The cold brought Laurel awake.
Her mind surfaced slowly, piecing together fragments—hard ground beneath her, dim ceiling above, the smell of concrete dust and damp. An abandoned building somewhere. She tried to sit up and found she couldn't.
Her wrists were bound. Metal bit into her skin. When she turned her head, she saw rebar—bent steel driven deep into the cement floor, looped through handcuffs that held her arms above her head.
She was naked.
Laurel's breath caught. Panic flooded her chest, sharp and immediate. She pulled against the restraints, the metal scraping concrete, her shoulders straining until the pain forced her to stop.
Think. Think.
Memories reassembled themselves in jagged pieces. The argument with her father. Storming out. The slum. The mugger's gun against her ribs, his hand tearing at her jacket—and then the Asian man who'd appeared from nowhere. He'd moved like something out of a movie, impossibly fast, dodging bullets like they were thrown rocks. And then he'd punched through the mugger's skull.
Blood and brain matter had sprayed across her face.
She'd fainted.
"You're awake."
The voice came from somewhere in the shadows. Familiar. Laurel jerked her head toward it, and a figure emerged from the darkness—shirtless, moving with an easy, unhurried stride.
The man who'd saved her. The man who'd killed.
"Let me go!" Laurel's voice cracked. She pulled at the rebar again, her wrists already raw. "What do you want?"
He crossed the distance between them and crouched beside her, close enough that she could see the faint amusement in his expression. "You should say thank you first."
"Thank you?" The word came out as a snarl. "You kidnapped me and you want me to say thank you? Let me go. My father is a police officer."
"Quentin Lance. I know." His hand settled on her stomach—casual, proprietary—and began to travel slowly downward. Laurel twisted away, shouting, but the restraints held her in place. He continued speaking as if she weren't struggling at all. "First, I saved your life. Gratitude isn't unreasonable. Second, your clothes are over there. I washed them. I also bathed you." His fingers traced the curve of her hip. "The alternative was letting you wake up covered in blood and brains. I assumed you'd prefer not to faint again."
"And this?" Laurel shook her bound wrists, the handcuffs rattling against steel. "How do you explain this?"
"To make you listen." He smiled—sincere, almost warm. "And to teach you something. Right now, you've only been seen by me. But if I were someone else, someone worse, you might be dead. Or experiencing something much more painful than a conversation."
"You killed someone." Laurel's voice was cold. "You kidnapped me. And you're telling me you're not a bad person?"
He laughed softly, his hand still wandering across her body as though she were an interesting object he'd found. "Let's set aside the kidnapping for now. You think killing him makes me evil?" His fingers paused on her thigh. "You know what would have happened if I hadn't intervened. Even if he'd let you live afterward—and that's generous—what then? Let me guess."
He tilted his head, watching her face.
"You'd have him arrested. Tried. Convicted. Sent to prison to face legal judgment and punishment."
Laurel said nothing.
"How long would he serve? Five years? Ten? With good behavior, probably less. He wasn't a good man to begin with. The moment he got out, he'd do it again. Someone else would suffer. And then what? Arrest him again? Lock him up again?" He shrugged. "Seems inefficient."
"What's your point?" Laurel's jaw was tight. "That killing him was justice?"
"Do you believe the law is the only path to justice?"
"Yes." The word came out hard and certain. "And you'll face it too. You'll pay for what you've done."
"I don't want to debate definitions of justice with you. All the philosophical arguments in the world don't matter as much as a simple 'I damn well feel like it.'" His tone was light, almost playful. Then it shifted. "But I am curious about something. The man who killed your sister—when you have the chance to face him, what will you do? Kill him yourself? Or hand him over to the system you believe in so deeply?"
Laurel's expression flickered. Something raw crossed her face before she locked it down.
"He's dead," she said quietly. "Oliver Queen went down with the Gambit."
"Oliver Queen." Jack Kadere smiled. "But was the Queen's Gambit really an accident?"
Laurel went still.
"What do you mean?" Her voice had changed—sharper, urgent. "Do you know something? Was it not an accident?"
Instead of answering, Jack reached up and gripped the two lengths of rebar anchoring her wrists. He pulled. The steel tore free from the cement floor with a grinding shriek, chunks of concrete scattering across the ground.
Laurel scrambled backward the instant her hands were free, pulling her knees to her chest, arms wrapped around herself. She put distance between them and pressed her back against a crumbling pillar, watching him warily.
Jack stood, brushing dust from his hands. "I know the person responsible is powerful. Even if you find evidence. Even if you bring him to trial. He might walk free. Or serve a few years at most." He met her eyes. "And when he gets out, he'll kill you. Your father. Anyone else who gets in his way. More people will die because of him."
"Who?" Laurel's voice was low. "Who is he?"
"Think carefully about what you want." Jack walked to where a pile of clothing lay folded on a crate—her clothes, clean and dry. He picked up his own shirt and pulled it on. "Do you want to use the law to seek justice for your sister? Or do you want to kill him and save the people he'll hurt in the future?"
He turned toward the shadows.
"When you've decided, come find me. I'll tell you everything."
"Wait—" Laurel pushed herself to her feet, still clutching her arms across her chest. "Why should I trust you? What's your name?"
He was already walking away, his figure dissolving into the darkness.
"Jack Kadere."
The voice drifted back, distant, as if he were already gone.
Laurel stood alone in the silence.
After a long moment, she moved to her clothes. They were clean. Dry. She dressed quickly, her fingers clumsy with the buttons, and found her bag nearby. Her phone was inside. She turned it on without checking the notifications and dialed her father.
He picked up on the second ring.
"Damn it, you finally turned it on." Quentin's voice was rough with worry. "Listen—I don't want to keep arguing with you, but you can't just turn off your phone. Sara—" He stopped. Swallowed. "If Sara hadn't turned off her phone, I would have been able to find her. Maybe nothing would have happened. So remember. No matter what, no matter when—never turn off your phone. You hear me?"
Silence.
"Laurel? Are you there?"
She closed her eyes. Drew a slow breath.
"I'll be home soon."