Harry Potter: Blood Raven

Back in Starling City, the Arrow's latest target was James Holder—the smug CEO of Holder Group. Holder's company had flooded the Glades with defective smoke detectors, turning homes into death traps. Families burned alive, but Holder had dodged every bullet—legal and otherwise.

Tonight, Holder was comfortably perched by his pool, swirling a beer in his hand as he chatted with an associate.

"Now that the lawsuit's behind us," Holder said, eyes gleaming with greed, "Unidac won't know what hit them. We're going to crush them. Swallow them whole."

His associate nodded eagerly, smiling like a shark smelling blood.

Holder cracked open another beer, setting it down on the stone edge. He was about to take a swim—one last luxury before bed—when suddenly—

Shatter!

The bottle exploded in his hand, sending cold shards flying. Holder spun around, face twisting from surprise to anger.

"What the hell?" he barked.

From the shadows stepped the Arrow, hood drawn, eyes blazing with that familiar fire. His voice was calm but sharp, like a blade unsheathed.

"Put that down," Oliver said. "You won't be needing security tonight."

Holder's smug smile faltered as he noticed two men sprawled unconscious near the fence—both their weapons lying on the ground, now in Oliver's grip.

"I don't even know who you think you are," Holder sneered, straightening his shirt. "Some glorified vigilante with a death wish?"

Oliver's eyes narrowed beneath the hood.

"You are James Holder," he said slowly, voice low and deadly. "You sold defective smoke detectors to the poorest neighborhoods in the Glades. Families burned alive while you made your millions."

Holder scoffed, stepping closer. "Those lawsuits? Nothing but noise. I was acquitted. The law's clear—there's no case against me."

Oliver pulled an arrow from his quiver, nocking it with a precise flick.

"Acquitted? You have failed this city," he said, voice ringing with accusation and finality.

Holder laughed—a dry, bitter sound. "Failed? You think you're some sort of savior? I'm a businessman. I take risks. Sometimes things go sideways. That's life."

Oliver's lips curled into a cold smile.

"Well, I'm here to make sure it's a risk you won't take again."

Holder's eyes flicked nervously toward the shadows. "You're wasting your time."

But before Oliver could respond, a sudden, distant pop cracked through the night air.

Two bullets tore through Holder's chest.

He gasped, eyes wide in shock as he staggered backward, clutching at the bleeding wounds.

Oliver barely had time to react. Holder collapsed onto the pool deck, lifeless.

The Arrow crouched beside the body, eyes scanning the perimeter, heart pounding.

"Son of a—" Oliver muttered. "Who the hell just shot him?"

He looked down at Holder's corpse, voice grim but resolute.

—

High above Starling City, Floyd Lawton perched in his sniper's nest like a damn hawk—if hawks wore a bulletproof vest and had a serious caffeine addiction.

He adjusted the scope of his custom rifle, fingers moving like clockwork. The city buzzed beneath him—sirens, car horns, distant laughter—Starling's usual nighttime symphony. Nothing out of the ordinary, except for the fact that tonight, James Holder was about to get a permanent time-out.

Peering through the scope, Floyd watched Holder drop like a sack of potatoes beside his pool, blood blooming crimson on the concrete.

That's the good stuff, Floyd thought, smirking.

Crouched nearby, the Arrow was doing his thing—dark hood, angry eyes, brooding like a cat that just got denied its ninth life. The vigilante was busy checking out the corpse, no clue a bullet had just whizzed past him.

Floyd's finger twitched over the trigger.

Shoot the arrow, Floyd. Finish the job. Easy payday.

But nah. Not tonight.

I'm a professional, he muttered with a grin, not a damn monster.

With practiced ease, he eased off the trigger. "Sorry, hood-boy. Not my gig to pop you. You're like a bad rash—annoying, persistent, but ultimately... not my problem."

He started packing up, every move slick, efficient. The rifle broke down like a Transformer on vacation. Floyd chuckled to himself.

"Man, these suits think they own this city. Holder's dead, and that's one less slimeball. But the Arrow? He's like glitter after a party—impossible to get rid of."

He glanced toward the stairwell leading to the rooftop—his exit strategy.

"Crowds are thick a few blocks down," Floyd said aloud, shaking his head. "Perfect cover for a ghost like me. Just gotta blend in. No need to be flashy. I'm Deadshot, not Deadclown."

