the knife sheaths, something citrus-sharp beneath it all. "Stay out of major gang crossfires—for now. Observe. Be my eyes on the street." A beat. "And Roy?"
He met her gaze, his jaw set in a way that made him look older than his years.
"Don't get dead." The ghost of something almost warm touched her voice as she reached out, adjusting his stance with a touch to his elbow. "I've invested too much time in you."
Roy's answering grin was all sharp edges and reckless youth, but his eyes were serious as he pocketed the phone with a flourish. "Wouldn't dream of it, boss." He bounced on the balls of his feet, the nervous energy needing an outlet. "Bring me back something cool. Like nunchucks. Or one of those cool Japanese swords."
Thea's smirk was rare as a blood moon, here and gone in an instant. "We'll see." She assumed a fighting stance, gloves raised as the last of the daylight bled from the windows. "Now. Again. From the top."
---
Outside, the city lights began to flicker on one by one as night fell proper. Inside the mill, the shadows deepened, swallowing them whole as they moved through the forms again and again—two figures dancing on the edge of something darker, preparing for the storms to come.
The quiet hum of the upscale Japanese restaurant wrapped around them like a second skin, the scent of cedar and searing wagyu mingling with the faint floral notes from the ikebana arrangement between them. Thea ran her finger along the rim of her sake cup, watching the liquid ripple as Emiko finally broke their comfortable silence.
Thea hadn't touched her own plate, content instead to sip at her miso and watch the city lights bloom against the glass. A minute passed in quiet, the kind that usually meant one of them was thinking too hard.
She was dressed for the occasion in a slate-gray halter blouse, backless and silk, tied behind her neck and plunging low enough to reveal the edge of a silver pendant resting just above her sternum. Her skirt—black, wrap-style, and asymmetrical—flashed toned thigh as she crossed one leg over the other beneath the table. Open-toe ankle boots completed the look, sleek and sharp, echoing the quiet confidence she wore like armor.
Thea watched the chef behind the bar slice a perfect angle through a glistening piece of yellowtail, hands moving with ritualistic precision. Everything here was curated to signal calm, control, refinement—the antithesis of what she felt coiled in her chest. She'd spent the morning reviewing contracts, burning through three board calls, and rewriting her prepared remarks for this exact conversation at least five times. None of it made this easier.
Emiko hadn't said a word when Thea arrived. She'd only arched an eyebrow, gestured at the seat across from her, and poured the tea herself. Now she was inspecting a piece of toro like it might yield state secrets. The silence stretched, elastic and humming. Thea's eyes flicked to Kazumi, who offered her a polite smile, the kind that didn't reach her eyes. She was already reading the room, calculating every breath for subtext.
Emiko wore a cropped charcoal-gray sweater that hugged her frame and dark high-waisted jeans, her usual sharp elegance muted for the intimate setting. Beside her, Kazumi sat in a flowing plum silk blouse and wide-legged ivory slacks, a single pearl glinting at her collar.
"You're doing that thing again," Emiko said, chopsticks poised over a slice of fatty tuna.
"What thing?" Thea feigned innocence, but the corner of her mouth twitched.
"That 'I'm about to say something important but pretending it's casual thing." Emiko's dark eyes flicked up, sharper than the knife that had prepared their sashimi. "You've been doing it since we met at that dive bar."
Kazumi hid a smile behind her teacup as Thea exhaled through her nose.
"Caught me." Thea reached into her slim portfolio, withdrawing a sealed envelope thick with legal documents. The QC insignia wax seal cracked audibly as she broke it—a sound that made Emiko's shoulders tense instinctively. "Relax," Thea murmured. "This time it's good news."
She slid the papers across the polished mahogany. "Irrevocable shares, backdated to your birth. Full lineage acknowledgment in the private records. No more shadows."
Emiko's fingers hovered over the documents, her nail—painted the same deep red as Thea's—tapping once on the tabletop. "You already gave me shares."
"Those were the reinstated ones." Thea rotated her cup, watching the sake swirl. "These are different. They come with voting rights, board access, and—" she met Emiko's gaze squarely "—your name in the official family registry."
The ceramic clinked as Kazumi set down her tea. Outside their private room, the restaurant's bamboo fountain trickled steadily.
