Starling City – CNRI Offices
The CNRI offices buzzed with the usual cocktail of chaos and caffeine. Phones rang like it was a contest, printers whirred like they were plotting an uprising, and someone was either burning toast or brewing something that should not be called coffee. The air smelled like toner, stress, and righteous fury—a heady mix Laurel Lance had learned to associate with public service.
She stood at her desk, sleeves rolled up, reading glasses perched precariously on the tip of her nose, and a frown digging lines into her forehead. The file in her hands had officially overstayed its welcome. She scowled at it like sheer willpower might convince it to give her something—anything—that wouldn't make her life worse.
The office door creaked open behind her.
"If this is about the Bowers eviction case," she said without looking up, "tell them I'm fresh out of miracles and down to half a prayer and a headache."
"Relax, Counselor. I'm not here to add another dumpster fire to your docket."
Laurel's eyes lifted just as her father, Detective Quentin Lance, stepped inside like he owned the building—or at least knew exactly how many fire code violations it had.
"Dad," she groaned. "Please tell me you didn't interrogate another suspect without a lawyer present."
Quentin closed the door with a click and dropped into the chair across from her desk like gravity owed him a favor. "Wouldn't dream of it. No, this visit's personal… and official."
She lowered the file slowly. "That's not a comforting combination."
"You tell me." He reached into his coat and pulled out a manila folder, tossing it onto her desk with a solid thud that said bad news incoming. "Somers got hit last night."
Laurel blinked. "You mean… hit like—?"
"Hit like someone invited the entire Justice League to his front lawn and forgot to RSVP. Masks, arrows, possibly magic—jury's still out on that one. Left him looking like a wet raccoon wrapped in foil and screaming for a task force."
Laurel sighed and rubbed her temples. "God, what now?"
Quentin leaned forward, tone dropping. "He named names he's going after. Yours was on the list."
Her head snapped up. "What?!"
"He said if he went down, he'd take everyone with him. You. Me. Emily Nocenti. Hell, he even mentioned Judge Ranieri, and she likes him."
Laurel folded her arms, her voice sharpening. "I haven't done anything wrong."
"No, you haven't," Quentin agreed, "but that's not how this works, is it? Somers doesn't care if you're right, he cares if you're dangerous. And you are."
She didn't deny it.
He leaned back, watching her with that signature blend of cop instincts and dad guilt. "I'm assigning two plainclothes to CNRI, and one to your apartment."
"Dad—"
"Don't." He held up a hand. "Not a request. Same for Emily."
"Laurel," he added before she could argue again, "she's the only person alive who saw Victor Nocenti die. That makes her valuable. And expendable."
Laurel clenched her jaw. "She doesn't want protection. She thinks it makes her look like a victim."
"Better that than a chalk outline," Quentin snapped, then softened when he saw the look on her face. "I'm not doing this to control you. I'm doing it because I know what comes next when these people feel cornered."
"You're serious."
"I'm always serious. And you should be too. You know what Starling turns into when the sun goes down."
Laurel paced around her desk, arms crossed. "So what, we just wait around for them to make a move? Hope they miss?"
"No," Quentin said quietly, "we make sure they never get the shot."
She stopped pacing. "You think Somers had Victor killed."
He hesitated. "Yeah. I do. My gut says Somers didn't pull the trigger, but he knows who did. And whoever it was? Still out there. Still watching."
Laurel looked down at the folder. "And now they know I'm getting close."
He nodded. "Which means the gloves are off."
She met his eyes, hers fierce now. "Then I say we hit back."
He smiled faintly. "That's the Laurel I know. But I need you alive to do that. So, humor me."
She sighed, the fight draining from her shoulders. "Fine. You win. But they don't follow me into court."
"They'll blend in."
"If they so much as breathe during a hearing, I'm filing a motion against the department."
"Noted."
Laurel quirked a brow. "You'd really arrest your own daughter?"
Quentin stood, brushing nonexistent lint from his rumpled coat. "Wouldn't be the first time."
Laurel laughed despite herself. "You're unbelievable."
