Laurel didn't want to choose either option—getting a room or staying outside—but when Jack saw her hesitate too long and started to pull her away, she relented.
Into the hotel. A room. Payment. Key in hand.
Jack guided the reluctant Laurel inside, his arm around her shoulders.
The door clicked shut. Laurel turned, tense and wary, and froze when she saw Jack pull a camera from his bag and aim it at her.
Her face went pale.
"Take them off," he said.
Laurel's jaw tightened. She stared at him with open resentment, but her hands moved to her clothes.
She didn't dare resist.
It wasn't death she feared. It was what he might do to her family if she refused.
One piece at a time. Blouse. Skirt. Bra. Underwear. Until she stood completely bare before him.
Only then did Jack adjust the camera angle and set it on the dresser. He turned back, produced a tape measure from his bag, and approached her.
He began measuring her body with careful precision.
"What are you doing?" Laurel held still, not daring to pull away.
"Making you an outfit." Jack's tone was casual. He pinched her waist lightly. "Your figure's better than my girlfriend's."
"Someone like you has a girlfriend?" Laurel's voice dripped with contempt.
"I'll introduce you two later." Jack finished his measurements and tucked the tape away. He retrieved the camera, reviewed the footage, then packed everything back into his bag. "Your figure's good, but your physical conditioning is average. Over the next few weeks, you'll need to build endurance and strength. A strong body is the foundation for defeating your enemies."
"Like you?"
"Like the man behind the Queen's Gambit—the one responsible for what happened to your sister." Jack seemed unbothered by her hostility. "His influence runs through every corner of Starling City. If your identity gets exposed, you're finished. And his personal combat ability is considerable. In pure martial arts, even if I trained you to death, your talent wouldn't be enough to beat him. So I'll prepare some gadgets to even the odds."
He met her eyes.
"What you need to do is train. Train, and train again. Then start by dismantling his organization from the bottom up."
Laurel stared at him, bewildered.
She knew Jack probably wasn't evil—not in the conventional sense. But his behavior was reckless, unrestrained, impossible to predict. He wasn't good either. She couldn't understand why he'd fixated on her, or whether his intentions were ultimately helpful or harmful.
"Do you know Sarah?" The question slipped out before she could stop it.
"Sarah?" Jack shook his head. "Never met her."
"Then why do you care so much about me avenging her?"
Because I need you to become Black Canary early, Jack thought. So the Legends will eventually come knocking, and I can arrange a little side job for Felicity.
He smiled at Laurel. "Want to know? Too bad. Right now, all you need to worry about is getting stronger. You know basic physical training, don't you? Start."
"Now?" Laurel blinked, reaching for her clothes.
"No." Jack snatched them first and tossed them onto the bed, then sprawled across the mattress with his chin propped up. "Train like this. At least I won't be bored watching."
Laurel's teeth ground together. She glared at him, flushed with humiliation, and refused to move.
Jack smiled. He raised one finger, and a crackling spark of electricity jumped from the tip straight toward her.
"Ah!"
Her body jerked violently from the shock.
"I'm not rushing you," Jack said pleasantly, finger still raised. "But this is."
Laurel began.
At first, the shame was unbearable. Every movement made her hyper-aware of her nakedness, of his presence, of the camera that might still be recording. She wanted to disappear.
But gradually, she noticed something.
Jack wasn't leering. His gaze, when it fell on her, held no hunger—only a detached attentiveness. He watched her form the way a coach might. Whenever she slowed or stopped, that finger rose again, and another jolt reminded her to continue.
Slowly, her focus shifted.
Whatever Jack's true purpose was, becoming stronger couldn't be wrong.
The law might uphold justice. But only strength could protect you.
The morning dissolved into sweat and exhaustion.
When Jack finally told her she could stop, Laurel wanted to weep with relief.
Shame, anger—none of it mattered. She collapsed onto the floor and didn't move.
Jack looked down at her and chuckled. He rose lazily from the bed and nudged her with his foot.
"Stop playing dead. Get up. Shower. Get dressed. We're leaving."
"Let me rest," Laurel mumbled into the carpet.
"Everything is difficult at the beginning," Jack said. "Then difficult in the middle. And finally difficult at the end. Since it's all difficult anyway, why bother resting? Up."
He showed no mercy. When she still didn't move, electricity crackled at his fingertip.
Bzzzzt.
Laurel yelped and scrambled upright, bolting for the bathroom like her life depended on it.
Minutes later, she emerged—showered, dressed, and moving on unsteady legs.
They stepped into the hallway just as the adjacent door swung open.
A middle-aged man walked out. His eyes traveled from Laurel—flushed, wobbling, barely able to stand—to Jack, who looked completely relaxed and utterly unruffled.
The man gave Jack a slow, appreciative nod and a thumbs-up.
Jack smiled modestly and returned the nod.
"Nothing special," he said.