Starling City – The Docks – 11:12 P.M.
The storm had the audacity to roll in just as they arrived. Thunder growled low, rattling the skeletal cranes like the city's grumpy old dogs waking from a nap. Salt and diesel hung thick in the air, mixing into a scent that screamed "industrial waterfront," while cargo containers stood like iron tombstones in the dim, flickering floodlights.
A sharp thwip broke the night's soundtrack—a warning arrow launched with deadly precision.
"CRACK."
The arrowhead embedded itself mere inches from Martin Somers' ear.
"Jesus!" Somers screamed, his voice cracking like a rusty hinge as his body dangled upside-down, suspended by invisible magical cords. His tailored suit jacket flopped over his head like an oversized rag, revealing a pudgy gut that looked about as comfortable inverted as a cat in a bathtub, and a face that was turning a shade of purple previously unseen in Starling City.
Harry—Blood Raven—leaned casually on the edge of a container, wand lazily extended, his crimson hood flickering in the wind. His eyes, hidden behind those white lenses, glinted with amused menace.
"Somers," Harry began, voice dripping with all the charm of a tea-sipping British villain, "we could've done this the boring way. You know—subpoenas, polite interviews, maybe you crying into your Gucci tie while pleading for mercy."
He tilted his head, the smirk audible in his tone. "But no, you decided to cozy up with the Triads. And then, oh, then you had Victor Nocenti killed."
"I didn't—" Somers began, his voice a pathetic croak.
THWIP. THWIP.
Two more arrows slammed beside Somers' legs, pinning his pants to the metal container wall like some grotesque pants mural.
Oliver—Arrow—stepped from the shadows, longbow taut in his gloved hands. His forest-green hood was drawn low, the black domino mask shadowing his steely eyes. He didn't bother with theatrics.
"We've got the shipping manifests," Oliver said flatly, voice like gravel rolling down a mountainside. "The coded texts. Your fingerprints on the bullet casing that killed Nocenti. You're done."
Skadi stalked forward, her every step leaving a faint trail of frost, the cold in the air seemingly bowing to her command. Her icy-blue suit hugged her curves like a second skin, the rune-etched hood pulled low over her shining eyes, glittering beneath the storm clouds like chipped sapphires.
"You ordered Nocenti's death because he was getting talkative," Skadi said, voice sharp as breaking ice. "Your men made it look like a robbery gone wrong. You thought you were clever."
Somers was panting now, the terror eating through his bravado like acid. "You don't know what you're talking about! No proof! None of this holds up!"
"Funny thing," Hermione—Noctua—said, appearing at Skadi's side with the calm certainty of a woman who never needed to shout to be heard, "Truth spells don't hold up in court, not reliably. But out here…"
Her wand flicked, glowing faintly with blue light as she intoned, "Veritas Sensus."
A shimmering thread of light struck Somers squarely in the chest. His eyes widened as the truth burst through his lips like a dam breaking.
"I… I paid the Triads to handle it," he gasped. "Nocenti got scared… talked too much."
Harry crouched nearby, chin resting on his hand in a pose far too casual for the situation.
"See? Wasn't that easy? And much more entertaining than a courtroom snoozefest."
Skadi's lips curled into a slow, wicked smile as she crossed her arms. "You know, for someone so high and mighty, you sure stink like a rat."
Somers spat curses, voice thick with venom and desperation. "You're not cops. You're freaks in masks playing judge, jury, and executioner."
Oliver stepped closer, nocking an arrow, bowstring taut and ready.
"Maybe. But we're the kind of justice you don't want coming after you."
Harry raised an eyebrow from his crouch. "Also, if I may interject," he said with mock gravitas, "we have a USB stick with every text and transaction for the last six months. Yours and your lawyer's phones included. So unless you fancy a new lawyer—one who doesn't encrypt like a drunk pigeon—you might want to reconsider your legal team."
Daphne—Skadi—caught Harry's gaze briefly, an amused sparkle lighting her eyes before she gave him a teasing smirk.
"You're insufferable," she said, voice low and playful.
"Insufferably charming," Harry shot back, flashing her a grin that somehow made the freezing cold feel a little warmer.