"I know. It's part of my charm."
He turned at the door and paused, the weight of years in his voice. "Stay sharp. And tell Emily to keep her head down. If Somers doesn't come after her… someone else will."
She nodded, more sober now. "I will."
He gave her one last look—a father, not a cop—and left, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that made her chest tighten.
Laurel exhaled and sat back down, eyes drifting to the folder. Then to the window, where a boring beige sedan idled with two plainclothes agents pretending to look inconspicuous and failing gloriously.
She muttered under her breath, "Welcome to the war zone. Hope you brought snacks."
And with that, she cracked open the file again—ready to face whatever came next.
—
THE FOUNDRY — NIGHTFALL
The mill groaned like an old beast trying to remember its purpose. Steel girders, once rust-choked and sagging, now gleamed obsidian-black, reinforced by silent spells and complex runes that shimmered blue and gold beneath the surface before sinking out of sight.
A gentle hum pulsed through the air, the residual echo of ancient magic being forced into submission.
Hermione Granger, sleeves rolled up to her elbows and curls tied into a practical bun, muttered incantations under her breath as she moved along the far wall. Her wand sparked like a welder's torch as runes spiraled out from its tip and etched themselves into the concrete.
"Layered muggle-repelling, notice-me-not fields, anti-surveillance charms—magical and mundane," she announced crisply. "Even if someone breaks in here with a satellite, they'll see nothing but boiler room static."
"Please tell me you added something that makes them piss themselves if they try," Harry Potter said without looking up. He was crouched near the central pillar, etching defensive wards into the metal with the practiced ease of a man who had spent too long learning to be paranoid.
"I'm not that kind of sadist, Harry."
"You wound me, Granger. And here I thought you finally saw the appeal of a little fear-based charm work. Very Gotham of you."
Hermione shot him a look. "We're building a base, Harry. Not staging a Broadway reboot of Sweeney Todd."
"Speak for yourself," Harry said. "I've always wanted to be a misunderstood anti-hero with a tragic past and a sexy lair."
"One out of three isn't bad," came a silky voice behind him.
He didn't even flinch. Just finished the last rune and stood, turning with a smirk already forming.
Daphne Greengrass strolled in from the shadows like a cat that had decided the sunbeam belonged to her. Her wand was tucked behind her ear, her white tank top stained with dust and soot in all the right places, and her fitted combat pants did nothing to hide her curves—curves Harry's eyes immediately, and quite shamelessly, dropped to for a second too long.
"Miss Greengrass," he drawled. "You've dirtied yourself. I thought pureblood princesses floated above filth."
Daphne smirked. "Just because I'm aristocracy doesn't mean I don't know how to get down and dirty."
Harry arched a brow. "Was that a flirt, an innuendo, or a threat?"
"Why not all three?"
"You're in rare form tonight."
"Mm. Must be the company."
"Oi," Hermione said without looking up. "Can you two not flirt like there aren't industrial-grade explosives still unsecured?"
Daphne waved a hand. "I triple-warded the armory an hour ago."
"Which," Hermione said coolly, "means nothing if you set it off with your hair-flipping."
Harry chuckled. "Let's just say if Daphne wanted to blow me up, she wouldn't need bombs."
Daphne turned toward him, cocked a hip, and said with a slow smile, "Harry, if I wanted to blow you... up, you'd already be smoke and ash."
Harry blinked. Then he grinned. "One day, I'm going to catch you off guard with that mouth, and it'll be glorious."
"You've tried," she replied. "You just never survive the aftermath."
Hermione groaned and pulled the magical blueprint off the wall. "You two exhaust me."
"I aim to please," Daphne said.
"I aim to explode," Harry added.
"Don't." Hermione jabbed a finger at both of them. "We're almost finished. No flirting, no innuendo, no death."
"I feel attacked," Daphne muttered.
"You are," Hermione said sweetly. "Magically. Right now. I'm casting a silencing hex on the entire room if you don't help finish the east corridor."