Sliding off his tactical vest and jacket, he swapped them for a beat-up leather jacket he'd stashed in his pack.

"Now, let's go play dress-up."

He hoisted the gear case over one shoulder, then lowered his hood and pulled the collar up.

"Nice and casual. No suspicious black masks or ninja moves tonight."

Boots hitting pavement with a soft rhythm, Floyd melted into the crowd—one face among many.

"Stars will keep shining, villains will keep scheming, and me? I'm just here to keep the balance... for a price, of course."

Behind him, the rooftop sat empty, silent, waiting for its next story.

Floyd Lawton—Deadshot—was gone, leaving only a whisper on the wind and a city wondering who just pulled the trigger.

—

The flashing red and blue of police cruisers carved through the night like sirens wailing at the edge of chaos. Officers poured into the Holder estate, their footsteps muffled by the slick stone around the pool, now marred with splashes of dark, congealing blood and shards of broken glass.

Detective Quentin Lance ducked beneath the yellow crime scene tape, the weight of the city's mess settling heavily on his shoulders. He crouched near the body—James Holder—his eyes scanning the fallen CEO's sprawled form, the life seeping out of him like a slow leak.

Lance's gaze flicked up, landing on the unmistakable black-feathered arrow, artfully embedded in a planter just a few feet away. He exhaled a rough, humorless laugh.

"Well, I'll be damned," Lance muttered, shaking his head. "The Arrow's calling card. Figures. He just can't resist the spotlight."

Behind him, footsteps approached steady and confident. Detective Hilton, calm and composed, stepped up beside him, tablet in hand. His voice was low and smooth, like a rumble beneath the storm.

"Three suspects on the radar. The Arrow and his merry band of misfits—Blood Raven, Skadi, Noctua. All known to have beef with Holder's dirty dealings."

Lance gave a short grunt, rubbing the stubble on his chin. "Yeah, they're a real pain in the ass. But shooting this guy? I'm not buying it."

Hilton arched an eyebrow, locking eyes with Lance. "Because?"

Lance's voice dropped to a low growl, the years of chasing ghosts weighing in every word. "Because none of those four are gun guys. Arrow's got his bow. Blood Raven? Fists and blades. Skadi and Noctua? Magic and close-quarters bullshit. No one here carries a sidearm like this."

Hilton tapped a finger on his tablet, thinking aloud. "Unless the Arrow's finally had enough of the quiver, traded his arrows for bullets."

Lance let out a dry, bitter chuckle. "That's a good one. The Arrow switching to guns? Hell no. He's too damn proud, too set in his 'arrow justice' ways. No, this wasn't some amateur with a grudge."

He crouched, tracing the jagged edges of the broken beer bottle near Holder's hand.

"Bullet wounds. Clean shots. Professional hit. Someone who knows how to make a scene and disappear."

Hilton gave a slow nod, eyes narrowing. "So if it's not them, who?"

Lance stood, staring out over the city's shadowed skyline. The hum of traffic, the flicker of distant neon—Starling City breathing, waiting.

"Someone smart. Someone who wants to make the city scream 'Vigilantes did it,' stir the pot so bad the whole damn place boils over."

Hilton's voice was firm, steady. "And with the Arrow's crew easy scapegoats, it'll take weeks to clear their names—if ever."

Lance's gaze hardened, voice grim. "Exactly. We're dealing with a message. Not just murder."

He turned back to Hilton, eyes sharp and piercing. "Keep your eyes peeled. Watch every corner, every shadow. This isn't just about Holder—it's about sending a warning."

Hilton closed his tablet with a snap. "Message received loud and clear, Quentin. We'll find who's really pulling the strings."

Lance cracked a half-smile, the kind born of too many late nights and too few answers.

"God, I hope so, Hilton. Because if we don't... this city's gonna burn."

—

Detective Quentin Lance stood at the edge of the crime scene, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his beaten leather jacket. The rain had stopped, but the night still hung heavy and thick, like the city itself was holding its breath. His gaze flicked from the pool's jagged edge, spattered with drying blood and shards of glass, to the scattered evidence markers dotting the wet concrete.

"Any word on the prints yet, Manny?" Lance called over his shoulder without turning.

Manny Rivera, the forensic tech with the perpetually serious face and an affinity for neatness, shuffled up holding a small ziplock evidence bag. His gloves made the slightest crinkle as he moved.