Skadi rolled her eyes but didn't pull away from the shared moment. "Tempted to leave him in the bay," she said, voice dripping with mischief.
Noctua raised an eyebrow but smirked. "You're terrible."
"Tempting," Skadi repeated, glancing at Harry. "But I think he's earned a dumpster."
"Recyclables," Harry quipped, rising and snapping his wand. "Oh, and I may have peed in there earlier. Adds character."
"No!" Hermione groaned, burying her face in her hands.
"I prefer 'whimsical,'" Harry countered, striding toward the edge.
Suddenly, the distant wail of sirens pierced the night air.
Oliver gave a sharp nod. "Time to vanish."
With practiced ease, the four melted into the shadows—one with the wind, one with frost, one with silent wings, and one with a smirk that could probably be heard from Gotham.
Above the docks, thunder cracked once more, as Starling City shuddered in its uneasy sleep.
Justice had come knocking.
And tonight—it wore hoods.
—
Queen Mansion – The Next Morning – 9:04 A.M.
The morning sun poured into the Queen Mansion like it owned the place, splashing the white marble floors and antique furniture with a golden sheen that made last night's thunderstorm feel like a feverish hallucination. Everything smelled like old money, lemon polish, and mild passive aggression.
Moira Queen's heels stabbed the floor with every step as she paced the parlor like a lioness looking for someone to bite. In one perfectly manicured hand she gripped a tablet like it was the dagger that would eventually end someone's career.
"You lost him again, Mr. Diggle?" she said, her tone like a stiletto in the ribs. "How many times has this happened now? Five? Six? Should I start a tally on the fireplace?"
Diggle stood with military rigidity beside the hearth, arms crossed, jaw clenched. His expression said: I fought insurgents in Afghanistan and this is still the most stressful job I've had.
"With all due respect, Mrs. Queen," Diggle said, his voice calm but edged with irritation, "your son has made eluding highly trained security personnel into a competitive sport."
Moira's arched brow could've cut steel. "Yes. Because clearly, you're outmatched by a man who once fell off a yacht and got found by a fishing boat in the middle of nowhere."
"I've guarded four-star generals through IED zones," Diggle muttered. "None of them had secret tunnels in the wine cellar."
The double doors flew open then, without a knock, warning, or any real shame.
Oliver sauntered in like he hadn't just disappeared for twelve hours, hoodie unzipped, smug smirk firmly in place. His hair was stylishly disheveled in a way that could only be achieved by someone rich or in a CW drama. Behind him came Harry—black jeans, red hoodie, wand half-hidden under the hem—and Daphne, whose icy-blonde waves bounced like she was starring in a shampoo commercial and definitely not supposed to be here.
Trailing in last and somehow looking like she had never left, Hermione arrived, tea in hand, cardigan buttoned, expression maddeningly serene.
Moira's lips pressed into a line sharp enough to draw blood.
"You three were with him, weren't you?" she asked, cold as the diamonds on her wrist.
Harry wandered over to the fruit bowl like he hadn't heard her, plucking a strawberry and examining it like a jewel thief sizing up a ruby.
"Define with," he said, popping it into his mouth.
"Oh, this'll be good," Diggle muttered, arms folding tighter.
"We went for waffles," Daphne offered brightly, flopping onto the couch with the grace of someone who had definitely been raised in a house with at least three nannies and a private chef. "Greasy, syrup-drenched, heart-attack-on-a-plate waffles."
"At midnight," Hermione added. "It's retro. Very Friends-esque. We even considered singing Smelly Cat."
"I'm going to kill all of you," Moira said in the tone of someone who'd absolutely Googled if that counted as a crime when it was premeditated and justified.
"You know, you say that a lot," Harry said, licking strawberry juice from his thumb. "It's lost its edge. I suggest a new threat. Perhaps something Shakespearean—'I shall have thee flayed and thy entrails strung upon the gate.' Very visual."
Daphne looked delighted. "Ooh, I love it when you get dramatic. Do the accent again."
"I am the accent, love," Harry replied, giving her a wink. "Everything else is just noise."
Oliver was visibly trying not to laugh and failing.