With a bit more grumbling—and a bit more smirking—they got back to work. Magic surged in controlled bursts. Walls expanded inward through pocket dimensions. New staircases unfolded from impossible angles. Old wiring wrapped itself into enchanted conduits while the spellwork settled into the foundations like invisible veins.
The Foundry was no longer an abandoned mill. It was becoming a fortress.
A hideout.
A home.
Harry leaned against a new support beam, wand spinning lazily between his fingers as Daphne flicked hers and summoned a tool kit to hover beside her.
"Hey, Harry," she said after a moment. "Whatever happened to that Invisibility Cloak of yours?"
He blinked. "Bit random."
Daphne turned to face him, eyes glinting with mischief. "Just reminiscing. Remember Fourth Year? You, me, the Cloak, the Astronomy Tower. You tasting like chocolate frogs and rule-breaking? Merlin, we could've gotten expelled ten times over."
Harry grinned. "We almost did. I still have a scar on my elbow from when you kneed me during that prefect patrol."
"You startled me!" she defended. "You stuck your cold hands under my shirt!"
"You invited me under the Cloak."
"I was cold!"
"You were hormonal."
She tossed a screwdriver at him, which he caught easily.
"I stand by what I said," Harry said, giving her a long look. "You were gorgeous then. All legs and fury and mad ambition. Now?" He let his eyes drop again, slow and lingering. "Now you've got curves that should be illegal in at least four countries."
Daphne's lips twitched. "Charmed, I'm sure."
Hermione made a gagging noise. "I swear to Godric, if you two start dry-humping next to the ward stabilizer—"
Harry held up a hand, amused. "No promises."
"But the Cloak?" Daphne prompted. "You really don't use it anymore?"
He shook his head. "Nah. Left it in my Gringotts vault."
Daphne blinked. "Why?"
Harry's smile faded a fraction. "Ra's. Man's obsessed with the Deathly Hallows. Already bathes in a magical hot tub to dodge death, and I guarantee if he ever got wind I had one of the Hallows, he'd send his League after me like bloody Amazon returns."
Daphne's brow furrowed. "Wait... wait. That Cloak? The Cloak of Death?"
Harry nodded.
Daphne looked momentarily stunned. "Merlin's soggy pants. So all those times we fooled around at school... we were literally under one of the Hallows?"
"Apparently Death enjoys a good snog," Harry said with a wink.
Daphne stared at him for a beat, then burst out laughing. "No wonder Filch never caught us."
Harry reached into his jacket and pulled out his wand.
"Don't tell me—" Daphne narrowed her eyes.
Harry nodded, handing it over.
Daphne turned it slowly in her hands. "I've seen this wand before. In Dumbledore's hand. That's... that's the Elder Wand."
Harry nodded again.
"And the Resurrection Stone?"
"In the vault. Same as the Cloak."
Hermione said softly, "You've had all three."
"Didn't ask for them," Harry said. "Didn't want them. But I got them anyway."
Daphne looked at him, serious now. "So why not use the Cloak anymore?"
Harry shrugged. "Because I don't need it. Not anymore. When I was a kid, it was armor. Something to hide behind. But I don't hide now. I am the dark. I don't need a cloak when I can disappear without one."
There was a moment of silence.
Daphne stepped closer. Her voice softened. "You really have changed."
Harry tilted his head, eyes locked on hers. "You haven't. You've only become more you."
"Meaning?"
"Dangerous. Gorgeous. Infuriating."
Her lips quirked upward. "Flatterer."
He leaned in, close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath. "Just wait till I really start trying."
Hermione snapped her notebook shut. "And on that note, I'm leaving before I lose what's left of my will to live."
Harry looked over. "Cousins still in town?"
"Holly and Dawn. Meeting them at a jazz bar. Holly likes saxophones. Dawn likes tall troublemakers."
"Sounds like my kind of party," Harry said.
"You're exactly the kind of guy I'm warning them against," Hermione said with a laugh. She waved her wand and a faint blue light wrapped around her. "Be safe. Don't burn the place down."
"No promises," Harry and Daphne said in unison.
Then, with a pop, Hermione was gone.