Emiko exhaled sharply through her nose. "You couldn't have led with this over text?"
"And miss seeing your face?" Thea grinned as Emiko rolled her eyes. "Besides, some things should be done properly. With witnesses." She nodded to Kazumi, whose serene expression held generations of quiet understanding.
A server glided in with their next course—perfectly seared scallops resting on citrus foam—but Emiko didn't glance away from the documents. The candlelight flickered across phrases like "heir apparent" and "voting rights in perpetuity."
"Why now?" Emiko's voice was measured, but Thea saw the way her sister's thumb rubbed absently against the edge of the paper—a nervous tell she'd picked up during late-night study sessions.
Thea speared a scallop. "Because I'm leaving tomorrow. Walter has a three-year plan to execute while I'm gone—everything from stabilizing Applied Sciences to acquiring Kord's drone tech. But I want you focused on finishing your degree first." She reached across the table, tapping Emiko's wrist. "Then, when you're ready, you'll take your seat beside him. QC needs that brilliant mind of yours."
Emiko's lips quirked. She finally lifted the first page, scanning the dense legalese with the same focus Thea had seen her use when analyzing contracts. "You realize this makes me a target."
"At least you'll have QC's legal team and security detail now," Thea said, swirling her sake.
Kazumi gave a small, approving nod. Emiko set the documents down carefully. "Don't die out there." Her voice was gruff, but the undercurrent was unmistakable now. "It would be... inconvenient.
Thea's laugh surprised even herself, bright and sudden against the restaurant's muted tones. "Noted."
Kazumi's smile was warm. "Travel safely, Thea."
Thea's fingers tightened slightly around her cup before she set it down with deliberate care. "Three years," she said, meeting both their gazes in turn. "That's how long I'll be gone. No calls. No messages." The candlelight caught the determined set of her jaw. "When I come back, we'll pick right up where we left off."
Emiko's chopsticks froze mid-bite. "You're really cutting all ties."
"It's the only way this works." Thea reached across the table, her fingertips brushing the edge of Emiko's documents—the closest she'd allow herself to sentiment. "But this? What we're building here? That stays."
Thea reached for her glass of water, letting the condensation cool her fingers. She watched the beads roll down the side like slow tears, a strange comfort in the silence that stretched between lines of dialogue. The clink of silverware from nearby tables barely registered—this booth, this moment, was its own small world, shielded by low lighting and soft jazz humming from the speakers overhead.
Emiko, for her part, leaned back and crossed one leg over the other, idly twirling her chopsticks between her fingers. "You always choose the restaurants with the least efficient menus," she muttered, mostly to herself. Thea smirked but said nothing. They both knew the ambiance was part of the calculus—just enough calm to keep the world at bay.
As the meal continued—now with Emiko dissecting QC's offshore holdings with surgical precision ("These Cayman Islands subsidiaries are unnecessarily convoluted"), now with Thea sliding a sleek black drive across the table ("Walter will explain everything—trust him like I do")—the candle burned lower. Outside, the city lights glittered like scattered jewels, unaware of the quiet transfer of power happening over barely-touched matcha parfait.
Thea left first, but not before catching Emiko's eye one last time. Emiko watched her go, the documents held tight in one hand, the other already texting Thea a photo of the restaurant's spicy tuna roll with the caption: "Still better than your precious vindaloo."
Some bonds, it seemed, could be woven from practicality and petty food rivalries as much as blood.
---
Thea knocked twice before letting herself in with the spare key. The familiar squeak of hinges brought Quentin's head up from his newspaper. Yellowed pages rustled as he lowered them, his reading glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.
"Thea?" he said, blinking in surprise. "Didn't expect to see you today."
She closed the door carefully behind her, as if even the noise might disrupt something delicate. "Yeah, I need to talk to you and Laurel about somthing. Is she around?"
"Still at her late class," Quentin replied, checking his watch. "Should be back soon. Come on in." He gestured toward the living room with a casual wave. "You look like you've got something on your mind."
Thea nodded once, stepping further inside. The apartment was just as she remembered it—homey, a little cluttered, smelling faintly of coffee and the lemon cleaner Quentin swore by.