"Still working on it, Detective," Manny said, crouching beside the body. "But you're gonna want to see what I found first."

Lance arched an eyebrow, already dreading what was coming. "You're killin' me, Manny. What is it?"

Manny pulled out two spent brass bullet casings, holding them carefully between thumb and forefinger like they were fragile relics.

"Check this out," Manny said, tapping the surface gently with a metal probe.

Lance leaned in, eyes narrowing as the light caught the tiny, neat engraving on the side of the casings: James Holder.

"Son of a—" Lance muttered, rubbing his stubbled jaw in disbelief. "Who the hell scratches the victim's name on their own bullets?"

Before Manny could answer, Detective Hilton arrived, stepping smoothly through the yellow tape like he owned the place. Tall, calm, and impeccably put together, Hilton crouched next to Lance, eyes narrowing in thoughtful suspicion.

"That's… unsettling," Hilton said, voice low but steady, like a dark rumble beneath the storm.

Manny didn't waste time. "Yeah, and there's more. I ran some preliminary tests on the residue from the bullets—and the entry wounds." He held up a small plastic vial with a faint yellowish tint. "There's blood, obviously. But also… something else. A neurotoxin."

Lance's brow furrowed, the weight of years chasing killers settling deeper on his shoulders. "What kind?"

"Curare," Manny said, exchanging a glance with Hilton. "An old-school poison from South American plants. Paralytic, stops your muscles dead. Basically suffocates you by freezing the diaphragm. Lethal in the right dose."

Hilton blinked, the kind of slow, deliberate blink that said, "Yeah, I know what you just said, but you might wanna explain that again."

"You mean like those jungle darts in the movies?" Hilton asked.

"Exactly," Manny said, tapping on his tablet and pulling up a quick rundown. "Usually, Curare's used on arrows or darts. You rarely see it in bullets nowadays—hell, it's almost unheard of in a murder. Whoever did this? They know their toxins and their firearms."

Lance let out a dry chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck as the grim puzzle started falling into place. "So, this guy didn't just want Holder dead… he wanted him paralyzed first. Precise. Surgical. Planned."

Hilton's eyes gleamed with that sharp, calculating edge Lance respected but didn't always like. "Sounds like someone with a serious knowledge of poison—and a hell of a temper."

"Or a hell of a reputation," Lance added.

Up on a nearby rooftop, hidden in shadow, Oliver Queen listened intently through the small bug he'd planted moments earlier near the body. The forensic tech's voice crackled faintly in his ear, mingling with the city's distant hum.

"Curare," Oliver muttered, eyes narrowing. "That takes me back."

His mind drifted to the brutal days on Lian Yu—when Yao Fei had taught him everything about survival, about precision. About poisoning arrows with Curare so the prey didn't struggle.

Oliver's jaw tightened, the pieces clicking into place. "Engraved bullets… Curare… No doubt about it."

He glanced down at the faint glint of the planter where he'd left his calling card—the black-feathered arrow. The signature was clear, but this wasn't just his style. This was someone else's twisted message.

"Floyd Lawton," Oliver breathed. "Deadshot."

The assassin's reputation was infamous—famous for engraving the names of his victims on bullets, for lacing shots with poison, for being a cold, calculating professional who never missed.

Oliver's voice dropped to a whisper, hard as steel. "He's playing his own game. And he just shot Holder before I could get to him."

Below, Lance turned to Hilton, voice low but urgent.

"Get the forensics report expedited. This ain't just another murder—it's a goddamn statement."

Hilton's phone was already out, fingers flying over the screen. "I'm on it. If Deadshot's involved… we're in for one hell of a ride."

Lance cracked a half-smile, the kind born from years of too many cold cases and too few victories.

"Starling City just got a lot more interesting."

Oliver, a shadow among shadows, vanished into the night, the weight of the assassin's signature hanging thick in the air.

This wasn't just murder.

This was war.

And the game was only beginning.

—

The Next Day – Abandoned Queen Consolidated Mill, Glades District

The old mill looked like a serial killer's Pinterest board—shattered windows, iron beams blackened with age, and graffiti tags that screamed "don't go in here" in multiple languages. But Oliver Queen stood in the middle of it like he was about to give a TED Talk on urban renewal.

Sparks rained down from an overhead welder. The smell of hot metal and sawdust lingered in the air like burnt toast. Power tools screeched and groaned, blending into the chaos of voices barking measurements and curse words.