"Stop encouraging them," Moira snapped.
"I'm not," Oliver said. "I'm just… not discouraging."
"Very different," Harry added helpfully. "Like waffles and pancakes. Similar texture. Completely different vibes."
"Also, Daphne iced a guy last night," Hermione added, as if commenting on the weather.
"Hermione!" Daphne hissed.
"Sorry," Hermione said, sipping her tea. "I meant metaphorically. Emotionally. With biting wit."
"Thank you," Daphne said primly, then smiled at Harry with a flirtatious lilt. "Unless I should have iced him. Would've given us more time alone."
Harry grinned. "You're already dangerously distracting, Daph. If you'd killed him, I'd have had to kiss you in front of the whole block."
Daphne tossed her hair. "You say that like it's a threat."
Diggle held up a hand. "Can we not flirt while I'm threatening to quit?"
"Right," Moira said, stepping forward and jabbing her tablet toward Oliver like it was a sword. "This ends now. The next time you and your magical misfits decide to go gallivanting across Starling City, Mr. Diggle goes with you. Or so help me, I will have trackers embedded into your molars."
"Charming," Harry muttered. "Do we get branded as well? Maybe a little 'Q' on the back of the neck?"
"Oh, I want mine in diamonds," Daphne said.
"I want mine in Latin," Hermione added. "So it's elegant and ominous."
Diggle sighed. "No need for all that. Either I go with them next time, or I walk. And I mean it this time. One more vanishing act, one more urban spelunking mission without warning—and I'm done. I don't care if he's the Green Arrow's secret twin, or if Harry here turns out to be Merlin's grandson, I'm out."
Oliver opened his mouth.
Diggle held up a finger. "No. I don't want to hear it. Not a single line of brooding dialogue about how 'you have to do this alone' or 'you're protecting me from something darker.' This isn't a soap opera. This is my job. And I am very tired."
Harry clapped Diggle on the shoulder. "Mate, if it helps, we can enchant your car to fly. I'll even throw in an interior heating charm. Daphne gets a little frosty when she's excited."
"It's not my fault the humidity fights me," Daphne said sweetly. "Besides, Harry likes it when I sparkle."
"Love, when you sparkle, global temperatures rise."
Hermione rolled her eyes and muttered, "You two are exhausting."
"I thought we were cute," Daphne said.
"You are," Hermione admitted, sipping her tea. "But also exhausting."
Moira pinched the bridge of her nose. "For the last time. Diggle goes with you. That's non-negotiable."
"Fine," Oliver said. "We'll take Diggle."
Moira blinked. "That's it? No protest?"
"Nope," Oliver replied, smirking. "He's good with a gun. And I hate driving."
Diggle exhaled. "Good. I get to drive."
"Shotgun!" Harry said immediately.
"Damn it," Daphne muttered.
"Dibs on the aux cord," Hermione added. "And I'm playing Taylor Swift the whole ride."
"Hell," Diggle said, turning away. "I'm already in hell."
As everyone began to drift—Oliver heading upstairs, Hermione disappearing into the study, Harry and Daphne drifting kitchen-ward like twin disasters—Moira slowly sank into an armchair.
From the hallway, Diggle's muttered voice echoed faintly:
"Waffles. Midnight waffles. I miss Kandahar."
"Stranger things have been covered up by the British Ministry," Hermione called out.
There was a pause.
Then Moira, staring into her untouched tea, muttered under her breath, "I need a drink."
And this time, no one argued.
—
Starling City – The Docks – The Next Morning – 9:37 A.M.
The storm had moved on, but its mood lingered. The sky hung low and bruised, casting everything in a dull, wet grey. Puddles reflected the battered floodlights still flickering overhead, and yellow crime scene tape rippled weakly in the breeze like exhausted warning signs. Seagulls screeched overhead—because of course they did—making the whole scene feel like the opening credits of a particularly grim noir flick.
Detective Quentin Lance squinted against the light as he stepped over a puddle and past a grumbling CSI tech. His long coat flapped around his legs like a cape of righteous exasperation. The cigarette in his hand had gone out two steps ago, but he didn't notice.
He stopped near a half-crumbled loading ramp, letting his eyes scan the damage.