Silence settled like fog.
Daphne turned back to Harry. "You know, I kind of miss that Cloak."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I liked sneaking around with you. Made it feel like we were the only two people in the world."
Harry reached out, brushing a strand of soot-darkened blonde hair from her cheek.
"We don't need a Cloak for that," he said.
She smiled. "Good. Because next time I drag you into a broom closet, I want everyone to know it was me."
He grinned. "Merlin help me, I think I'm in love."
—
STARLING CITY — THE VELVET REED, JAZZ BAR
The Velvet Reed didn't whisper ambiance—it purred it.
Warm pools of golden light spilled from sconces onto tables draped in midnight linen. Smoke curled lazily from the bar's dim corners, perfuming the air with aged whiskey, old secrets, and the ghost of saxophone notes. A jazz quartet crooned through a dusky rendition of "Autumn Leaves," all brushed snares and yearning trumpet.
Hermione Granger sat in a corner booth near the back, where the shadows pooled deepest and the noise faded just enough to think. Her honey-laced bourbon remained mostly untouched. She twirled the glass idly, watching the amber swirl like bottled starlight. A few curls had broken free from her practical updo, framing her face like the trailing thoughts of a long day. She'd traded her usual robes for something sleek and sharp—black slacks, a midnight-blue blouse with a subtle shimmer, and her trench coat draped beside her like a coiled spell.
The door opened with a chime, and Hermione instinctively turned her head.
Trouble entered.
Twice.
Holly and Dawn Granger didn't walk so much as arrive, like a change in barometric pressure.
Holly led the way, her long legs encased in tight black jeans, her red leather jacket flaring with every step like a flare of warning. Loose copper curls bounced as she moved, her grin already two parts charm and one part danger. Dawn followed, cool and poised, her platinum hair in a tight braid that didn't dare misbehave. She wore a tailored navy blazer over a sleeveless black turtleneck, and her expression suggested she'd already calculated three exit routes, clocked the bartender's dominant hand, and spotted the man two tables down with a concealed weapon.
Hermione stood to greet them.
"Herms!" Holly grinned and launched herself into a hug like she'd been shot out of a confetti cannon.
"Oof—still not a hugger," Hermione murmured, barely keeping her balance as she was enveloped.
"You love it," Holly said, squeezing tighter.
Dawn followed more gracefully, arms winding around Hermione with the soft efficiency of a stealth hug. "You look like you haven't slept since the Ministry riots," she observed with fond concern.
"You look like you've started bench-pressing small buildings," Hermione shot back.
"Pilates," Dawn said smoothly, sliding into the booth like a panther settling in for a nap. "Hardcore Pilates."
Hermione's eyes flicked to the faint bruise along her cousin's forearm. "Uh-huh. And the shiner?"
"Slipped on the subway."
Hermione's brow arched. "Onto a mugger?"
"Technically, into a mugger. My shoulder collided with his face. Repeatedly."
"I was there," Holly chimed in, plopping beside her sister. "It was glorious. Like interpretive violence."
"Remind me to file you both under 'Reasons the Granger family Christmas is now held via Zoom,'" Hermione muttered, sipping her drink.
"You're just mad I beat you at trivia that one year," Holly said smugly.
"You cheated. You used Legilimency."
Holly shrugged. "Don't hate the player. Hate your weak Occlumency."
Dawn leaned back and crossed one leg over the other. "So," she said casually, "still stuck in magical law reform hell, or have you finally rebelled and joined a biker gang?"
Hermione snorted. "Please. Have you seen my Muggle driving record?"
Holly grinned. "So no motorcycle. What about jazz singer by day, rogue art thief by night?"
"That does sound sexier than my real job," Hermione admitted.
"You do have the cheekbones for a double life," Dawn noted.
"I'm flattered," Hermione said dryly. "But no. I'm working with Harry and Sirius now—helping expand their ventures into North America."
"'Ventures'," Holly repeated, air-quoting. "So... illegal?"
"Not technically," Hermione replied. "There are just a lot of magical zoning loopholes."