She wore a soft, off-the-shoulder charcoal sweater that dipped low on one side, the strap of a black lace bralette visible against her shoulder. Her faded denim short shorts were frayed at the edges, hugging her hips and showing just enough to be casual but unmistakably Thea. Scuffed black ankle boots completed the look—practical, worn, and still stylish in the way only she could make them. Her hair was tousled from the walk, half-pinned back with a plain black clip.
She perched on the edge of the worn cushions, her hands loosely clasped between her knees. The coffee table still bore the faint circular stain from where Oliver had once spilled grape soda during movie night. The memory flickered in her mind like a forgotten reel.
Quentin studied her from behind the rim of his coffee mug. His eyes were steady but soft, the way they always got when he looked at her and Laurel—not as a cop, but as a dad. He opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and took a sip instead.
Thea broke the silence. "It's good to be here. I've missed this place."
"We've missed you, too." He leaned back, mug resting against his stomach. "You staying long?"
"Just for a bit," she said, her gaze falling to the floor.
Before Quentin could respond, the front door swung open with a soft groan of hinges. "I'm home," Laurel called, her voice echoing into the room as she struggled with an overstuffed bookbag and the weight of the day. Her heels clicked against the hardwood, her keys jangling with each step.
She stopped mid-stride when she saw Thea. "Thea?"
"Hey." Thea stood, brushing her palms against her jeans as she straightened. She suddenly felt self-conscious—her clothes a bit rumpled, hair a little tousled from the walk over.
"I wasn't expecting—" Laurel dumped her bag near the door, kicking it aside. "Is everything okay?"
"I needed to talk to you both," Thea repeated, glancing between them.
Laurel crossed the room in three long strides, her concern sharpening with every step. "This sounds serious."
"It is," Thea said. She took a breath, then another. "I'm leaving Starling. For three years."
The words hung in the air like a dropped plate—sudden, startling, complete.
The refrigerator hummed in the silence, filling the void. Quentin's newspaper slipped from his lap and landed on the floor with a soft flutter.
Laurel blinked. "Three years? Where are you going?"
"Everywhere," Thea said. Her voice was quieter now, but steady. "I've got… things to learn. About myself. About the world."
Quentin sat forward slowly, elbows resting on his knees. "You're sure about this?"
"Completely."
She didn't elaborate. She didn't need to. The way she stood, the way she carried the silence—it told them everything.
Laurel stepped closer. "Why now?"
Thea hesitated, then gave a small shrug. "Because if I don't do it now, I never will."
There was a pause, the kind that comes when there's too much to say and no right words to say it with. Laurel's arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her fingers digging into the fabric of her sleeves. Quentin stared at the worn carpet like it held the answers.
"I'll be back before you know it," Thea added, her voice almost light. Almost.
Laurel moved first. Her hug came without warning—tight, sudden, and completely overwhelming. Her law school perfume wrapped around Thea like a second skin, familiar and bittersweet.
"You stubborn Queen," Laurel muttered, her voice thick and muffled in Thea's shoulder.
Quentin rose to join them, his arms circling both girls in a warm, solid embrace. His police badge pressed awkwardly against Thea's collarbone, but she didn't pull away. She held on, grounding herself in the hug—the starch of Laurel's blouse, the faint smell of gun oil that clung to Quentin no matter how many times he washed his shirts, the strength of arms that had carried them both through grief and fear and long nights.
When she finally stepped back, her eyes lingered on them. She walked toward the door slowly, her steps reluctant, like the air was thickening with every inch she moved away from them.
She paused in the doorway, one hand resting lightly on the frame. The setting sun cast long shadows through the front window, painting her hair with a soft golden glow.
"Hey," she said softly, looking back at them with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I'm going to be okay. And I'll write when I can."
She tapped the doorframe twice—tap, tap—their old signal from the nights she'd stayed over for dinner or fell asleep during movie marathons. It meant goodnight, see you soon. It meant I'm still yours, even if I'm leaving.
Quentin gave a gruff nod, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smile that trembled just slightly. Laurel wiped her cheek with her sleeve, pretending it was just dust in her eye.
"Save me a seat at Sunday brunch for when I get back," Thea added, her fingers brushing the doorframe one last time.
"You better," Laurel called after her, her voice cracking just a little. "Or I'll bill you for all the mimosa money you owe me."