Oliver, hoodie pulled back, sweat glistening on his forehead, stood with arms folded, eyeing a blueprint like it personally owed him money. Beside him, the site supervisor—a no-nonsense dude with a buzz cut and a nicotine patch behind each ear—was tapping the paper with a pencil.

"So the bar runs here—twenty feet, full marble top. DJ booth's elevated, as requested. Glass enclosure, reinforced paneling. You want the soundproofing, too?"

Oliver nodded curtly. "Yeah. Double-insulated. I don't want the entire building vibrating like a dubstep heart attack."

The foreman snorted. "You sure this is a nightclub and not Fort Knox?"

Oliver allowed a rare half-smirk. "Let's call it… multi-functional."

(Translation: It's a trendy millennial hotspot by day… and by night, it's a war bunker for him and three wand-wielding British vigilantes—Harry Potter, Daphne Greengrass, and Hermione Granger—who were currently back in England fighting robed psychos with trust fund fascist energy. Again.)

"And the wine cellar?" the foreman asked, raising an eyebrow like he already knew the answer would be ridiculous.

Oliver's gaze didn't budge from the blueprint. "Heavy-duty locking system. No exterior access. Reinforced steel door."

"Uh-huh." The foreman paused. "What exactly are you storing down there?"

"Pinot noir," Oliver deadpanned.

Before the foreman could respond, a familiar voice cut through the construction noise like a bottle of champagne exploding at brunch.

"Wow. This place still looks like a condemned meth lab. I'm impressed."

Oliver didn't need to look up. Only one man could sound that smug and that pleased with himself in a place that still smelled like rust and regret.

Tommy Merlyn walked in like he owned the place—which, in fairness, he very well might've if Oliver hadn't finally taken adulthood for a spin. Aviator shades. Navy-blue blazer. Designer boots so clean they practically glowed. The man looked like he'd just walked off the set of GQ: Trust Fund Edition.

Oliver finally glanced up. "Tommy."

Tommy grinned like a man who had just remembered an inside joke and wanted the whole room to be in on it.

"Gotta say, bro, this is the most gloriously dangerous construction zone I've ever seen. And you know I once passed out in a half-built hotel in Cabo."

"Not exactly the endorsement I was going for."

Tommy walked past a stack of reclaimed wood, knocked on it, and nodded approvingly. "Reclaimed hardwood. Nice. Very eco-conscious. Almost like you're compensating for something."

Oliver exhaled slowly. "I'm building a nightclub."

"Oh no, you're building a statement. It says, 'Hi, I'm Oliver Queen, and I've moved on from being a reckless playboy to a responsible businessman.'"

Oliver didn't reply. He just handed the blueprint back to the foreman, who looked relieved to be out of the crossfire.

Tommy, now poking around near where the VIP booths would be, turned back with a twinkle in his eye. "Speaking of nightlife… what do you say we go do some recon tonight?"

Oliver blinked. "Recon?"

"Yeah. There's this new club that just opened up. Poison. Super sleek. Think smoke machines, LED everything, bartenders who look like they were born in slow motion."

Oliver stiffened. "It's Max Fuller's place."

Tommy winced like Oliver had just stabbed him with a sharpened martini glass. "Okay. Yes. That is a small... complication."

Oliver turned fully to face him now, arms crossed. "You remember what happened the last time I saw Max Fuller?"

Tommy raised both hands in a surrender pose. "You mean when you banged his fiancée at their rehearsal dinner and then ghosted their wedding like a bad Tinder date?"

Oliver's silence was its own confession.

Tommy sighed. "Okay, yes, he probably has a little residual hostility. But come on—that was, like, what, Pre-Island Oliver? That guy was a legend."

"That guy was a disaster."

Tommy smirked. "True. But a charming disaster."

"I don't need that kind of drama right now."

Tommy stepped closer, dropping his voice like they were in a buddy cop film about to break into a drug lab. "Listen, Ollie. You're trying to make Verdant the place to be, right? That means you need to know the competition. And Max? Say what you want about him—he knows how to build hype."

Oliver shook his head. "I'm not stepping foot into Fuller's club."

Tommy leaned in, grinning. "Which is why I'll be your meat shield. You just keep doing your strong, silent Batman thing, and if things go sideways? I'll throw myself in front of Max's fist like a true best friend."