Three arrows. Still embedded in the metal siding. Grouped tight.
Magic burns. Faint but there—small scorched spirals and a lingering hum in the air that made the hairs on his arms rise.
And then, sitting like the sad cherry on top of a very guilty sundae: Martin Somers. Wrapped in a foil blanket, sulking on the bumper of an ambulance, looking for all the world like a man who'd just wet himself in public and blamed the rain.
Lance took a breath, exhaled slowly, then ambled forward.
"Well, well," he said, his voice dry as over-steeped tea. "If it isn't the ghost of Christmas indictments."
Somers gave him a withering look, which wasn't easy to pull off with matted hair and a blanket that made him look like a microwaved burrito.
"Go to hell, Lance."
"Already there," Lance muttered. He glanced down at the puddles, then back at Somers. "Nice night for a jog. What happened—get stuck in yoga class and forget how to land on your feet?"
Somers scowled. "I want protection. A full detail. I want a damn task force."
Lance raised an eyebrow. "Protection from what? Weather? Hooded bogeymen? You get attacked by Santa and his reindeer too?"
Somers leaned forward, voice low and bitter. "Four of them. Masks. Capes. Freaks. One of 'em had arrows, another froze the damn ground under my feet. And then there was that British psycho with the red hood and a wand."
Lance blinked. "A wand?"
"I'm telling you," Somers snapped, "they weren't human."
"You've clearly never met my ex-mother-in-law," Lance replied, rubbing his face. "So, let me get this straight. You're saying the vigilantes who've been turning Starling into a comic book came after you. Hung you upside down like a side of beef. Made a nice little pincushion display out of your shipping containers. And yet… you can't name a single one of them?"
"They didn't exactly hand out business cards," Somers growled.
Lance stepped in, dropping his voice into that gravelly low rumble he'd perfected after twenty years of interrogating idiots. "You're sitting in the middle of a crime scene, Somers. And I've got half a dozen agencies breathing down my neck about your Triad connections, missing witnesses, and more blood money than a Scorsese flick. You think I give a damn if your pride got bruised?"
Somers yanked the blanket tighter around his shoulders. "You think this is about pride? They broke into a secure dockyard, assaulted me, violated a dozen laws, and walked away without so much as a footprint."
"You're right," Lance said. "They're not cops. They're not bound by procedure. They don't need warrants, or chain of custody, or a half-dozen redacted memos to do what they do."
He leaned in, close enough to smell Somers' panic beneath the stale cologne. "But you know what they are? Angry. Smart. And clearly not big fans of you."
Somers barked a humorless laugh. "Yeah? That makes two of us."
Lance shook his head. "Give me something. Anything. Who were you meeting here? Why the Triads? Why Nocenti?"
Somers stiffened. "I got nothing to say."
"Right," Lance muttered, standing up straight. "Because the last time someone got close to testifying against you, they ended up with two bullets in their back and their wallet missing."
"You got no proof."
"I got motive, means, a ballistics report, and a whole team of pissed-off vigilantes saying otherwise," Lance said. "And if you think a foil blanket and an attitude's gonna save you, then congratulations—you're still as dumb as you look."
Somers' expression darkened, and his tone turned venomous. "You think you're untouchable, don't you? You and your little badge, playing knight in shining trench coat."
Lance gave a dry chuckle. "I'm a cop in Starling, Somers. We don't do shining."
Somers leaned in, eyes glittering with something colder. "Well here's a little forecast for you, Detective. My lawyers are gonna shred your case, bury every piece of your so-called evidence, and when I walk out of that courtroom? I'll make damn sure the first thing I do is return the favor."
Lance's eyes narrowed. "That a threat?"
"You're damn right it is."
A pause. Then Somers smiled, teeth yellow and sharp.
"And you tell that crusading daughter of yours—Laurel?—that if she thinks she's gonna nail me to the wall, she better start sleeping with one eye open. Because when this blows over, I'll be coming after everyone who took a swing at me."
Lance didn't react. Not at first.
Then, with the calm precision of a man who had long since stopped asking for permission, he grabbed Somers by the collar and yanked him off the gurney.