That made Thea laugh, the sound carrying through the screen door like music. She stepped onto the porch, her boots clicking against the wood. The evening air was cool, the scent of grass and distant rain lingering as twilight settled over the neighborhood.
She took her time walking down the front path, her backpack slung over one shoulder, her silhouette long and lean in the fading light. At the gate, she turned back once more.
Laurel and Quentin stood framed in the doorway, still watching her.
Thea raised her hand and waved, then turned and disappeared into the dusk.
Her shadow stretched far behind her, following her into the unknown.
---
Thea stood in the doorway of Oliver's bedroom, watching her mother.
She hadn't bothered to change—still in the sheer robe she'd thrown on after breakfast, the light fabric clinging in places, slipping in others. Bare feet silent on the wood floor. Her hair hung messy from sleep, strands clinging to her jaw. She looked like she'd only just woken, and in some ways, she had.
Moira hadn't moved in hours.
She sat hunched on the edge of his bed, wrapped in the same black silk robe she'd worn for days. Maybe longer. It hung from her like the memory of something once elegant. Her spine was too straight, her shoulders rigid, like she was bracing herself against a wave that had already come and gone, and still she hadn't moved.
Her fingers traced slow, absentminded circles across the cover of Oliver's old journal. Over and over. Thea watched her thumb pause every few passes, as if feeling for something beneath the surface. It was a movement so mechanical it barely registered as conscious. Like she might rub through the leather if she just kept going.
The lamp on the bedside table remained off. The only light came from the narrow slit in the curtains where the afternoon sun bled through, filtered pale and gray by months of grime. The faint glow turned the room ghostly, as though time had stopped and even the sun dared not intrude fully.
The room was too still. Too quiet. Like a museum exhibit sealed behind velvet ropes. Nothing had been touched. Not the faded stack of college brochures on the desk. Not the unwashed coffee mug by the window. Not the hoodie still hanging on the bedpost. Thea could almost convince herself the air still smelled faintly of Oliver's cologne—something clean and citrusy he'd always over-applied—but she knew that was just a trick of memory. The real scent in the room was stale fabric and closed windows. Mourning turned thick and sour.
The room was dim despite the time of day, the heavy curtains drawn like eyelids refusing to open. A faint scent of old wine and perfume lingered in the stale air, clinging to the silence like a second skin. Dust lined the windowsills, untouched photo frames, and the edge of a half-finished glass on the table — relics of a life paused and left to rot.
Thea's movements were clipped, deliberate. She didn't waste breath on softness or comfort. Her heels clicked sharply against the floor as she walked, each step precise, echoing in the stillness like punctuation marks to a sentence she hadn't spoken yet. Her gaze was detached, sweeping over the room and the woman.
The air felt heavier in this room, like it hadn't been aired out in weeks—maybe months. It clung to her skin, thick with grief and stale with all the things no one dared to say out loud. Thea found herself breathing through her mouth, as if even the act of inhaling this space might root her to it again, drag her back into the stillness she'd spent the last year trying to escape.
Her breath caught in her throat, but she swallowed it down. She adjusted her grip on the strap of her duffel bag.
"You missed breakfast," she said.
Her voice was sharp. Cool. Like glass on tile. A deliberate edge meant to break the silence.
Moira didn't look up. "I wasn't hungry."
Thea stepped into the room. Her boots made soft, muffled depressions in the thick carpet. She passed the bookshelf on the far wall—the one Oliver had built himself when he was fifteen and obsessed with woodworking. His collection was still there: fantasy novels with cracked spines, military histories, science books with sticky notes flagging obscure facts. They were coated in a film of dust now, as though even the house was beginning to forget him.
She stopped at the dresser. Her fingers brushed a framed photo: Oliver on the deck of the Queen's Gambit, sunburned and laughing, his arm slung around some girl whose name Thea had long since forgotten. The glass was cracked, a jagged diagonal splitting Oliver's smile. She didn't wonder how it happened. It didn't matter anymore.
"I'm leaving," she said.
Moira's fingers froze on the journal.
"For how long?"
Thea let the silence grow. Controlled. Measured.
"Three years."
She saw it then—a flicker of reaction. The way her mother's mouth shifted slightly. But nothing more. Not even a glance.