"That's your lying voice," Dawn said flatly.
Hermione blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You do this thing," Dawn said, pointing. "You get all... school-prefect calm. Your voice gets half a note higher, and you start using words like zoning to cover for the fact that you're clearly lying through your teeth."
"It's the same voice you used when you told Aunt Ruth you hadn't switched the Secret Santa names," Holly added helpfully.
Hermione flushed. "That time was justified. Uncle Simon deserved the glitter bomb."
"He did re-gift a fondue set for the third year in a row," Dawn murmured.
"Which he didn't clean first," Hermione added.
They all broke into laughter—sharp, shared, and honest.
For a moment, it was easy. The bar, the banter, the bourbon.
But none of them said what was really beneath the table.
That Starling was burning—literally and figuratively.
That Dawn had broken three arms in a warehouse last night and walked away with a blade slash on her ribs.
That Holly had leapt off a twelve-story rooftop to take down a human trafficker mid-sprint.
That Hermione had spent the last week helping a masked vigilante team reinforce an abandoned steel mill, layering enchantments and charm traps until she was half-mad with focus and spelllight.
"So," Dawn said lightly, "do I even want to know what you've been doing when you're not enforcing 'zoning laws'?"
Hermione hesitated. Then: "Let's just say I've been applying my talents… creatively."
Holly leaned in, eyes gleaming. "Please tell me you've hexed a senator."
"Not yet," Hermione said with a smirk. "But I've got a list."
"I knew we were related," Holly said proudly, clinking her glass against Hermione's.
"Just don't tell Mum," Hermione warned. "She still thinks I'm doing field research in magical urban development."
"I told her you were hunting werewolves in Canada," Dawn said.
"What?"
"She didn't believe me. But she did ask if you'd bring back maple syrup."
Hermione buried her face in her hands. "I hate you both."
"No, you don't," Holly said brightly. "You tolerate us with impressive grace."
They laughed again, but this time, the moment stretched thinner. A beat too long. The saxophone meandered through another mournful note.
Dawn's smile faded just a fraction. "You okay, Hermione? Really?"
Hermione hesitated. "No. But I'm managing."
Dawn nodded, eyes sharp but understanding. "If managing stops working, you call us."
"Even if it's at 3 a.m.," Holly added. "Especially if it's at 3 a.m."
"Especially if there's blood," Dawn said. "Or drama."
"Or drama with blood," Holly said cheerfully.
"Seriously," Dawn said, her voice lowering. "We've got your back. Always."
Hermione smiled, warm and a little sad. "I know."
Outside, across the street, someone watched from the shadows.
Silent. Masked. Motionless.
Because secrets didn't vanish. They calcified. They lingered.
And in Starling City, they tended to bleed.
Inside the Velvet Reed, three Granger women drank and bantered and laughed beneath the music.
Their masks remained invisible.
But no less real.
—
The screech of an owl echoed through the derelict industrial park, slicing through the midnight hush like a warning. Somewhere beyond the broken fences and skeletal remains of half-toppled smokestacks, Oliver Queen moved like a shadow along the rusted spine of a side ladder. His boots barely whispered against the iron rungs as he reached the roof of the abandoned mill. He paused, scanning the grounds below—eyes sharp, breath steady.
He dropped the final few feet, landing with the ease of a man who'd fallen from higher and survived worse. His shoulder protested slightly—nothing serious, just a reminder that sparring with a Basilisk-possessed punching bag that morning had been a bad idea.
The Foundry loomed in front of him, cloaked in darkness but unmistakably alive. It was subtle, but he felt it—the air shimmered like a heartbeat.
Magic.
Oliver scowled, stepping forward. The air around the reinforced door tingled against his skin. Wards. Ancient ones. Faintly floral with a sharp undertone, like lavender and lightning.
Definitely Hermione.
He raised a hand and touched the barrier.
It parted for him with a warm sigh, as if recognizing his presence—but not exactly thrilled about it.
Inside, the Foundry was anything but abandoned.