"Say her name again," Lance hissed, voice so quiet it was terrifying, "and I'll make sure the next thing you're swallowing is your own teeth."
Somers didn't blink. But the smugness wavered.
A cough behind them.
"Uh, sir?" one of the uniforms said awkwardly. "Forensics wants you to take a look at the arrowheads."
Lance shoved Somers back onto the gurney and stepped away, jaw clenched so tight it creaked.
"You're going down, Somers," he muttered. "Hood or no hood."
As he walked away, his phone buzzed.
[Text from Laurel:]
Heard about the docks. That bad?
Lance stared at the screen for a moment, then typed back with two calloused thumbs.
[Reply:]
Worse. Be careful. He made it personal.
He pocketed the phone and took one last look over his shoulder.
Somers sat there, wrapped in his shiny blanket like a bad Christmas gift. Still smug. Still breathing.
But not for long, if the people in the hoods had anything to say about it.
And Lance? He was starting to think they might be the only ones left who knew how to get things done.
—
Queen Consolidated – Executive Level
The executive lobby gleamed with the cold precision of wealth. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Brushed steel. Polished stone that echoed with every footstep like a courtroom about to deliver judgment. Everything about it screamed legacy. But to Oliver Queen, it felt more like a tomb—one where his name was already on the plaque.
"Still smells like corporate ego," Oliver muttered under his breath as the elevator doors opened and he stepped out, Diggle beside him like a tailored shadow.
Diggle arched an eyebrow. "And here I thought you'd be impressed. They waxed the floor twice this week."
Oliver snorted, looking around like a man surveying a foreign country. "Great. Now it's extra slippery with capitalism."
Moira Queen stood across the room, poised and polished in a slate-gray suit that probably cost more than most people made in a month. Her heels clicked against the marble floor like punctuation marks to her authority. And beside her, Walter Steele—smooth, unflappable, wearing a tailored navy suit and an expression that said dignified, but approachable.
"Oliver," Moira greeted, voice warm but restrained, like she was hugging him through a bulletproof window. She stepped forward and gave him a measured embrace, more graceful than affectionate. "You're looking... well."
"I showered," Oliver said with a half-shrug. "Figured it was the least I could do for the tour of the mothership."
Diggle offered a polite nod. "Mrs. Queen. Mr. Steele."
"John," Walter said with a professional smile. "Good to see you again. And Oliver... welcome home."
"Yeah," Oliver muttered, glancing around. "Home."
Moira gestured toward the conference hall ahead. "We wanted to show you the new developments. Walter thought you might appreciate being brought up to speed."
"Oh, is that what we're calling it?" Oliver said. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're trying to hand me a briefcase and pretend I didn't spend five years learning how to kill my food with bamboo."
Moira's expression didn't waver. "This company was your father's life. And it was meant to be yours, too."
"Right. Because nothing says 'family legacy' like corporate espionage and hostile takeovers."
Walter smiled, patient and unbothered. "Queen Consolidated has evolved, Oliver. Our clean energy division is growing. We're pioneering modular infrastructure technology, even humanitarian logistics systems. This place isn't the same company your father left behind."
"Neither am I," Oliver replied.
They entered the conference room. On the table sat a sleek architectural model of a modern glass tower, with "The Robert Queen Research Center" engraved on a small brass plate.
"We're naming the new annex after your father," Moira said softly.
Oliver stared at the model like it might explode. "You want to immortalize him with glass and steel. That's cute."
Walter gave a small chuckle. "It's more than symbolic. We want you to take on a leadership role. Not just a nameplate—real influence."
Oliver blinked. "Wait, are you serious?"
Moira inclined her head. "You're a Queen. That still means something."
Oliver turned to Diggle. "Do they think I got a business degree via owl post or something?"
Diggle didn't miss a beat. "Depends. Did the owl survive the island?"
Walter folded his hands calmly. "You don't need credentials to lead. You need presence. People will follow your name—your example."
Oliver gave him a skeptical look. "Right. Nothing inspires investor confidence like a guy who can skin a boar with a broken arrowhead."
"You underestimate your value," Walter said smoothly.
"And you clearly overestimate my desire to wear a suit and pretend I care about board meetings."
