"Mom—are you okay?"
Oliver Queen burst through the door, putting himself between Moira and Jack Kadere, fists clenched at his sides. "What the hell do you want?"
"He took Thea," Moira said, the words tumbling out.
Oliver had rushed back to Starling City the moment he'd heard. John Diggle's update—that Thea had been picked up by the police—had taken some of the edge off. Jack Kadere couldn't have gotten to her that quickly, and surely he wouldn't cause a scene at a police station.
So Oliver had come to Queen Consolidated first to make sure his mother was safe.
He'd been one step too slow.
"You—"
"Sticking your nose where it doesn't belong has consequences." Jack Kadere tapped the glass coffee table once with his index finger. A grin split his face, and he vanished in a crackle of red lightning.
"Get down!"
Oliver seized Moira around the waist, spun, and threw them both to the floor. She hadn't even processed the motion before the blast hit.
The coffee table detonated.
Glass shrapnel ripped outward in every direction. Oliver was curled over Moira, his back to the explosion, and several jagged pieces punched into the meat of his shoulders and spine. A choked grunt escaped through his teeth.
"Oliver—" Moira twisted beneath him, eyes wide, hands reaching for his face.
"I'm fine." He pushed himself up, jaw locked tight. Blood was already seeping through the back of his shirt. "I'm getting Thea back. I promise you that."
Moira stared at the shattered remains of the coffee table, at the empty air where Jack Kadere had stood a second ago, and found nothing to say.
---
Fwsshh.
Red lightning streaked through the darkness and stopped in front of Thea Queen.
She blinked at him for a few seconds before her brain caught up. "Where did you go?"
"Dropped some photos off with your mother and Oliver." Jack settled into the chair across from her, that easy half-smile on his face. "Got an answer while I was there."
"An answer?"
Jack didn't elaborate. He picked up the camera instead—he'd developed a habit of recording things lately, a new fixation that seemed to entertain him more than it served any obvious purpose.
He played the footage for her.
Thea watched her mother's face on the small screen—the worry carved into every line, the raw fear in her voice—and guilt knotted tight beneath her ribs. But then Jack's recorded voice asked the question, and Moira gave her answer, and Thea's mind went blank.
"Is... is that true?"
She raised her head slowly to look at Jack, wanting confirmation and dreading it in equal measure.
"It's true."
"Why!"
The scream tore out of her—raw, cracking, ugly. She grabbed the camera and hurled it across the room. "Why is it like this? Why?"
Jack retrieved the camera from where it landed without a word. He stood there and let her rage.
It went on for a long time.
When she finally ran out of fury, Thea collapsed onto the floor, legs folded beneath her. Mascara cut dark tracks down both cheeks. Her breathing came in hitching, ragged pulls.
"Why?" The word came out barely above a whisper. She looked up at Jack through ruined makeup. "I want a drink."
Jack held out his hand.
Thea took it. Red lightning engulfed them both, and when it cleared she was standing in a hotel room—generic furniture, heavy curtains drawn, the stale smell of industrial carpet cleaner. More red lightning whipped through the space in a blur, and by the time it stopped, the floor was covered in bottles. Vodka, whiskey, tequila, wine, bourbon—dozens of them, stacked and scattered like a liquor store had emptied its shelves onto the carpet.
"Enough?" Jack reappeared beside her.
Thea didn't answer. She grabbed the nearest bottle—some dark whiskey—twisted the cap off, and drank straight from the neck in long, desperate swallows.
Grief and alcohol make efficient partners. Thea drank to drown it, or maybe to trade one kind of pain for another—the splitting headache and the nausea for the thing sitting on her chest that she couldn't name yet. Three bottles of different liquor, one after the other, barely pausing for air between them.
Then she was gone. Out cold on the carpet, one hand still loosely wrapped around an empty bottle.
---
She stayed unconscious for a full day.
When awareness finally crawled back, it came with a headache that felt like someone had driven a railroad spike through her temple. Her mouth tasted like something had died in it. Her tongue was sandpaper.
A low groan. She pried her eyes open.