Oliver exhaled sharply. "You're insufferable."

"I try. C'mon—just one drink. We're in, we're out, no biggie. You can even bring a hoodie and lurk in a corner like some kind of nightclub cryptid."

Oliver's eyes flicked over the site again—the exposed beams, the rising walls, the new start he was trying to build—and then back to Tommy.

"One drink," he said. "If Max even looks like he wants to talk to me, I'm leaving through the back exit."

Tommy grinned like he'd just won a lifetime supply of smug. "Deal. I'll even call ahead and have them play something moody so you can brood in rhythm."

They started walking out, Tommy already pulling out his phone.

"Oh," Tommy added, "and wear something nice. I'm thinking tailored menace."

Oliver shot him a look. "I wear black, Tommy. That is tailored menace."

Tommy winked. "God, I missed you."

That night… they were going to step into Poison. And ready or not, Oliver Queen was about to walk into a cocktail of fire dancers, VIP grudges, and one very pissed-off club owner with a long memory and a shorter fuse.

—

Later That Night – Outside Club Poison

Club Poison wasn't just a nightclub. It was a fever dream sponsored by bottle service and deep generational trauma. The building was black marble wrapped in violet neon, pulsing like a heartbeat—or maybe a warning sign. Half of the line was influencers. The other half was trying to date them.

The bass inside the club was so heavy it made the sidewalk buzz.

A sleek black town car pulled up to the curb like it owned the night.

Tommy Merlyn emerged first—stepping out with all the smug confidence of a man who'd never waited in line for anything in his life. Midnight-blue blazer. Open collar. Pocket square folded with the kind of effortless chaos that took a stylist three hours and a nervous breakdown to get right.

He glanced around, smiled like he was saying you're welcome to the universe, and smoothed back his hair.

"God, I've missed this place," he said, straightening his lapels. "So much desperation in the air. It's like coming home."

Oliver Queen climbed out after him.

Black suit. Black shirt. No tie. Stubble sharp. Hair artfully tousled in that 'I just rolled off a billionaire's yacht' kind of way.

He looked like a statue carved out of brooding.

And not the charming, misunderstood kind. The stab you with a salad fork if you touch him kind.

"You do realize this isn't reconnaissance," Oliver muttered, glancing up at the neon-lit facade. "It's a petri dish."

Tommy clapped him on the shoulder. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

A beat later, John Diggle stepped out of the car behind them, adjusting the cuffs of his charcoal suit like he'd rather be in Kevlar. His eyes scanned the crowd, always alert. Always calculating.

He caught up to them with that unbothered grace only ex-military guys and large jungle cats possessed.

"I thought this was a meet-and-greet," he said flatly. "Not a cover shoot for Douchebags Quarterly."

Tommy smirked. "Aww, Dig, don't be jealous just because we clean up better than a SEAL team."

"You look like you lost a fight with a cologne bottle," Diggle replied.

They reached the velvet rope, where a bouncer the size of a small mountain was already watching them approach like he was deciding whether to let them in or eat them.

He nodded once. "Tommy Merlyn. Oliver Queen."

Tommy gave a modest nod that somehow managed to say Yes, I am God's gift to nightlife. "Evening, Dmitri. Still working those twelve-hour arm days, I see."

The bouncer grunted. Maybe it was a laugh. Maybe it was a threat.

His eyes moved to Diggle… and stayed there.

"And him?"

Oliver didn't hesitate. "No idea. Thought he was with you."

Tommy made a choking sound, half-laugh, half-snort. "Seriously?"

Oliver was already stepping past the rope.

"Security risk," he called back over his shoulder. "Could be armed."

Diggle's jaw tightened. "I am armed."

Dmitri stepped forward, frowning. "ID?"

Diggle gave him the kind of long, slow look that usually came before a felony. Then reached into his jacket—deliberately, carefully—and produced his wallet.

"You want ID," he said, pulling it out, "or the number of the President who pinned this on me?"

Two more bouncers appeared behind Dmitri, quiet but present. Tommy winced. "Yeah. They really don't like Medal-of-Honor energy. Makes the influencers nervous."

Diggle didn't move.

Didn't blink.

Didn't breathe.

Oliver, still just inside, looked back over his shoulder. "Dig. The grilled cheese next door's actually decent. Real cheddar."

"I hope you choke on it," Diggle said.