Thea looked at her reflection in the black screen of the TV mounted above the dresser. It showed a warped mirror version of the room—her mother curled on the bed like discarded fabric, Thea standing straight with her duffel, unmoved. Statues posed in limbo.
"Where?" Moira asked.
"Somewhere," Thea replied. Her tone was flat, near dismissive. "Europe. Maybe Asia. I haven't decided."
She reached down and turned the photo facedown.
"I leave tonight."
Still no protest. No alarm. Just the same dragging silence that had taken up permanent residence in this house.
"Why now?" Moira asked at last.
Thea inhaled slowly through her nose. She had hoped her mother wouldn't ask. Not because she didn't have an answer—she did—but because saying it meant pressing the blade deeper.
"Because I can't stay here anymore," Thea said.
She didn't look at her.
"Not like this."
Moira's hands curled into the blanket.
"Like what?"
Thea's eyes narrowed. Her jaw set.
"Like we're already dead."
She didn't soften it. She let the words linger—sharp, sterile. A diagnosis, not a confession.
She watched them hit. Watched her mother twitch, shoulders lifting slightly before sagging again. The same collapse. The same retreat.
"You think I want this?"
"I think you've decided it's easier than trying."
Moira flinched. Barely. But Thea saw.
She took another step forward, boots silent. Her hands remained still. No trembling. No anger. Just ice.
"You don't go outside. You barely speak. You sit in here like some ghost waiting for someone to come find you. But they're gone, Mom. Both of them."
Her voice didn't waver. She made sure of that.
"They're not coming back."
Moira's hands were shaking now. "I know that."
Thea's tone hardened. "Then act like it."
Moira didn't respond. Her face slackened, blank and cold. A mask.
Thea hated that mask.
She turned toward the door. The weight on her shoulder felt lighter now. The duffel strap didn't pull—it pushed.
She was nearly at the hallway when—
"Thea."
A whisper. Unsure.
She stopped.
"Will you..." Moira hesitated. Like the words themselves might hurt. "Will you call?"
Thea didn't turn.
She let the silence hang again. Not out of hesitation, but design.
"When you're ready to answer," she said.
Her voice didn't soften this time. It was measured. Cool. A closing line, not a promise.
Then she stepped through the doorway, leaving it open behind her. The creak of the hinge echoed like punctuation in a book nearly finished.
The hallway was cold. Clean. Empty. A house on pause. A place that had forgotten how to be alive.
Then, downstairs, the phone began to ring.
A sharp sound. Unwelcome. Disruptive.
And behind her—just barely—Thea heard the bedsprings groan.
A shift. The rustle of fabric.
The creak of floorboards.
Moira was standing.
---
The sleek Gulfstream G650 idled on the private tarmac, its engines a low growl in the predawn darkness. Thea adjusted her oversized sunglasses—the kind wealthy socialites wore when they didn't want to be recognized—and handed her single Louis Vuitton suitcase to the co-pilot. `
She wore a low-cut, sheer lace crop top in cream, the delicate fabric hinting at bare skin beneath. Her high-waisted beige trousers split daringly up both legs, fluttering around her thighs with each movement like whispers of silk. A gold watch glinted at her wrist. Her pointed nude heels tapped the tarmac softly—quiet signals of wealth and intention.
"Saint-Tropez, right?" he said, flashing a practiced smile.
Thea gave a slight nod to confirm.
The pilot—a silver-haired man with the bland professionalism of someone paid to forget faces—nodded from the top of the stairs. "We'll have you there by lunch, Miss Queen."
The sky above was a deep, inky blue, the stars fading as dawn crept up the horizon. Thea paused at the top of the stairs for a heartbeat, her silhouette caught between darkness and light. A soft breeze stirred her hair, carrying the scent of jet fuel and sea salt—Star City's final gift. The hush of the tarmac was eerie, punctuated only by the steady whir of the jet's engines and the distant clatter of early dockyard workers. Thea inhaled, held it, then stepped inside, her heels clicking softly against the polished flooring as if to announce that the woman who had arrived was not the one now leaving.
Thea didn't smile. She boarded without looking back.