Walter smiled again, though it was tight at the edges. "It's not about pretending. It's about purpose. And if you'd stop deflecting with sarcasm, you might see that."
"Oh, I see something," Oliver said. He pointed between Walter and Moira. "I see that you're still circling her like a British panther in heat."
Moira blinked. "Oliver!"
"What? I'm just saying what everyone's thinking. Walter's practically writing poetry every time he offers her tea. I mean, kudos, man—subtle and respectful—but if you two start slow dancing next to the R&D model, I'm gonna hurl."
Walter straightened slightly. "My relationship with your mother is professional. And based on mutual respect."
"Mm-hmm," Oliver drawled. "Respect with smolder."
Moira sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "This isn't about my personal life—"
"No, because you don't have one," Oliver interrupted, his tone shifting. "You gave that up when you took in Harry. You remember him, right? At the time, he was scared kid with bruises he wouldn't talk about. You made a choice, Mom. You picked him over... whatever you might've had with Walter. And I respect that. I really do."
Walter's voice was gentler now. "Harry's a remarkable young man."
"Yeah, he is," Oliver said, gaze cooling. "And the only reason he's okay now is because she gave up everything to protect him. Including you, Walter."
The air turned still. Diggle glanced at the floor, hands clasped behind his back.
Walter, to his credit, held Oliver's gaze. "Then I'm glad she did. And I'll always respect that."
Oliver nodded once, slow. "Good. Then respect this too—I'm not joining the company. I'm not putting on a tie, and I'm not playing nice for photo ops. I didn't survive five years in hell to spend the rest of my life in meetings."
Moira's voice was quieter. "Your father wanted more for you than survival."
Oliver looked at her for a long beat. "Yeah. He wanted me on that damn boat."
Silence.
Diggle coughed softly, but said nothing. Walter looked away. Moira just stood there, frozen in a moment of all the things she couldn't fix.
Then Oliver turned to leave.
"You want to name a building after him? Fine. But don't expect me to be the man he was. That guy died out there with him."
He walked toward the elevator, hands in his pockets, jaw set.
Diggle gave a respectful nod to Moira and Walter, then followed his friend without a word.
As the elevator doors closed behind them, Walter finally exhaled.
"He's... not quite what I expected."
Moira's eyes stayed fixed on the doors. "He's what five years of blood, guilt, and survival make of a boy who came home a stranger."
Walter looked at her, more gently now. "And Harry?"
A soft smile played across her lips. "Harry's what kept me from becoming one too."
—
The streets of Starling City rolled past in a blur of neon smudges and rain-slick reflections. The inside of the SUV was dimly lit, humming with quiet power. Oliver Queen sat in the passenger seat, his head tilted slightly toward the window, but his eyes weren't really watching anything. His jaw was tight, his shoulders locked. Arms crossed like a man holding in too much.
John Diggle drove, knuckles tight on the steering wheel, posture military-straight. He kept his eyes on the road—but the silence between them wasn't peace. It was pressure, coiled and waiting.
"Gonna keep doing this?" Diggle asked after a beat. His tone was calm. Even. But there was a steel edge underneath.
Oliver didn't move. "Doing what?"
"This thing where you storm into Queen Consolidated like Batman on laundry day, snarl at everyone who looks at you sideways, then vanish like a grumpy smoke bomb."
A flicker of something that might've been a smirk ghosted over Oliver's lips. Might've. But it never landed.
"I made my point," Oliver muttered.
"Yeah. You made a scene," Diggle shot back. "Not the same thing."
Oliver finally turned his head, his expression a cocktail of warning and weariness.
"What part of 'I'm not that guy' didn't they understand, Dig?"
"The part where you pretend you're not still bleeding for all the things you lost."
That landed. Oliver blinked slowly. Looked away again.
"You don't know what I buried," he said quietly.
"No," Diggle agreed. "But I've seen what crawled out of the grave instead."
A beat.
Oliver's lip twitched. "You're getting better at the metaphors."
Diggle gave a small, dry grunt. "Don't make me break out the poetry. I've got a whole sonnet called 'Man Broods Like an Idiot Pretending He's Not Broken Inside.'"