"I'm immune to dairy," Oliver deadpanned, disappearing into the strobing light beyond the rope.

The bouncers gently motioned Diggle aside.

"I swear to God," he muttered, "the next time I save one of you rich kids, I'm charging per limb."

—

Inside Club Poison – Seconds Later

The club's interior looked like Blade Runner got blackout drunk and slept with a Cirque du Soleil performer. Walls of LED panels throbbed with light. Fog machines exhaled mystery. Dancers in UV paint moved like liquid sex behind frosted glass.

The music wasn't just loud. It was an assault. A rhythmic, pulsing war crime against eardrums.

Tommy took it all in like a man returning to his kingdom.

He raised his arms as if soaking in the atmosphere. "Smell that? That's vodka, sweat, regret, and poor life choices all marinating together in one gorgeous night."

Oliver squinted against a strobe. "It smells like an STD in LED."

"That's the spirit."

Tommy grabbed two glasses off a passing tray like it was a reflex. Handed one to Oliver.

"To bad decisions made with beautiful people," he toasted.

Oliver didn't raise his glass. "We're not here to party."

Tommy raised an eyebrow. "Tell that to your cheekbones. You walked in here like you were on a hit list and a runway at the same time."

Oliver scanned the crowd with surgical precision. "Where's Max Fuller?"

Tommy sipped his drink. "Probably the VIP loft. Or the Champagne Crypt. Or the acid-trip aquarium lounge. You know how he is—he likes his weird with a side of worse."

Oliver exhaled slowly. His jaw flexed. "This was a mistake."

"Of course it is," Tommy said brightly. "That's why it'll be fun."

Oliver didn't respond. Just kept walking, every muscle coiled and on alert.

Tommy followed, drink in hand, still grinning like the devil on Oliver's shoulder.

"Oh," he added, pointing vaguely toward the ceiling, "and whatever you do, don't make eye contact with the fire dancers."

"Why?"

"They take it as a mating challenge."

Oliver stopped walking.

"You're joking."

Tommy's grin widened. "You wanna test that theory?"

Oliver just kept walking.

And Tommy? He followed, because what were best friends for if not keeping you stylishly off-balance while you hunted down your ex-girlfriend's unhinged criminal ex?

—

The music hit like a freight train — synth-heavy, primal, and designed to short-circuit higher reasoning. Lights stuttered overhead, slicing the crowd into frantic flashes of skin, sequins, and sweat. The whole place smelled like regret and overpriced cologne.

Tommy Merlyn moved through the chaos like he owned it — part shark, part showman — suit just barely casual enough to pass for nightlife appropriate, charm cranked to eleven.

Trailing him, Oliver Queen looked like someone had dared a statue to go clubbing. He moved with the ease of someone used to scanning for exits, not cocktails. The blazer over the black tee did little to disguise the storm beneath his skin.

Tommy leaned in, voice raised above the bass throb. "You know, for someone who used to shotgun tequila off cheerleaders, you're giving off real 'dad-chaperone-at-prom' energy tonight."

Oliver's gaze swept the crowd, eyes narrowing on the edges of the dance floor. "I'm not here to party."

"Yeah, I clocked that," Tommy said, giving him a once-over. "Your whole aura's saying 'murder in the third degree.'"

Oliver didn't rise to it. Typical.

Tommy just grinned wider. "Come on, man. One drink. You don't even have to smile. Just… nod menacingly while you hold a glass. Like Bond, but if Bond hated everyone."

Oliver's eyes locked on a point across the club.

"Tommy."

"Yeah?"

"Laurel's here."

Tommy turned, just as Laurel Lance broke through the blur of bodies and lights, laughing beside Joanna De La Vega. Laurel looked sharp in black leather and controlled confidence — like she could win a lawsuit and a bar fight in the same outfit. Joanna, meanwhile, sparkled in a short silver dress, grinning like she was already writing tonight off as legendary.

Laurel's gaze caught Oliver's. She slowed, lips parting just slightly. The moment stretched — a flicker of something old and unresolved fluttering between them.

Laurel was the first to speak, voice carefully casual. "Well… this is unexpected."

Oliver nodded once. No warmth, no bite. Just facts. "Yeah. Same."

Joanna raised a brow, glancing between them. "Well this isn't awkward at all."

Tommy clapped a hand over his heart. "Only slightly more uncomfortable than that time I walked in on Laurel watching The Notebook."