The cabin was all cream leather and polished walnut, the air smelling faintly of lemongrass and jet fuel. Champagne chilled in a silver bucket beside a tray of untouched fruit arranged too perfectly to be appetizing. Thea ignored it, sliding into a window seat and pulling up the flight tracker on her phone.
The co-pilot lingered in the aisle. "Everything to your liking, Miss Queen?"
She glanced up, offering a perfunctory smile that didn't reach her eyes. "It's perfect, thank you. Just focus on getting us there smoothly."
When he disappeared into the cockpit, she unzipped her designer tote and removed a slim black case. Inside: a compact GPS tracker and a burner phone.
Thea set the tracker on the seat beside her, its screen displaying their route—Star City to Nice Côte d'Azur Airport, France's third busiest airport located in the Alpes-Maritimes department of France. A predictable path for a grieving heiress seeking escape.
She checked her watch.
Two hours until the jump window.
---
As the jet sliced through the moonlit sky, the city lights below scattered like fallen stars across the dark expanse. Thea sat alone in the hush of altitude, her gaze fixed not on the flight tracker but on her reflection in the glass—still, expressionless, unreadable. The cabin glowed with cool, sterile lighting, all polished chrome and stitched leather, but she felt no comfort in its luxury. Beneath the tailored armor of her designer facade, adrenaline simmered. This wasn't just an escape. It was a shedding. With every mile, the weight of who she had been—daughter, socialite, public face—peeled away like silk from skin.
At 28,000 feet, Thea moved.
She locked the lavatory door behind her and peeled off the lace top and split trousers with mechanical calm. In their place, she pulled on a matte black tactical bodysuit—low-cut, close-fitting, and built for speed. Hidden utility pockets lay flat against her hips. Her heels were replaced with rubber-soled combat boots, fingerless gloves slid over her hands, and a thigh holster snapped into place with familiar ease.
When she emerged, the co-pilot was waiting by the emergency hatch, his face unreadable.
No words passed between them. Just a silent exchange—a parachute harness strapped tight, a nod toward the exit.
Thea secured her gear—a single waterproof pack containing cash, weapons, and the bare essentials for disappearance—then pressed her palm to the hatch release.
Alarms shrieked through the cabin as the door disengaged. The sudden depressurization sent loose items flying—a champagne flute shattered against the bulkhead, the fruit tray upended in a spray of berries and melon.
The co-pilot shouted something, but the roaring wind swallowed his words.
Thea stepped to the threshold, the open door framing nothing but swirling clouds and the faintest suggestion of land far below. No city lights, no landmarks. Just endless possibility.
She didn't hesitate.
With one last glance into the cabin—now a hurricane of scattered luxury—she dropped into the void.
The wind swallowed her whole, the roar erasing all trace of her exit. The plane continued onward, unaware it had just lost its only passenger.
And like that—
Thea Queen was gone.
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**Author's Note:**
Hey guys! Okay, first - sorry this took so long again. But look, in my defense, this chapter is 7,745 words! That makes it the longest one yet, beating Chapter 1's 6,050 word record. And I'll be honest, my writing process hasn't been helping - I keep starting my mornings playing Tears of the Kingdom, telling myself "I'll write later," and then suddenly it's midnight and I've done nothing but hunt Korok seeds all day. Oops?
So here's something new I'm trying - from now on, each chapter title will be a song that fits the vibe. This one's "Ghost" (Justin Bieber) because, well... Thea literally ghosts everyone. Get it?👻
HELP ME DECIDE: What should Thea's supersuit look like when she eventually suits up?
🔹 Comic book style (super revealing like most female game characters)
🔹 Arrowverse style (full coverage like Supergirl's suit)
🔹 Something in between?
I'm kinda feeling the revealing suit (it's iconic!), but in her civilian clothes she'll dress super modestly to cover scars. That contrast could be cool! But what do YOU think?
Just a heads up - next chapter might take about 2 weeks because my SHS enrollment starts next week (why do they need so many documents??). Between that and Zelda, writing time will be rough.
Tell me:
1. Which suit style you prefer
2. Song ideas for future chapters
3. Your wildest theories about what's coming next
Thanks for dealing with my terrible schedule! If you're also stressing about school stuff, we'll survive... probably. Now back to pretending I'll stop playing Zelda and actually write 😂