She was on the floor. The hotel room was dim—curtains still drawn, a sliver of light leaking around the edges—and beside her, a small mountain of empty bottles caught the faint glow.
"Wh..." Her voice was barely there. Gravel scraped across rust.
Thea pushed herself upright and blinked until the room settled. Jack Kadere was sprawled on the bed three feet away, dead asleep, face half-buried in a pillow.
The memories resurfaced in slow, nauseating waves. Her mother's confession. The screaming. The drinking. Passing out on the floor.
"He let me sleep on the goddamn floor."
She muttered it with as much venom as her wrecked voice could manage, then staggered upright, swaying, and stumbled toward the bathroom.
Click.
Fluorescent light flooded the tile. She winced, squinting against it.
The shower ran for over half an hour—hot water hammering against the back of her neck, steam filling the tiny room until the mirror fogged completely. When she finally stepped out, the headache had dulled from blinding to merely miserable.
Thea wrapped herself in a hotel towel, padded barefoot to the bedside, and shook Jack's shoulder.
"Hey. Is there anything to eat?"
Nothing.
She shook harder. "Wake up. Is there food?"
Jack cracked one eye open and stared at her—towel, wet hair dripping on his pillow, the general aura of a woman who'd been angry since before she was conscious. He mumbled, voice thick with sleep, "What are you yelling for? Do you know how late I was up? It's the middle of the night. You want me to make you noodles?"
"Noodles?" Thea stared at him. "You can't make noodles in a hotel room."
"Why not? What do you think hotels are for?" Jack rolled onto his back and closed his eyes again. He was clearly still half-asleep.
"This is a hotel, not a kitchen." Irritation sharpened her voice, but arguing with someone who hadn't finished waking up was a losing battle.
She turned and searched the room. Nothing edible anywhere—just liquor bottles and a few sealed waters from the minibar. She cracked one open, drained it in four swallows, and felt marginally more human.
Thea came back to the bed and dropped onto the other side, the mattress dipping under her weight. The instant she was horizontal, Jack's arm reached across and pulled her against him—casual, automatic, like he'd done it a thousand times. She twisted, tried to shove free, gave up after three attempts, and let exhaustion drag her back under.
They slept tangled together while Starling City burned through the night around them.
---
Oliver Queen sat at the dining table in the Queen mansion, photos spread in front of him under a single desk lamp. He studied each one methodically, searching for anything—a street sign, a window reflection, a piece of furniture—that could reveal where Jack Kadere had taken Thea.
The first thing he found wasn't a location. It was a chair on the hillside behind his own villa.
A plastic chair from the police station.
Jack Kadere had taken Thea from lockup, brought her to Oliver's property, left a chair like a calling card, and moved on. A demonstration. A provocation. A message that said I was right here, and you didn't even know.
Oliver kept searching. Every photo, every pixel, every background detail. Hours passed, and he came up with nothing.
The police weren't faring any better. The department had mobilized nearly its entire force—patrol units combing neighborhoods, detectives pulling surveillance footage, dispatchers fielding calls from every precinct. The sudden surge of law enforcement activity rippled through the city like a tremor. Gang leaders noticed. Politicians noticed. Business owners locked up early and left their lights on. Nobody in Starling City slept well.
A full day and night of searching produced exactly zero leads.
The police doubled down. Oliver made a different decision.
The Huntress. The Birds of Prey. He'd known about them for a while—names, general capabilities, rough operating territory—but he'd never reached out. Never needed to. That calculation had changed the moment Jack Kadere put his hands on Thea.
Oliver pulled on his jacket and headed for the door.
"Oliver."
Moira's voice stopped him in the foyer. She stood at the base of the stairs in yesterday's clothes, her face drawn and gray, dark circles carved beneath her eyes. She looked like she hadn't slept at all.
"We need to talk," she said.
"Now?"
"Yes."
Oliver turned around slowly. "What is it?"
Moira held his gaze. "The man who took Thea—he's not ordinary, is he? He said meddling comes with a price." Her voice was steady, deliberate, each word placed with care. "Oliver... don't you think it's time you explained?"