Holographic projections floated in midair, arcane blueprints overlapped with technical schematics. Spell circles pulsed on the walls beside magnetic shield generators. Runic etchings snaked between neon server banks and steel-reinforced vault doors. The place looked like the bastard child of a Stark Industries lab and a Slytherin study hall.
It should've buzzed with ambient noise, clinking tools, murmured incantations.
But instead—
Wet, breathless sounds.
Oliver stilled.
A moan followed. High. Feminine. Definitely not Hermione.
Then, a voice.
"Bloody hell, Daphne—the stabilizer's still hot—"
"Then stop talking and use it," she whispered.
Oliver blinked.
Once.
Twice.
"Oh, f—"
He spun around so fast he nearly tripped over a loose gear sprocket. Face to wall. Hands up. The picture of a man trying very hard to pretend he wasn't mentally scarred.
"Nope. Nope. This is not my life. I did not just walk in on my cousin shagging a witch against a tactical rune amplifier."
Behind him: chaos.
Thumps. A crash. The unmistakable sound of a magical toolkit being knocked over. Muffled swearing—something about a wand being in someone's pants.
And then, Harry's voice—wry, unbothered, so very British.
"This is… uh… not what it looks like."
"Unless what it looks like is you violating the Geneva Convention with a sexed-up Hogwarts graduate in your underground Bond lair, I'm going to need a trauma counselor," Oliver muttered, eyes still firmly on the brick wall.
From somewhere behind him, Daphne's voice drifted up, amused and dangerously unrepentant.
"You could always leave, Ollie. Or we could just obliviate you."
"DAPHNE."
"I'm kidding. Mostly."
"Can someone please, for the love of Merlin, put some bloody trousers on?" Harry's voice sounded halfway between a groan and a laugh.
Another few seconds of frantic dressing. A zipper. A hissed "Ow!" Harry muttering something about hexed bra straps. A loud clang. And then—
"All right, it's safe. You can turn around," Harry said.
Oliver turned reluctantly. What he saw did not help.
Harry stood near a table littered with enchanted tools, wearing a half-wrinkled black tactical shirt that clung to him just enough to be suspicious. His pants were technically on, but the waistband was still open, like he'd lost the will to finish dressing somewhere around the zipper.
Next to him leaned Daphne Greengrass—chaotic perfection personified. All tousled blonde hair and flushed cheeks, her tank top clinging in the wrong places (and therefore all the right ones), combat boots still laced tight, wand tucked behind one ear like a particularly dangerous pencil.
She looked like she'd just stepped out of a Calvin Klein ad filmed in hell—and knew it.
"You good?" Oliver asked, tone bone-dry.
Harry smirked. "Better than good. We were stress-testing the stabilizer. For science."
"That is not how science works."
Daphne tilted her head. "He's not wrong. There were variables. I was one of them."
"DAPHNE."
"What? It's called structural synergy, love."
Oliver pinched the bridge of his nose. "Can we please pretend I didn't just stumble into the adult section of Diagon Alley?"
Harry coughed to hide a laugh and gestured at the walls. "Right. Reset. Let me give you the tour. Foundry's nearly ready. Hermione just finished layering the wards. We've got repelling fields, occlusion veils, temporal dissonance bubbles—try scrying through this baby and you'll end up seeing your own birth."
"She also laid down Unplottability charms," Daphne added. "Grounded them into four leyline anchors. We've basically turned this place into a magical Bermuda Triangle."
"And the armory's been triple-warded," Harry said, tugging his waistband into place with exaggerated drama. "Basilisk-scale lining. No bleed-through. Even the darkest artifacts in there stay put."
Oliver raised an eyebrow. "So you're building Hogwarts: Underground Edition."
"More like Hogwarts meets a speakeasy meets a war bunker," Harry said.
"Speaking of which," Daphne said, tossing Harry a multitool, "upstairs renovations start tomorrow. We're keeping the outside looking like a rundown mill. Inside? Think Gotham club vibes. Sleek steel, dark wood, floating runes."