Laurel elbowed him. "I was finishing a report. It was on in the background."

"Sure it was."

Before Laurel could fire back, Oliver went still — muscles locked, eyes hard.

Across the club, bathed in red light and bad decisions, stood Thea Queen.

Seventeen. Holding a neon cocktail. Laughing too loud, dressed too grown. Flanked by Maddie, Zoe, and — Oliver's stomach twisted — Margo. The same Margo their cousin Harry had warned him about. The one with the coke habit and the history of dragging people down with her.

Oliver's voice dropped, sharp. "Tommy. Laurel. Come with me."

They followed without hesitation, Laurel already spotting Thea and tensing beside him.

As they approached, Thea spotted them and tensed. Her smile faded like a switch had been flipped.

"Well, well," she said, voice syrupy with mock surprise. "Look who finally showed up."

Oliver's jaw flexed. "Time to go."

"Oh, now you care?" Thea's smirk curled cruel. "When I was twelve, you were too busy being dead to notice I existed."

Tommy winced. "Ouch."

Oliver didn't blink. "This isn't a negotiation."

Thea crossed her arms, drink still in hand. "Funny. I don't remember giving you custody."

"You're underage."

"So were you when you started crashing raves and stealing Dad's vodka stash."

"That was different."

Thea scoffed. "Right. Because you were a guy. And rich. And a Queen. And the rules never applied to you."

Laurel stepped forward, her tone firm but calm. "Thea—"

But Thea's attention had already locked on her, eyes flaring with something darker. "Oh, don't start. You two may be all 'long lost almost lovers' now, but let's not pretend the minute Ollie's boat went down, the grieving process involved a lot of shared comfort."

"Laurel didn't owe me anything," Oliver said, voice even. "Neither did Tommy. They thought I was dead."

Laurel's eyes snapped to his. "You knew?"

Oliver shrugged. "Of course I did. I just didn't see the point in being angry about something that made sense."

Thea's lip curled. "That's cold. Even for you."

"I'm not here to be warm. I'm here to get you out."

She hesitated. Just for a moment. Then— "No."

Oliver stepped closer, his voice steel wrapped in velvet. "You're leaving. Now."

Her gaze didn't waver. "You don't get to pull the big brother card after five years off the grid. You don't know me."

"No," Oliver said. "But I know Margo."

That landed. Thea's fingers tightened around her glass.

Before any of them could say more, a voice oozed in from the side like spilled oil.

"Well, isn't this touching."

Max Fuller slithered into view, flanked by two walking refrigerators in suits. He looked like money, malice, and too much cologne. The club owner — and a walking grudge from Oliver's old life.

Oliver didn't even turn. "Max."

Max smiled like a knife. "Oliver Queen. Back from the dead. And still crashing my parties."

Tommy muttered under his breath. "Oh good. The Village Idiot is here."

Max stepped closer. "I'd say you're not welcome here, but that would imply you ever were."

Oliver's gaze locked on him, calm and lethal. "Move."

Max gave an exaggerated glance at his bouncers. "Or what? You gonna throw one of those mysterious punches that knocked out three guys at Blüdhaven Lounge?"

Joanna leaned toward Laurel and whispered, "Should we be worried he knows that?"

Laurel whispered back, "I'm more worried how he knows that."

Max clapped his hands once. "Let me guess. You're playing the part of the protective brother now? Cute. Tell me, does that come with a cape and a secret lair?"

Oliver didn't flinch. "Last warning."

The music hit a crescendo, lights pulsing like a heartbeat. Max's smirk didn't budge.

Tommy looked between Oliver and the bouncers, sighed, and rolled his shoulders. "Okay. But if I break a nail, I'm invoicing somebody."

Thea looked between them, chest rising with uneven breaths. "Fine," she snapped. "You want me out so bad? Let's go."

She pushed past Max, shoving her drink into his chest.

Max looked down, outraged, now glowing faintly orange.

Tommy gave him a mock salute. "Love what you've done with the place. Real murder-chic."

Laurel pulled Thea close, whispering something calming as they moved toward the exit. Joanna followed, already texting someone — probably a rideshare or a very confused UberXL.

Oliver held Max's gaze one last second.

"You don't want this fight."

Max's grin never wavered. "No. But I'm patient."

Oliver turned without another word and followed the others into the night, the bass still pounding behind them like a war drum.

---

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