"I'd rather you punched me," Oliver said flatly.
Diggle gave him a sidelong glance. "You'd like that too much."
A quiet breath left Oliver's nose—maybe a laugh, maybe not. Then Diggle's tone shifted, softened just enough to cut deeper.
"You know, your mom—she's not exactly baking cookies and singing lullabies. But she took in a scared kid. Protected him. Didn't have to. Chose to."
Oliver stiffened.
"She didn't save Harry from just an abusive home," Diggle continued. "She saved him from becoming you."
That hit like a sniper round to the ribs. Oliver looked away sharply, jaw flexing like he was chewing glass.
"I know," he said after a moment, voice rough.
Diggle didn't press. Just waited.
"You think I don't see how he looks at her?" Oliver went on. "He worships her. She's... a goddess to him. Untouchable. And I walk into that house and all I see is how far I've fallen. How far I can't come back."
"You don't have to come back all at once," Diggle said. "Just stop running like there's someone chasing you."
"There is," Oliver snapped, eyes flicking to him. "Me."
Another beat. The SUV turned onto a quieter street. The rain started to tap against the windows like the city was trying to whisper its own ghosts into the car.
"Look," Diggle said, tone softening again. "I'm not saying go hug it out with the board of directors. I'm saying maybe try something radical. Like staying. Like trying."
Oliver looked down at his hands—scarred knuckles, faded calluses. Symbols of survival, not comfort.
"I don't know if I can," he said. "I spent five years turning into something else."
"So turn back," Diggle said simply.
"It's not that easy."
"It never is," Diggle agreed. "But you've got people now. People who care whether you make it home."
Oliver didn't respond.
The world outside the window started to fade.
—
Lian Yu. 5 years ago
Waves crashed against jagged rocks under a sky thick with gray. The sea spat salt and sorrow as a younger, broken Oliver Queen stumbled across wet sand, soaked to the bone. His face was sunburned, streaked with dirt, barely recognizable as someone who once wore thousand-dollar suits and drank scotch like water.
A body lay in the surf.
His father.
Robert Queen's eyes were wide, glassy. Lifeless. His mouth hung open as if trying to speak even in death. Seaweed wrapped around him like shackles.
Oliver dropped to his knees with a hoarse cry.
"Dad…"
His voice was cracked. Barely audible over the waves. He reached out, trembling hands hesitating as he brushed back wet hair from the man's forehead.
A gull landed nearby. Pecked at the corpse's exposed hand.
"NO!"
Oliver lunged, screaming, waving his arms. The gull flapped away with an indignant cry. He collapsed again. Shaking. Sobbing.
Then, like a switch flipped, he gritted his teeth and began dragging the body up the beach.
One slow, agonizing foot at a time.
Falling. Getting up. Falling again.
Blood smeared his hands. His own. His father's. Maybe both.
"I'll fix it," he whispered. "I'll fix everything, I swear... I'll make it right…"
His lips were blue. Eyes fever-bright. But he didn't stop.
Under the skeletal shadow of a gnarled tree, he finally laid the body down. Covered the face with his shredded jacket.
Then he screamed.
A sound so raw, so feral, it didn't sound human.
It sounded like something being born and dying at the same time.
—
Back to the present
The scream still echoed in Oliver's head.
He blinked.
Exhaled.
Diggle glanced at him without turning his head fully.
"You're still carrying him," he said quietly.
Oliver didn't answer right away.
"He told me to survive," he said finally. "Didn't tell me how. Or what for."
Diggle gave a small nod. "Then maybe it's time you figured that part out."
Oliver let out a breath. Half sigh, half bitter laugh.
"Every time I try to figure it out, I end up with more bodies."
"And yet you're still here," Diggle said. "Still trying. That's more than most."
Oliver turned to him, expression guarded.
"You always been this annoying?"
"Only when it keeps you from turning into a brooding ball of guilt."
Oliver huffed a tired chuckle. "Bit late for that."
Diggle grinned faintly. "Maybe. But I've got time."
The SUV rolled on through the city.
The silence that followed wasn't heavy.
It was... manageable.
Healing, in progress.
---
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