"Bar's going to serve magical and non-magical clientele," Harry added. "Front for recruitment. Low-level agents, informants, general shady types. Plus, I like good whisky and bad decisions."
"And your women completely devoid of shame, apparently," Oliver said, glancing at Daphne.
She winked. "A girl's gotta have hobbies."
Oliver gave them both a long, pained look. "Why is it always you two?"
"Fate," Harry said, sliding an arm around Daphne's waist. "Also, very little impulse control."
She leaned into him, her voice a whisper against his neck. "And a talent for multitasking."
Oliver turned away again.
"I'm installing a bloody bell. A big one. Maybe with a goddamn foghorn."
Harry clapped him on the shoulder. "Put it in the budget."
Together, the trio moved deeper into the Foundry. The hum of magic and machinery surrounded them, blending into a rhythm that echoed purpose and danger.
Steel met sorcery.
Passion met precision.
And beneath it all, in the bones of an old mill long forgotten by time, legends were being forged.
—
Starling City Docks — Late Night
The fog was a thick blanket smothering the docks, blurring the lines between shadow and substance. The weak glow of the dock lamps barely pushed back the night, casting long, uncertain fingers over crates and shipping containers. The salty bite of the ocean mixed with the gritty tang of diesel and something fouler—old money, old grudges, and the smell of things rotting beneath the surface.
Martin Somers stood under the skeletal ribs of an old crane, his leather jacket pulled tight, though it did little against the chill gnawing at his bones. His fingers tapped a restless staccato against a rusted metal crate, the noise sharp against the eerie silence.
From the darkness, a black sedan slid to a smooth stop, tires whispering against wet concrete.
The driver's door cracked open, and out stepped Chien Na Wei—China White. She moved with a hypnotic grace, as if the night itself bent around her will. Her eyes were narrow, sharp as razors, and unapologetically cold. Her every step was measured, deliberate—the kind of woman who made you wish you'd stayed home.
She approached Somers without a word, letting the silence stretch just long enough before she spoke.
"So," she said, voice like smooth porcelain laced with venom, "you've got a problem. Care to spill?"
Somers smirked, but his fingers betrayed his nerves, drumming faster now, like a jittery heartbeat. "Laurel Lance."
China White arched an elegant brow. "The lawyer who's been stirring up more trouble than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs? What's she done now?"
"She's a pain in my ass," Somers said with a bitter laugh. "Smart. Persistent. And her old man? Detective Lance. Stuck to her like glue. The kind of people who don't just watch the game—they wanna change the damn rules."
China White chuckled—dry, humorless, like a blade scraping stone. "So, you're scared. Admit it."
Somers gave her a crooked grin. "Maybe. But it ain't fear. It's respect. She's making this personal. And personal... personal gets messy."
China White folded her arms, leaning in just a touch, her voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "Messy's my favorite kind of clean-up. Means you're finally playing with fire worth burning for."
Somers rubbed the back of his neck, glancing around the fog-shrouded docks like the ghosts of bad decisions might be lurking. "I need her gone. Off the board. Permanently."
China White's smile turned frosty, razor sharp. "Gone how? I'm not just a cleaner, Somers. I'm the whole damn demolition crew if you want."
Somers' voice dropped to a near whisper, tension coiling in his chest. "I want a message sent. Loud. Clear. No one crosses us, and no one walks away."
She studied him, eyes gleaming in the dim light. "You're asking for war."
Somers met that cold gaze head-on, his jaw tight but steady. "Then I'm ready to burn the whole damn city if that's what it takes."
The waves crashed somewhere in the distance, a slow, rhythmic thunder that filled the space between them.
"Consider it done," China White said finally, her voice a dangerous promise. "Laurel Lance won't just disappear. She'll be a warning. A lesson."
Somers let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. "Good. Because she's next."
With a final, calculated glance, China White turned on her heel. Her heels clicked sharp against the concrete as she disappeared into the fog, sliding back into the sedan like a shadow melting into darkness.
Somers stood alone, fists clenched tight, the cold night wrapping around him like a shroud.
The game had changed. And this time, there was no going back.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!